FIVE
The first thing I become aware of is warmth.
Not the uncomfortable, sweaty sort that comes from sleeping too long beneath a doona in the middle of summer.
This warmth is steady. Deep. The kind that settles into aching muscles and coaxes them into relaxing.
For several blissful moments, I simply drift there, suspended somewhere between sleep and wakefulness, enjoying it.
Then reality catches up.
My eyes snap open.
For one disorienting second, I have absolutely no idea where I am. Crystal light glows softly from the cave walls. Strange pelts are piled around me. The ceiling is made of stone. The air smells faintly of smoke and something earthy.
Then I remember.
The rift.
The forest.
Terrafeara.
Maelor.
The memory arrives all at once, and with it comes the realisation that I’m still holding someone’s hand.
I glance down.
Large fingers remain entwined with mine.
My pulse immediately does something deeply unprofessional.
Because Maelor hasn’t moved.
Not even slightly.
The enormous male is still seated exactly where I’d left him.
His back rests against the stone beside the bed.
One long leg is stretched out in front of him.
The other is bent at the knee. Sometime during the night, he’d closed his eyes, but even asleep—or whatever passes for sleep for an ancient shadow-travelling Hendroy—his hand never loosened around mine.
Something soft unfolds inside my chest.
The male spent the entire night sitting beside the bed.
Not because he had to.
Not because he’d been ordered to.
Because he’d promised.
I stare at him for longer than I should.
The silver markings scattered across his skin seem softer in the crystal light.
His features, usually sharpened by intensity and watchfulness, appear strangely peaceful.
Younger somehow. Less like the terrifying creature I’d seen tearing apart a monster in the forest and more like the male who’d built a home inside a mountain and worried whether I was cold.
The distinction matters more than it should.
Maybe that’s why I don’t notice him waking until his eyes open.
Red.
Bright.
Focused entirely on me.
My breath catches again. Honestly, I’m beginning to think my lungs are defective.
For a moment, neither of us speaks. Then the corners of his mouth shift ever so slightly. It’s not quite a smile but close.
“Good morning.”
The deep rasp of his voice rolls through the cave. Every nerve ending I possess immediately takes notice.
“Morning.” My voice comes out rougher than expected.
His gaze flicks over me quickly, assessing. Checking. The same way I’d check a patient after surgery. The realisation makes something warm bloom beneath my ribs.
“You slept.”
The observation sounds almost surprised.
I snort. “Well, yes. That’s generally how sleep works.”
A low rumble of amusement escapes him.
I’m starting to suspect Hendroy simply refuse to laugh properly out of principle. The thought makes me smile.
Maelor’s attention catches on it instantly. His gaze lingers, and the thread connecting us hums softly.
Determined not to think about how his attention lights me up, I release his hand—ignoring the hollowness of loss—sit up, and immediately regret every decision I’ve ever made.
Everything hurts.
My shoulder hurts. My ribs hurt. My neck hurts. Even my bruises seem bruised.
A groan escapes before I can stop it. Maelor is on his feet before I’ve finished making the sound. The movement is so fast it startles me.
One moment he’s sitting. The next he’s crouched beside the bed. Concern darkens his expression. “Iris.”
“I’m fine.”
His look says he doesn’t believe me, which is fair. I don’t believe me either.
The problem is that admitting weakness around a male who already seems determined to wrap me in protective cotton wool feels like a dangerous precedent.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed. “See?” The room immediately tilts, and I close my eyes. “Still fine.”
The silence that follows is profoundly judgemental. When I open my eyes again, Maelor is still watching me. Still unconvinced. Still entirely too handsome for someone who should, by all rights, be terrifying.
Then he does something unexpected. He reaches out slowly, giving me every opportunity to move away. When I don’t, his hand settles lightly against my shoulder.
Warmth floods through me instantly. The bond stirs. Not violently like before. Just enough to remind me it’s there.
Steady.
Comforting.
Present.
My body relaxes before I can stop it.
Maelor notices. Of course he notices. The male notices everything.
Relief eases in his expression, the sight catching me off guard. Because no one has ever looked relieved simply because I’m okay.
Patients, friends, colleagues, they’ve all appreciated me, needed me, relied on me. This feels different… personal. The realisation leaves me oddly breathless.
“You’re staring again,” I mutter.
