Kharvek
TWELVE
The kiss isn’t gentle. Nothing about either of us is gentle.
She claims. Teeth and tongue and fierce intention. Her fingers twist in the fabric of my shirt, and I feel the thin material strain against my chest. I should pull back. Should consider the tactical implications of this development. Should—
Thinking stops.
I pin her against the nearest bone pillar, and she makes a sound against my mouth—not fear, not protest. Satisfaction. My hands find her waist, grip hard enough to bruise, and she arches into the pressure instead of away.
She tastes of blood. The perpetual flavor of this place, inescapable even in kisses. But beneath that, more. A feeling that belongs only to her.
My back hits one of the skeletal monuments. Bones crack under the impact. Neither of us cares.
Her hands move from my shirt to my shoulders, nails digging into scarred muscle. I growl—an actual growl, the animal sound I usually reserve for combat—and her responding laugh vibrates against my lips.
“More,” she breathes.
More. As though this is a gift I can give. As though I know how to give anything except pain.
But my body responds without my permission. Deepens the kiss. Pulls her closer until no space remains between us. My scarification channels pulse, responding to the proximity of her blood, her power, her—
Her.
The realization breaks through instinct and trained response. This isn’t about blood magic or tactical advantage or the alliance we’re building.
This is about her.
I pull back. Just far enough to see her face. Her lips are swollen, her careful braids disheveled, her gaze dark in ways that have nothing to do with the Vale’s shadows.
“Imara.”
“Kharvek.”
My name again. Different this time. Softer. She reaches up and touches my face—actually touches, her palm against the scarred ruin of my cheek. No one touches me. No one has touched me with care since—
Never. No one has ever touched me with care.
“This complicates things,” I manage.
“Does it?”
“An alliance based on mutual goals is clean. This—” I gesture between us, the broken bones, the scattered map, her hand still on my face. “This is messy.”
“Everything worth having is messy.” She strokes her thumb across my cheekbone. “You don’t have to want this. We can go back to pure strategy. Plan the assault, kill the Matron, part ways when it’s done. I won’t—”
“Stop.”
She stops. Waits. Her hand remains on my face.
I don’t have words for this. Don’t have the vocabulary for wanting tenderness. But I try anyway.
“I don’t know how to—” Deep breath. Start again. “Everything I understand about connection is filtered through violence. I’ve never wanted what I couldn’t take by force.”
“And now?”
“Now I want—” The words stick. “I want you to look at me the way you’re looking at me now. And I don’t know what to do with that.”
Her expression shifts. Not pity—I’d reject pity—but understanding. One damaged thing seeing another.
“We figure it out.” Her chin lifts. “Neither of us knows how to do this. We learn.”
“Learn.” The word feels strange in my mouth. “The Matron doesn’t let weapons learn. Weapons perform their function or get replaced.”
The pressure behind my ribs expands. Painful. Necessary. Something cracking open that’s been closed since before I understood what closing meant.
I lean into her touch. Surrender I’ve never offered anyone. Trust that feels more dangerous than any combat I’ve survived.
“Imara—”
Torchlight.
The flare cuts through the bone garden’s red glow, harsh and sudden. I pull Imara behind me before conscious thought engages, positioning my body between her and the threat. Training. Instinct. Something else.
“Harvest Guard.” The words come from behind my shoulder, barely a whisper. “They’re conducting sweeps.”
I see them now. Six figures moving through the skeletal monuments, torches held high, their formation too loose for a targeted search. Random patrol. Bad luck rather than discovery.
“The western edge.” I pitch my voice low. “There’s an exit through the collapsed memorial. Can you reach it?”
“Can you?”
“I’ll catch up. Go.”
She doesn’t argue. Doesn’t waste time on protests that would only draw attention. Just presses her lips to my shoulder—quick, fierce, claiming—and slips into the shadows between bone sculptures.
I watch her go. Make sure she reaches the darkness safely. Only then do I turn my attention to the patrol.
Six guards. Easy kills if I wanted them. But bodies mean questions, and questions mean investigation, and investigation means the Matron looking closer at what her weapon has been doing in the dark hours.
Not yet. We’re not ready yet.
I circle wide. Use the monuments for cover. The bone garden has been my stalking ground since childhood—I know its paths, its shadows, its places where a seven-foot orc can disappear into darkness.
The guards pass within twenty feet of where I crouch. Their conversation drifts toward me on the night air.
“—said she wants the weapon monitored. Every movement. Every contact.”
“Monitored, not engaged. I’m not stupid enough to confront that thing without the Matron’s direct orders.”
“Think he knows? About the observation orders?”
“Does it matter? He’s just a tool. Tools don’t think about who’s watching.”
Their laughter fades as they move toward the garden’s eastern edge. I remain motionless until the torchlight disappears. Until their scent fades from the air.
Then I rise. Slip through the darkness. Follow the path Imara took toward the collapsed memorial.
She’s waiting in the shadows beyond the bone garden’s boundary. Her face pale in the weak light. Her breathing controlled despite what just happened.
“They’re watching you.” Not a question.
“They’ve been watching for weeks. Since the evaluation.”
“This changes the timeline.”
“No.” I look back toward the garden, toward the place where we planned rebellion and kissed among the dead. “This means we move faster. Before they see what we’re building.”
She nods. Professional again. The careful control sliding back into place.
But I saw what’s beneath that control now. Felt it pressed against my lips. And nothing about this situation is simple anymore.
“Tomorrow night.” She turns to go. “I need to adjust the ward corruption sequence. Account for increased surveillance.”
“Tomorrow night.”
She turns to go. Hesitates. Turns back.
“What you said. About not knowing how to want things.” She holds my gaze across the darkness. “For what it’s worth—neither do I. But I’m tired of not wanting. I’m tired of being empty.”
“Empty.”
“I built walls so thick there was nothing left inside them. Killed off everything that could be used against me.” She pauses. “You make me feel full. I don’t know what to do with that either.”
Then she’s gone. Slipping through the night toward the Sanctum’s distant silhouette. I watch until she disappears through a service entrance, safely inside, safely anonymous among the clan’s faithful.
I stand in the darkness for a long time. Processing. Cataloging. Trying to file this night into categories that make sense.
Ally. Asset. Tactical advantage.
None of them fit.
What fits is her hand on my face. Her lips against mine. The way she said my name like it meant more than designation.
I crack my knuckles—the sound loud in the silent night—and start the long walk back to my quarters.
The stakes have shifted. The plan. The shape of what we’re building.
And somewhere beneath the calculation and the assessment, a new feeling demands attention.
Something I’ll have to learn how to carry.