Chapter 18
KARA
My boots crunch over the sand in a steady rhythm. It’s the only sound for miles. No rushing wind, no storm to drown out our breathing, just the empty hush of dunes reshaped by the storm. The silence presses heavy, broken only when the sand shifts beneath us with a whispering sigh.
Every step hurts. My legs burn, my throat is raw, and my empty stomach is a throbbing ache. Hunger is no longer gnawing—it’s become a sharp emptiness, biting with every breath. My head swims, each blink too long, and I have to force myself forward.
He walks ahead of me, his stride even, deliberate, as if the desert itself bows to his pace.
The scarred warrior doesn’t stumble. Doesn’t falter.
The lochaber rests across his back like it belongs there, a natural extension of his body.
His scars catch the thin light, pale ridges stark against crimson scales, every mark a story of survival carved into him.
I trip on loose sand, nearly pitching forward. Shame floods me hot, but before I can curse, I realize—he’s slowed. Just half a pace, almost nothing. Enough for me to find my footing without falling behind. He doesn’t look back, doesn’t acknowledge it. Just adjusts, quiet as breath.
My throat tightens.
It’s not the first time. He’s been doing it since we left the skull—subtle shifts, small pauses, changes in stride so smooth I barely noticed them until now. He matches me without making it obvious. Without making me feel weak.
The realization lands heavy, sharp enough that I stumble again, this time from the weight inside my chest.
It’s not just that I want him to think well of me. That I want to prove myself in front of him. It’s more than that—deeper, more dangerous.
It’s that I need him.
The thought slices through me like a blade. I’ve never needed anyone’s approval. Not Amara’s, not Rosalind’s, not the humans who’ve dismissed me as “the girl” too many times to count. I’ve lived on the edges, unseen, ignored. I’ve always told myself it didn’t matter.
But his gaze—his silence—matters more than I can stand.
I drag in a breath, my lungs stinging with grit. My eyes burn, but I refuse to let tears rise. I won’t break, not here, not in front of him.
Ahead, the dunes swell like waves frozen in motion, crests sharp and ridges jagged from where the storm carved them. The horizon is a blur of reds and pale tans, the light thin through lingering dust. I squint, forcing myself to focus outward instead of inward.
But my eyes drift to him.
The breadth of his shoulders. The steady swing of his arms. The way the scars ladder down his back, each one a mark he carries without shame. Every detail of him presses into me, insistent as hunger, until I can’t look anywhere else.
And suddenly the emptiness inside isn’t just hunger. It’s something else, something sharper, twisting through me in a way that frightens me more than thirst ever could.
Because if I lose him—if his shadow vanishes from ahead of me—I don’t know if I’ll be able to keep walking.
The thought hits like a fist to the gut. My knees nearly buckle, and I clench my teeth against the weakness.
I can’t let him see it, but part of me wonders if he already does. If he’s always seen me clearer than I’ve seen myself.
The silence stretches on. My heart beats loud enough to drown out the crunch of sand beneath our feet.
When the next gust of wind rises, he shifts again, angling his body so it breaks against him first. Sand sprays across his side, stinging his scars, sparing me.
He doesn’t glance back, doesn’t need to.
And I realize—every step, every gesture, he’s been saying the thing I’ve been desperate to hear. Not in words. In action.
You matter. I matter.
The desert presses close, vast and empty, but my chest feels too full, too hot. My grip tightens on the knife at my belt, as if holding something steady will anchor me against this storm inside.
The truth is simple, brutal, impossible to deny.
I’m falling for him.
Not girlish longing. Not na?ve hope. Something deeper. Like the desert itself has claimed me and carved his shadow into my bones. And I don’t know if it will save me. Or ruin me.
By midafternoon the suns press through the haze, red coins behind the cloudy grit.
The dunes seem endless, each crest bleeding into the next until my legs feel like lead.
My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth, thick and useless.
Even the knife at my belt feels too heavy, dragging at my side with every step.
When he stops, I almost stumble into him.
He doesn’t announce it, doesn’t point or gesture—he just halts, his body angled toward a jagged shelf of stone jutting from the dunes. The rock breaks the wind, its shadow stretching long and dark across the sand. Shelter.
Relief floods so fast I nearly sag to my knees. Instead I straighten, clenching my jaw, forcing my steps to steady as I follow him into the narrow patch of shade.
The difference is immediate. The wind drops, the sting of grit fades, and for the first time in hours I can breathe without swallowing sand. My shoulders slump despite myself, my blanket slipping down my arm.
He kneels first, unhooking the water skin slung at his side. His movements are deliberate, efficient, as though every gesture has weight. He uncaps the skin, lifts it to his lips—then stops.
Instead of drinking, he turns and holds it out to me. My throat works, dry and aching. I shake my head, though the sight of water nearly breaks me.
“You haven’t had enough either.”
He doesn’t move. His black eyes fix on mine, steady, unreadable.
He tips the skin closer, the water sloshing soft inside, the offer unyielding.
Heat rises in my face. I reach out, fingers brushing his as I take it, and the spark that jumps between us makes me falter.
My chest aches, a mix of shame and something hotter.
I drink. The water is warm, tasting faintly of leather, but it soothes the raw edges of my throat. I take one long swallow, then another, before I force myself to lower it. My hand trembles as I press it back to him.
He doesn’t take it. He nudges it back into my palm.
A shiver rolls through me that has nothing to do with the wind.
It’s not just water. It’s choice. Him choosing me.
Again. Quiet as always, but undeniable. My chest twists so tight I can barely breathe.
