Chapter 20 Kara
KARA
The pulp is cold against my tongue, sweet at first, then sharp. My throat works once, twice, each swallow layered with fear. I wait for the burn. For the hiss of poison. For my veins to light with fire the way they did when the predator’s venom laced my skin.
Nothing.
The sweetness lingers, thick and cloying, but no pain follows. No fire. My stomach clenches, waiting for revolt, but it only growls harder, hungry, desperate.
I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. My knees go weak.
Behind me, Joran would’ve cracked some curse or laughed bitterly. Harlan would’ve prayed louder. The younger Zmaj would’ve muttered about signs and omens. But they’re not here. It’s only me and him.
The scarred warrior’s eyes are locked on me, steady, black, searching. Not impatient, not fearful. Just watching, as if he’d tear the canyon apart himself if the fruit betrayed me. I lick the last of the pulp from my fingers. My chest still heaves, but relief threads through the fading terror.
“It’s safe,” I rasp, voice low, almost breaking. “It’s… food.”
For the first time, his jaw eases, just a fraction. A breath I didn’t hear him take escapes, slow, controlled. He reaches for one of the pods, claws careful as he cuts it open. He doesn’t taste it—he doesn’t need to. He trusts me.
The weight of that nearly undoes me.
My pulse races faster than when I’d thought I was about to die. Not from the fruit. From him. From the trust and from the way his silence wraps around me tighter than any words.
“Here,” I whisper, pushing the pouch toward him. My hand brushes his. Not by accident this time. I let it linger, the rough coolness of his scales a brand against my skin.
His gaze dips to where we touch, then lifts to mine. For a heartbeat the storm, the hunger, the desert surrounding us—all of it fades. It’s only his eyes on mine, black and endless, holding me still.
I should pull back. I don’t.
The pod has a faint glow, reflecting the clouded light of the moon, its pulp glistening like spilled starlight. My chest aches with how much I want this moment to last, to stretch until the suns rise and the storm dies and the world finally allows something good.
But it won’t. It never does.
A low groan rattles through the canyon, deep enough to vibrate in my teeth. Not storm. Not wind. Something else.
I freeze. His hand tenses over mine. His head turns toward the sound, eyes narrowing, sharp again. The sweetness turns bitter on my tongue.
We’re not alone.
Every muscle in my body is strung tight. The wind groans through the canyon, low and hollow, but nothing moves in the graveyard below. Ribs stretch upward like broken towers, pale arcs against the storm haze. No shifting shadows. No scrape of scales.
He rises to his full height, lochaber in hand, eyes sweeping the canyon, sharp and deliberate, while I sit frozen on the slab of rock, the pod in my palm.
I force myself to breathe. To look too. To prove I’m not a child waiting for him to tell me it’s safe. Out over the open desert beyond, the spires, the hollows, the dunes between. Nothing stirs.
Finally, he lowers the weapon across his back. Not relaxed—never that. But enough to let the silence stand.
My stomach growls loud in the hush, betraying me. His head tilts, and his gaze flicks back to the pods in the pouch.
I pull another one free, fingers clumsy, and split it open with my knife. The skin parts with a wet pop, sap oozing sweet and sharp. The smell makes my mouth water, makes me feel half-drunk with hunger. I offer the pulp without thinking, my hand trembling as I hold it toward him.
For a moment, he doesn’t move. Then he leans in, takes it from my palm with claws that barely graze my skin. His touch is cool, precise, yet it leaves a trail that burns hotter than fire. He eats without breaking his stare, jaw flexing as he chews.
Something twists low in my stomach. Something more than hunger.
I drop my eyes, unable to hold his while these feelings rage inside, and focus on cutting another pod. This one I taste myself, sweet pulp sticking to my lips. Relief sweeps through me like water after a drought—the hunger finally receding.
We eat in silence, splitting one pod after another, sticky sap coating our fingers. The canyon groans again, but softer this time, the storm muffling it to a distant hum. I should be afraid still, but the taste in my mouth and the weight of him beside me make it easier to breathe.
When I glance up, his eyes are still on me. Watching. Definitely not dismissive.
I lick juice from my thumb, pulse stuttering when his gaze follows the movement. Heat floods my cheeks. I shift on the rock, but there’s nowhere to go—the canyon stretches to either side, the wall rising, and here he sits close enough that I feel the air stir with every breath he takes.
