Chapter 19 #2
When he pulls even with me, his shoulders shifting as he finds his balance, he doesn’t speak. He doesn’t need to. His black eyes lock on mine, unreadable but unflinching, and the weight of that look steals the breath from my chest.
Something flickers there—something I’ve never seen aimed at me before. Not contempt. Not indifference. A sharp kind of awareness, like he sees me in a way no one else ever has.
Heat rushes through, hot enough to make my scars ache. I want to look away, but I can’t. The canyon might crumble, the storm might return, the pods might poison us—but right now, in this breath, it’s only him.
His gaze drops to my arm where I still brace against the rock. He tilts his head, the faintest shift, as if acknowledging the pain I didn’t voice. Then his eyes return to mine. A silent exchange. Respect. And something deeper that makes my chest feel too small.
“Guess even you need saving sometimes,” I whisper, the words thin but steadier than I feel.
For a long moment, silence. Then—just the barest curve at the corner of his mouth. Not a smile, not really, but close. The scars tug faintly with it, making the gesture more fierce than soft, and my pulse skips so hard it hurts.
The pods glow faint in my pouch, pulsing like living things.
I sink down on a slab of rock, pulling the pouch into my lap.
My hands won’t stop shaking. Not from the climb.
From him. From the way his eyes still linger on me like I’ve become something more than the girl trying too hard not to be overlooked.
There’s no one to tell me I’m imagining it. No one to dismiss the way he looks at me, or the way my chest aches to be seen this way forever. For the first time, this feels like the start of something new.
I saved him.
The words pulse through me with every thud of my heart. It shouldn’t mean so much. But gods, it does.
When his black eyes find mine, so deep they’re fathomless, the world narrows to that single look. There’s no dismissal, no indifference. Only raw awareness—like he’s really seeing me. Heat climbs my throat. I want to look away, but I don’t. If he can hold me in that gaze, then I can hold it back.
There’s the faintest tug that pulls at the corner of his mouth. My knees weaken. The scars shift, turning the flicker of expression into something fierce and intimate, like it belongs to me alone.
I swallow hard, throat dry. My fingers still tremble where I’d gripped his strap, the memory of his weight dragging against me branded into my muscles. I’ll feel it for days I know. And I want to.
I should look at the pods. Should check if they’re safe. But my eyes keep dragging back to him. To the way his scars catch faint light, to the silent strength in every line of him. He hasn’t said a word, but I feel more spoken to in this quiet than I have in my whole life.
When he reaches for one of the pods, his clawed hand brushes mine. Deliberate. Slow. My breath stutters, and I freeze. His touch is cool, solid, but the weight of it sears hotter than fire.
He doesn’t pull away. For a heartbeat, neither do I.
The air between us tightens, charged, alive. I should move, should say something to break it, but I can’t. I don’t want to. My pulse hammers in my throat, my chest, everywhere, and when his eyes flick up to mine again, the undercurrent is unmistakable.
He wants me.
Not in some fleeting, careless way. But with the same gravity that keeps him planted in every storm, that drives every strike of his blade. A Zmaj knows his treasure when he finds her.
And I am his.
I drag in a shuddering breath, tearing my gaze away before the weight of it crushes me. My hands curl tight around the pouch. The pods glow faintly between us, fragile and alive, but not half as fragile as this moment.
If I breathe wrong, it might shatter.
I force my eyes down to the pouch. My fingers are white-knuckled around the fabric, holding tight as if it could anchor me through this storm in my chest. The pods glow faintly through the weave, their light pulsing like a heartbeat. Food. Or poison. Life. Or death.
The scarred warrior’s hand withdraws, slow, deliberate. But he doesn’t rise. He stays crouched near me, lochaber strapped across his back, the steady weight of his presence pressing close enough that I can’t think straight.
There’s no one to laugh if I’m wrong. No one to dismiss me. The choice is mine.
My stomach growls hard, hollow enough to hurt. I pull one of the pods free. Its skin is translucent, trembling faintly, sweet sap glistening along the seam. It looks like salvation. But it also looks like a trap.
I glance at him. He watches, black eyes unblinking, steady as stones. He won’t decide for me. He’s waiting—for me to stand, or to fall.
The pod is cold in my hand. My blade flashes once in the dim light.
I cut.
The skin splits, spilling thick, glowing pulp into my palm. The sweet, sharp scent floods the air, rich enough to make my mouth water. I swallow hard, lifting my gaze back to him.
His head tilts once, the faintest nod. Permission. Or faith.
I raise the pod to my lips.
And taste.