His brow furrows. “I am.”
“Most people at least pretend not to.”
The faintest hint of amusement appears. “I see no reason.”
Fortunately, my stomach chooses that moment to make a noise loud enough to echo around the cave.
I close my eyes.
The silence that follows is immediate and deeply humiliating. When I finally force myself to look up again, Maelor is watching me with complete seriousness, as though my stomach has just delivered critical information requiring immediate attention.
“You require food.”
I point at him. “Not a word.”
His expression doesn’t change. “I did not speak.”
“You’re thinking it.”
A low rumble vibrates through his chest, and I’m becoming increasingly convinced that’s the Hendroy equivalent of laughter.
The discovery feels deeply unfair. Terrifying shadow monster was one thing.
Terrifying shadow monster with a sense of humour?
That’s the sort of thing that gets people into trouble.
Before I can formulate a proper response, he rises and moves across the cave.
My gaze follows automatically. Not because I’m fascinated.
I am absolutely fascinated. The problem is that every hour I spend with him dismantles another piece of the image I’d built in my head.
The creature who emerged from the forest shadows shouldn’t be organising supplies or worrying about breakfast. He shouldn’t know when I’m cold, or tired, or hurting.
Yet every action he takes seems focused entirely on making sure I’m comfortable.
The thought settles somewhere beneath my ribs and refuses to leave.
When he returns, he’s carrying a shallow stone bowl filled with unfamiliar fruit and something that resembles bread if bread had decided to become purple and significantly more suspicious. He kneels beside the bed and offers it to me without hesitation.
I examine it carefully. Then I examine him before I return to examining the food. “Is this breakfast?”
“Yes.”
The answer contains all the confidence of a male who has never once questioned whether food might be trying to kill him.
I pick up a piece of the purple bread and narrow my eyes.
Maelor watches.
Patiently.
Waiting.
The bond hums softly between us.
A horrible suspicion occurs to me. “You’re waiting to see if I survive, aren’t you?”
“No.”
The answer arrives far too quickly, and I narrow my eyes further.
The corner of his mouth twitches.
Aha. Victory.
The bread turns out to be annoyingly delicious. Sweet and warm with a nutty flavour that melts almost immediately on my tongue. My eyes widen despite myself.
Across from me, Maelor visibly relaxes. The movement is tiny, but I catch it anyway.
The bastard was waiting.
The knowledge sends an unexpected warmth through me. No one should look that relieved because I liked breakfast. Yet there it is, written plainly across his face.
I take another bite, and his shoulders ease further. Honestly, I don’t know whether to laugh or kiss him.
The second thought appears from absolutely nowhere.
I promptly choke.
The universe, apparently, has excellent timing.
By the time I’ve finished coughing, Maelor is already beside me.
His hand settles against my back, warm and steady, while the connection between us flares softly to life.
Not enough to overwhelm me. Just enough to remind me he’s there.
Always there. The awareness is becoming so familiar that the moment it fades feels almost wrong.
Eventually, my breathing settles.
“Iris.”
“I’m fine.”
His expression suggests he’s beginning to understand that phrase actually means the exact opposite.
To be fair, I’d probably reach the same conclusion.
For several seconds, neither of us moves. His hand remains against my back longer than strictly necessary, and neither of us seems particularly eager to acknowledge that fact. I distract myself by reaching for another piece of bread while he settles beside the bed once more.
The weight of his attention follows me.
Not oppressive.
Not demanding.
Simply present.
The strange thing is how natural it feels. As though some small part of me has been waiting my entire life for someone to look at me the way he does.
The thought escapes before I can stop it.
“Were you lonely?”
The question hangs in the air between us.
Maelor stills.
Not dramatically. Most people wouldn’t notice the difference. I do. The bond catches it immediately. Something quieter settles around him. Something older.
His gaze drifts briefly towards the cave entrance where sunlight spills across the stone floor beyond. For a moment, I think he won’t answer.
Then he says, “I did not know I was.”
The words land harder than I’d expected.
Because loneliness implies awareness. It implies recognising something is missing. This feels different. This feels like existing for so long without connection that you've forgotten there might be another way to live.
My chest aches unexpectedly.
“I had my shadows,” he continues quietly. “They have always been with me.”
The answer shouldn't break my heart. It absolutely does because suddenly I can picture it.