I swallow hard, clutching the skin against me.
“Why?” The word escapes before I can stop it. Quiet, but sharp. “Why do you keep—”
He tilts his head, just slightly, scars catching the dim light. He doesn’t answer. Not with words. His gaze holds mine, steady and sure, and in that silence I hear it anyway.
Because you matter.
I bite down hard on my lip, trying to cage the sound rising in my throat. My pulse hammers, and I force my eyes away, staring at the grit sliding across the stone. But the weight of his look stays, heavy and hot, as if it brands me where I sit.
I clutch the water skin tighter, my fingers whitening against it. I want to press it back into his hand, to force him to drink. I want to thank him. I want to lean into his steadiness and let it carry me the way it has been carrying me since the canyon.
Instead I just sit here, heart pounding, pretending the ache in my chest is only from hunger, but I know better now.
The shade is thin, barely enough to blunt the sun. It feels like sanctuary after the open dunes. I let my head fall back against the stone, eyes closing for a breath. Sand grits against my scalp, grinding in my hair, but I don’t care.
The scarred warrior settles across from me, his knees bent, lochaber leaning against the wall at his side. He doesn’t drink. He doesn’t shift. He just sits there, steady as carved rock, his black eyes unreadable. The silence between us thickens, but it’s not empty; it hums.
Every heartbeat pounds in my ears, louder than the rasp of grit sliding down the cliff face. My mouth tastes of water, but my throat is dry. Not from thirst—from him. I clutch the skin tighter in my lap. My chest aches with everything I can’t say. And then the words slip free anyway.
“Why do you always watch me like this?”
The words scrape out of me like stone dragged across stone. My cheeks flame the instant I hear myself, too sharp, too honest. I want to bite them back, but it’s too late—they hang in the air between us.
He doesn’t flinch or even blink. He tilts his head slightly, like a hawk considering prey, his scars catching the thin light in ridges of pale white against crimson scales. His eyes—black and fathomless—lock on mine.
The silence stretches taut. I shift under it, my fingers twisting tighter around the water skin in my lap, until my knuckles ache. My throat burns, dry not from thirst but from the weight of his gaze.
He doesn’t answer. He never seems to waste words, yet the way he looks at me is an answer.
Not cruel. Not mocking. Not dismissive. Just steady. Seeing. And something in me breaks.
My pulse hammers so loud it drowns out the rasp of grit sliding down the rock face.
My chest aches with everything I’ve swallowed back—every time I’ve been dismissed as a child, every moment I swore I’d prove myself.
Here, under the weight of his silence, it feels different.
It’s not about proving anything anymore.
It’s about him.
The thought terrifies me. I press my lips tight, trying to cage it down, but it surges anyway. I want him to keep looking at me like this. I want it so badly it hurts. I force a laugh, weak and sharp.
“I don’t need—”
The lie cuts off halfway, my throat closing around it. I can’t finish, because we both know it isn’t true. I drop my gaze, shame and heat burning up my neck. My fingers tremble against the water skin.
“I don’t need you to keep—”
But I do. God help me, I do. His hand moves.
Slow, deliberate, he reaches across the space between us and closes his claws over the water skin. His fingers brush mine—rough, scaled, cool radiating from his scales despite the heat. He doesn’t tug it away. Doesn’t speak. His hand rests there, covering mine.
My breath catches in my chest. My body locks tight as the world inside me erupts, fierce and unsteady. His touch isn’t only gentle. It’s steady and sure, like everything he does. There’s no force in it and definitely no dismissal.
Only… claiming.
I lift my eyes slowly, afraid of what I’ll see.
He’s watching, still, his gaze unflinching. The scars down his jaw pull taut with the set of his mouth, but his eyes… burn. Quiet, contained, but deep enough that I feel it in my bones.
My heart slams so hard I swear he must hear it. I should pull away. I should break the touch before it brands me too deep. But I don’t. I can’t.
My fingers uncurl beneath his. My hand shifts, just barely, not enough to grab his, not enough to be bold, but enough that he feels the choice. That I’m not fighting it.
Something flickers across his face. Not softness—I don’t think he can soften. It’s as if something loosens, some tightness in his jaw, as if my choice has eased a weight he’s carried in silence. The air between us hums, alive, charged.
I want to speak, to fill the silence with anything, but the words knot in my throat. Instead, I sit there with his hand over mine, the water skin caught between us, and let the truth rise like the storm winds outside.
I want him.
Not because he’s strong. Not because he’s kept me alive. I want him because every look, every silence, every steady gesture tells me, to him at least, I matter. Because with him, I don’t feel small. I don’t feel like a burden. I feel seen.
The thought terrifies me and thrills me at the same time. I wet my lips, breath shaking.
“If you keep looking at me like that…” My voice cracks. I swallow, try again. “You’ll make me believe it.”
His eyes narrow, not in anger but in focus. His thumb shifts, brushing once across my knuckles. Barely a movement, but it sears.
He leans in—not close enough to touch, not close enough for his breath to reach me, but enough that his shadow falls over mine. Enough that the space between us feels like it belongs to him.
“Good,” he says.
The word is low, rough, like stone grinding. My heart stutters, my breath shatters, and every inch of me goes taut. It’s not tenderness. It’s not comfort. But it’s truth. And it’s enough to unravel me.
I squeeze the water skin so hard it creaks. My body sways, instinct tugging me closer, but I catch myself, locking every muscle.
The silence surges back, hot and sharp, wrapping around us like the storm never left. His eyes linger on mine, steady, unwavering.
And I know it’s already too late.
I’m his.