Chapter 23 #4
“More like a third,” Lyra says cheerfully, patting my shoulder. Then, sharper, “She needed it.”
His eyes meet mine. “Did she?”
The way he says it—flat, deliberate—makes my stomach twist.
Lyra, traitor that she is, just smirks. “You can take it from here, right, Warlord?”
I whip toward her, nearly losing my balance in the process. Lyra places a steadying hand on my arm.
“What?! No. Absolutely not.”
She grins, smug as hell.
“Oh, absolutely yes.” Then leans in, voice low. “You’ll thank me in the morning.”
I glare. She winks. And then she slips into the shadows, humming like she just set something on fire.
The tavern fades behind us. The street is quiet. Laughter echoes in the distance. Someone’s boots crunch on gravel, slow and measured. Still, Thane doesn’t look away.
I shift on my heels, unsteady, squinting up at him. “You always lurk in the shadows waiting to catch people off guard, or is that just your charming way of saying hi?”
Thane exhales, stepping closer. The space between us shrinks, and suddenly, the night isn’t so cool anymore.
“You’re drunk.”
I huff, crossing my arms. “Very observant.”
“Not safe.”
“Please. I could still take down three warriors blindfolded,” I scoff.
Thane arches a brow. “Could you even stand on your own right now?”
I narrow my eyes at him. Focus. Plant my feet. Will the ground to stop spinning.
It doesn’t.
Three seconds later, the ground vanishes beneath me and I stumble forward.
Thane catches me without hesitation. One hand gripping my arm, the other bracing my waist. Steady. Solid. Warm.
Of course.
Shit.
I mutter something incoherent and shove at his chest. Half-hearted. Embarrassed. Drunk.
He doesn’t let go.
“See?” he murmurs. “Not safe.”
I roll my eyes. But I don’t fight him when he loops my arm around his shoulder and wraps his arm around my waist. His warmth sinks into me. And I hate how good it feels.
We walk in silence.
I let myself lean on him. Not because I want to. But because right now, walking is hard. And maybe . . . I do. A little.
I feel him breathe in against my hair. His muscles tense beneath my hands—just for a moment—then ease. And then, a soft press of lips to the top of my head.
I go still.
Thane’s voice is quiet when he finally speaks. “You don’t let yourself rest.”
I laugh dryly. “You sound like Lyra.”
“She’s not wrong.”
I sigh, tilting my head back to look at the stars.
“If I stop,” I whisper, “I think everything will catch up to me.”
His grip on me tightens slightly. “Maybe that’s not the worst thing.”
I let out a breath. “Maybe not. But it’s easier to keep moving.”
Thane doesn’t argue—just listens.
And gods, that is dangerous. Because I’ve had too much to drink and right now, I don’t have the armor. His presence makes me feel safe in a way I should not allow myself to feel. So I say things I probably shouldn’t.
“I’m tired, Thane.”
A muscle in his jaw pops.
“I know,” he says softly.
I shift against him. “I’m tired of being strong. Tired of being . . . her. Tired of being the version of me everyone else needs.”
A muscle in his throat moves as he swallows. “Amara—”
“I’m not saying I don’t care about any of it,” I cut in. “The fight, the mission, the damn prophecy.” I laugh bitterly. “Gods, I wish I could care less. But I don’t. It’s just . . . ”
I trail off. Because the next part is too big. Too true.
I could tell him I’m tired of carrying it alone. That just once, I want someone to carry me. That when he looks at me like that—like he sees me, not just the title—it makes me want things I don’t have room to want.
I could tell him. But I don’t.
Instead, I let my head rest against his shoulder. Just for a second. Just long enough to remember what his warmth feels like before I have to pretend again.
Thane doesn’t pull away like I expect. Not yet anyway.
I make it a few more steps before my foot catches on something—a loose stone, a patch of uneven ground, maybe just my own terrible decisions—and suddenly, the world tips sideways.
I curse loudly while stumbling forward.
Strong arms catch me before I hit the ground. My cheek presses against something warm. Hard muscle and leather.
Him.
Thane.
His arms tighten around me, lifting me effortlessly, one beneath my knees, the other braced against my back. My stomach flips, and not just from the sudden movement.
“Okay, this is unnecessary,” I mumble, my words slurring slightly.
“You can’t even walk straight,” he mutters, adjusting his grip. “Just let me do this.”
I grumble, but I don’t fight him because the exhaustion hits me like a wave. My head drops to his shoulder. Warm. Strong. So comforting.
Dangerous.
My chest tightens, the anger, sadness, and confusion bubbling up. And before I can stop myself, the words holding all of that weight leaves my lips.
“You just . . . left.”
He says nothing, just keeps walking. His boots hit cobblestone in a steady rhythm, and somehow, that sound makes it easier to breathe.
I shift slightly. My fingers curl into his shirt, clinging, just a little. My eyes drift half-closed as the alcohol makes my tongue loose.
“You always like bossing people around?”
His chest vibrates with a low exhale.
“Only when they make terrible choices,” he responds flatly.
I hum, drowsily. “So all the time, then.”
His breath stirs my hair, and in it, I catch the faintest edge of amusement.
I let myself lean into him, just a breath. Just enough to forget. To let the warmth blur everything sharp. Long enough to wonder—what if things were different?
What if I could just be Amara?
A girl. Held like this. Wanted like this.
No.
Shit.
I shove the thought away—but the words are already out.
“You always catch me.”
His steps falter for a moment.
I feel it—his breath catching against my temple, his fingers flexing where they hold me.