The silence feels like something shared. Something waiting. I curl my hand into the pouch, sticky fingers trembling.
“It’s enough to last us,” I whisper, though I don’t know if I mean the pods or this moment.
He doesn’t answer, instead leaning back slightly, his scars and scales reflecting the filtered light in jagged lines. When his hand brushes mine again, deliberately, I don’t pull away. Not this time.
The silence thickens. Not heavy like fear, but charged, alive, like the air before lightning strikes. My pulse hammers so hard I feel it in our touch.
Slowly, deliberately, his hand settles over mine. Not crushing, not commanding—just there. Covering. The cool weight of his scales sends a shock up my arm, makes my skin prickle as if I’ve stepped into fire instead of shade.
I should look away. Pretend it’s nothing. But my gaze drags up, helpless, and finds his.
His fathomless black eyes lock on and pull me under. There’s no soft warmth in them, no easy kindness—but something deeper, sharper. A promise and a claim.
My throat tightens. My lips part without sound.
The faintest rasp of breath escapes him, barely more than the stir of air. He leans in, not quite touching beyond our hands, but close enough that I feel the weight of him press into the space between us.
The wind picks up, moaning through the bones below, but up here it’s only him and me, our shoulders nearly brushing, our hands locked together.
I don’t know who moves first, me or him, but suddenly my shoulder presses fully against his, cool scales rough against my sleeve.
My chest aches with the force of wanting—wanting him to see me, to want me back, to never let this tether between us go slack.
For a heartbeat, the world is still.
His thumb shifts against my knuckle. A tiny motion, but enough to make my breath catch, my heart stutter, my whole body lean instinctively closer.
The silence sings.
If I lean an inch more, I’ll be in his arms. If he turns his head, my lips will brush his scars. The thought burns so hot I can hardly breathe.
He doesn’t move. And neither do I.
We sit there, hands clasped, shoulders pressed, every breath tangled together, the pull between us undeniable.
Then a sound from somewhere up the canyon. Something shifts. It snaps through the charged silence like a blade cutting taut rope.
I stiffen, breath catching in my throat. The wind mutters, but this noise doesn’t belong to wind or shifting sand. It’s closer and definitely intentional.
The scarred warrior doesn’t pull his hand from mine yet. He stills completely, every muscle going sharp. His eyes flick past me, down toward the ribcage graveyard. The grip over my knuckles tightens once—just once—before he lets go and reaches for his lochaber.
The sudden absence of his touch is a hollow ache.
I look around. The ribs loom pale in the gloom, curving like the skeleton of a god. Nothing moves. The canyon looks as empty as it has since we stopped, but the sound comes again. A faint scraping of something dragging against bone. My heart stutters.
“It’s—” My voice breaks too sharp. I lower it to a whisper. “It’s close.”
He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t need to. His lochaber slides free with a low rasp, the blade catching the last glow of the pods in my lap. His shoulders shift, broad, coiled, ready.
I clutch the pouch tight, sticky fingers trembling. The sweetness in my mouth curdles bitter with fear. The graveyard stretches as far as I can see. Ribs and skulls jutting in chaotic arches, shadowed hollows yawning between them. I can’t tell where the sound comes from.
And then I see it. For a breath, only a flicker—a darker shape sliding between pale bone, low to the ground, too fluid for stone or wind. My stomach drops.
The younger Zmaj had been right. This place isn’t empty.
I glance over and see his jaw flex, eyes narrowing to slits, but he doesn’t strike or shout. He simply watches, lochaber poised, body angled between me and the hollow. Protecting.
The thing shifts again, deeper this time, a sighing scrape that sets the ribs vibrating. The canyon seems to hold its breath.
I can’t move. Can’t breathe. My knife is in my hand, but it feels small, laughable, against whatever prowls beneath those bones. His presence anchors me, silent and solid. He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t falter. Just waits, steady as the desert itself.
The scrape fades into stillness. For a long, long moment, there’s nothing. Then—a sound. A low hiss, drawn out and deliberate, echoing through the hollow like a promise. My heart slams against my ribs.
He shifts closer, the cool brush of his scales barely grazing my sleeve, and lowers his head just enough that his breath stirs my hair. His voice rumbles low, barely more than a whisper, rough as stone dragged through sand.
“Not alone.”
The words sink deep, colder than the hiss.