Kharvek
THIRTY-TWO
We search Grokh’s body with our hands still finding excuses to touch.
My fingers brush hers as we sort through his equipment. Her shoulder presses against mine as we examine his belt pouches. Small contacts. Constant reassurance. I need to feel her close after the fight—need to know she’s real, she’s alive, she’s still mine.
Grokh carries the usual equipment—weapons, rations, a badge of rank. But in his belt pouch, I find something else. A sealed envelope marked with the Matron’s personal sigil.
“Orders.” Imara takes the envelope. Her other hand stays on my thigh—casual, possessive. “Let’s see what she wanted.”
Inside: two pages. The first is tactical—positioning, approach vectors, nothing surprising.
The second page makes my blood run cold.
The Matron’s handwriting, cramped and precise:
“Both must be taken alive. This is paramount. The weapon and the harvester carry more than power in their blood. They carry truth.
“Before he destroys himself with this foolish rebellion, he deserves to know what he is. Who made him. The bloodline that runs through his veins.
“Bring him to the Womb Chamber. I have something to show him.
“Something about his origins.”
I read the words three times. Try to make sense of them.
“Your origins.” Imara’s hand tightens on my thigh. “She’s never mentioned—”
“No.” I fold the letter. Shove it into my belt. “Never. That I was bred. Designed. Created for a purpose. Nothing more.”
“And now she’s using it as bait.”
“Obviously.”
But the curiosity burns anyway. I’ve never thought about origins—never cared. The clan bred me from selected stock; that’s all I knew, all I needed to know.
Now the Matron dangles truth, and despite everything, I want to bite.
Imara shifts closer. Wraps her arm around my waist. Rests her head on my shoulder.
“It’s a trap.” She keeps her voice low. “She knows you’ll wonder.”
“Yes.”
“We can’t go back to the Sanctum because she wants us to.”
“That too.”
Her hand strokes slow circles on my hip—soothing, grounding. Keeping me here with her instead of lost in questions about a past that shouldn’t matter.
“What do you want to do?”
I turn into her. Wrap both arms around her. Hold her tight.
“I want to go back anyway.” The admission is easier than it should be—perhaps because I’m saying it to her. “Not because she’s luring me. Because the only way to end this is to face her. And if I learn the truth in the process—”
“Then at least you’ll know.”
“Yes.”
She tilts her head back. Looks at me with those eyes that see too much and accept everything they find.
“Whatever she tells you,” Imara says carefully, “it doesn’t change what you are now. It doesn’t change what you’ve become. What we’re building.”
What we’re building. A future. A life. Something I never imagined wanting until she showed me it was possible.
I press a kiss to her forehead. Her nose. Then I take her chin between my fingers, make sure she’s looking at me. “Nothing she says matters more than this. Than you.”
Her breath catches. Her hands slide up my back, pull me closer.
“Kharvek—”
“I mean it.” I hold her gaze. “Whatever I came from, wherever my blood originated—it led me here. To you. That makes it worth something. That makes everything worth something.”
Her eyes shine. She doesn’t cry. She rises on her toes and kisses me with everything she has.
“I love you.” The words come out against my lips. Barely a whisper. “I don’t know when it happened, but I do. I love you.”
My heart stops. Starts again. Beats harder than it ever has.
Love. She loves me.
“Imara—”
“You don’t have to say it back.” She’s babbling now, nervous. “I needed you to know. Before we go back to the Sanctum. Before everything gets dangerous again. I needed you to—”
I kiss her silent. Pour everything I’m feeling into it—the shock, the joy, the raw need to keep her safe forever.
When I pull back, she’s breathless. Waiting.
“I love you too.” The words feel strange in my mouth. New. Terrifying. True. “I didn’t know what it was. Didn’t have a word for it. But I’ve loved you since you looked at a monster and saw a man.”
Her smile is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
We stand there in the aftermath of battle, surrounded by bodies and blood, holding each other. The Matron waits in her Sanctum. The truth about my origins lurks somewhere in the Womb Chamber. Everything is dangerous and uncertain and probably doomed.
But Imara loves me. And I love her.
Everything else, we’ll figure out.
We return to the farmstead to plan.
Imara tends to my wounds while I outline what I know about the Sanctum’s defenses. Her hands are gentle on my skin—cleaning the cut on my ribs, binding it with strips of cloth, pressing soft kisses to the bandages when she’s done.
“The drainage tunnels.” She settles into my lap when the first aid is finished, her back to my chest, my arms around her waist. “Tomek’s routes. If he’s still alive—”
“If he’s not, you know the passages.”
She tilts her head back to my shoulder. “We go in quiet. Find the Womb Chamber. Face the Matron on our terms.”
“And learn the truth about where I came from.”
“If you still want to.”
I think about it. The curiosity is there—has been since I read the letter—but it’s muted now. Less urgent. Imara’s weight in my arms, her heartbeat against my chest, the soft warmth of her body pressed to mine—these things matter more than any truth about my bloodline.
“I want to know,” I decide. “Not because it will change anything. Because I’m tired of her holding power over me. Tired of not knowing things about myself that she knows.”
“Then we find out.” She turns in my lap, straddles my thighs, wraps her arms around my neck. “And then we burn her Sanctum to the ground.”
“One day to rest,” I murmur. “Then we move.”
Her hips shift against mine—deliberate, teasing. “However will we fill the time?”
I growl. Flip us so she’s beneath me, her back against the floor, her legs wrapped around my waist.
“I have some ideas.”
Her laugh is the best sound I’ve ever heard.
Later—much later—we lie tangled in each other, catching our breath.
The afternoon light has shifted, painting the farmstead in shades of amber and gold. Imara’s head rests on my chest, her fingers tracing idle patterns on my stomach. I stroke her hair, watching dust motes drift through the sunbeams.
“We’re really doing this.” She keeps her voice low. “Going back. Facing her.”
“We are.”
“We might die.”
I press a kiss to the top of her head. “But we’ll do it on our terms. Our choice.”
She props herself up on one elbow. Looks down at me with an expression I’m still learning to read. Love, yes. But also determination. Resolve. The look of someone who’s already decided.
“When we get to the Womb Chamber”—she grips my arm—“when you learn the truth—I’ll be right there with you. Whatever it is. Whatever it means. You won’t face it alone.”
I reach up, tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. “That’s why I can face it at all.”
She leans down. Kisses me soft and sweet.
“I love you,” she whispers.