Damn it.
He doesn’t respond, but his body goes tighter. His pace is more careful. Like it cost him something not to respond.
And then—the bond stirs.
It’s subtle at first. A whisper at the edge of my mind. A pull low in my chest. Then it surges—pressing into me like a pulse that isn’t mine.
I tense.
Thane tenses; I feel it in the stillness of his hold, the way his hand locks around me.
We freeze, the night itself holding its breath.
Then he exhales—slow, deliberate—like he’s just decided something. And instead of pulling away, he draws me closer.
A mistake.
Because the moment he does, the bond flares.
I suck in a breath—sharp, involuntary—as something deep and raw courses through me. It feels older. Heavier. Like every part of me that’s been locked down is suddenly burning awake.
My skin tingles. Not from contact with Thane, but from within. The bond hums between us, electric, alive, impossible to ignore.
Thane moves faster. His grip more deliberate now—like he’s afraid of what happens if he holds on too tight. Or lets go.
Neither of us speak.
But the silence? It’s not empty. It’s thick with everything we’re not saying. And everything we suddenly can’t pretend not to feel.
THANE
She leans into me like she doesn’t know what it costs me to hold her like this. And I don’t know how to put her down without shattering something in both of us.
Her voice comes out softly, almost dreamlike. “You always catch me.”
I nearly trip over my own feet.
How does she do this? Just four words completely undo me.
I steady myself—I will not drop her.
Then a sensation like a butterfly moving in my chest. But the quiet fluttering becomes a surge of heat and power drumming in my chest.
I stiffen.
It’s like the bond heard her words and is responding for me.
I readjust my grip—stupid, irrational—like holding her tighter might quiet the bond. Instead, the drumming gets louder and it’s like I feel her racing heart next to mine.
My grip on Amara reflexively tightens. I’m losing control of my body. I need to get her to bed and put her down—put space between our bodies. But I can’t leave her like this.
My quarters. They’re closer anyway.
I pick up pace, begging for the bond to stop. Because if she keeps saying things like that, and I keep feeling this much, I won’t be able to keep her safe.
AMARA
Pain.
That’s the first thing I register as I wake the next day. A dull throb behind my eyes. Sharp. Relentless.
My mouth is all sand and regret. My limbs weighed down like someone carved me into the mattress.
I groan, burying my face into the pillow.
Which . . . smells different.
Not like the rough linen of my usual bedding. But like leather. And smoke.
And him.
My breath catches. Slowly, too slowly, I pry my eyes open.
Light slips through the narrow window, casting the room in soft gold. And there—sitting in the chair beside the bed, arms crossed over his chest, face impassive—is Thane.
I’m in his quarters.
I breathe in slowly. Then it hits.
The night before. The tavern. The bond. The way he—
No.
I shove it all down. My skull is splitting open and I am not doing this right now. So I do the only thing I can.
I glare at him.
He doesn’t move. Just looks at me. Calm. Steady. Completely unbothered.
“You look like hell,” he says.
I make a noise that’s supposed to be a scoff but comes out as a croak. “And you look like you haven’t moved all night.”
He doesn’t deny it. Doesn’t shift or look away—he just stares back. A muscle in my chest I didn’t know was clenched, pulls tighter.
I swallow hard and push myself upright—only for the world to tilt.
“Ugh. Nope. Bad idea.”
Thane sighs, leaning forward to pour water from the pitcher on the table. He hands me the cup without a word. I take it reluctantly.
The quiet between us stretches, thick and heavy.
I sip the water, my throat dry. I let the water roll on my tongue, stalling like it might wash away the question forming in my head.
My mind is a haze of fragments from the night before—the tavern, Lyra’s teasing, my friends laughing, a mug shattering, Thane’s arms around me.
The bond, pulsing like a second heartbeat.
And gods, what the hell did I say? My grip tightens around the cup.
Thane rubs a hand over his jaw, eyes still on me. “You don’t remember, do you?”
Panic flickers quick and low in my gut.
“ . . . Depends. What am I supposed to remember?”
He gives me that look—the one that makes it hard to breathe.
“You were drunk.”
I snort. “No kidding.”
“You said things.”
My stomach knots.
“People say a lot of things when they’re drunk. Doesn’t mean they mean them.”
He swallows. “You meant them.”
His fingers flex against his knee—small and sharp, like something passed through him before he shut it down.
Damn him.
Damn him for staying.
Damn him for knowing me so well.
I stare at my cup. Then force my voice steady.
“And what exactly did I say?”
For the first time, he’s the one who looks away. Just for a second. But I see the flicker of hesitation, the way his fingers now curl where they rest against his knee.
Something did happen last night. Something I felt too. But he won’t say it.
And I won’t ask.
Instead, he shifts, reaching into his pocket.
“Here.”
I blink as he tosses something onto the bed beside me.
“Is that—?”
“From Lyra,” he confirms, entirely too smug. “She said, and I quote, ‘If you let Amara suffer through this without a hangover remedy, you’re dead to me.’”
I groan and flop back onto the pillow. “I hate her.”
“You love her,” Thane corrects.
I crack one eye open to glare at him.
“You two are a menace.”
He smirks, standing. “Get some rest.”
He moves toward the door. And something twists in my chest.
He stayed. Not just in the room. Not just because it’s his.
He slept in a chair and watched over me. Not out of duty or the bond. But because he wanted to.
And that breaks something in me.
Because for all the running, deflection, and practiced distance—Thane isn’t going anywhere.
I pour the herbs into my water, sighing.
I’m in so much trouble.