Tharos
FORTY-ONE
The forest has never felt like this.
I walk through Briargrave with Xela pressed against my side, her arm around my waist, her head resting against my shoulder when the path allows.
The thornpaths open before us without hesitation—not reluctantly, not with the grinding resistance I’ve felt since the binding began.
They open like breathing. Like welcoming.
Because she’s part of it now.
The roots beneath our feet pulse with her presence. Feel her heartbeat echoing through the network of living wood that connects every corner of my territory. When I touch her, I feel it twice—the warmth of her skin against mine, and the pulse of her life registering through Briargrave itself.
The sensation is strange. Intimate in a way I didn’t expect.
“You’re quiet.” Her voice is soft, pitched low so it doesn’t carry beyond us. “Plotting our next move, or just brooding?”
“Processing.”
“That bad?”
I stop walking. Turn to look at her properly, my hand sliding from her shoulder to cup her face.
The setting sun paints her in shades of gold and amber, catching the gray of her eyes and turning them to something warmer.
Blood still streaks her skin—hers and theirs—but beneath the violence, she’s beautiful in a way that makes my chest ache.
“You anchored me.” The words come out rougher than I intended. “When the Severance Engine was tearing me apart, when I could feel myself dissolving into the forest—you reached through that. You held on.”
“I told you I would.”
“You don’t understand what you did.”
Her chin lifts. That stubborn set to her jaw that I’ve come to recognize as defiance. “Then explain it to me.”
I try to find the words. They don’t come easily. But she deserves to understand. She deserves everything I can give her.
“The binding ritual was supposed to be absolute. Unbreakable. I gave myself to Briargrave, and Briargrave claimed me in return. There wasn’t supposed to be room for anything else.
” I trace my thumb across her cheekbone, feel her lean into the touch.
“But you created room. When you grabbed my hand, when you refused to let go—you carved out space in the bond that shouldn’t have been possible. ”
“So I’m what, part of the forest now?”
“You’re part of me.” The admission costs something. Everything. “The binding recognizes you because I recognize you. Because I chose you over everything else the forest offered.”
Her breath catches. I watch her process the words, watch understanding dawn in her expression.
I kiss her. Can’t help it. The feel of her against me, the scent of her filling my lungs, the way her body fits into mine like she was made to be here—it overwhelms the words I should be saying. My hands find her hips, pull her closer, press her against me until there’s no space between us.
She responds with equal hunger. Her fingers tangle in my hair, nails scraping against my scalp in a way that sends heat racing down my spine. When I lift her—just enough to bring her mouth level with mine—she wraps her legs around my waist without hesitation.
“We should—” She breaks the kiss long enough to gasp the words. “The Heartgrove—”
“Can wait.”
“The King—”
“Is already watching. Has been since the battle ended.” I pull her close by the nape of her neck, press my nose against her temple, breathing her in. “It knows what happened. Knows what you’ve become to me. A few more minutes won’t change that.”
“A few minutes?” Her eyebrow arches. “That’s insulting.”
I laugh. The sound surprises me—rough and unused, but real. I can’t remember the last time I laughed.
“However long you need.”
I set her down in a hollow like the first—bones in the walls, the King’s voice faint.
“The bolt needs to come out.” I look up at her, meeting her eyes. “It’s going to hurt.”
“Do it.”
I brace one hand against her thigh, feeling the muscle tense beneath my palm. She’s watching me with trust that I’m not sure I deserve—trust that I’m going to take care of her, that I won’t let the pain be worse than necessary.
I grip the bolt and pull.
She doesn’t scream. Just sucks in a sharp breath through her teeth, her hands fisting against the packed earth on either side of her. Blood wells from the wound—fresh and bright—and I press my palm against it, applying pressure while the forest responds to my silent command.
The sap that wells up from the roots is the same substance that flows through my scars. Dark. Viscous. It stings when I apply it to her wound, and she hisses, but within seconds the bleeding slows. Stops.
“Forest medicine.” She’s looking at the wound with something between fascination and horror. “Is that going to make me grow bark?”
“No. But it will heal faster than it should.”
“Good.” Her hand finds my wrist, pulls me toward her. “Then stop playing healer and come here.”
I go. Can’t not. She’s gravity, and I’ve been falling since the moment she looked at me without fear.
The hollow is cramped, forces us close. I don’t mind. My body covers hers, braced on my forearms to keep from crushing her. The position is familiar now—learned in another hollow, practiced in the heat of desperation and survival. But this is different.
Slower.
I take my time kissing her. Learn the curve of her mouth, the way she gasps when I nip at her lower lip, the sound she makes when I trail my mouth down her throat.
Her pulse beats rapid against my tongue, and I can feel the same rhythm through the forest—two heartbeats syncing, hers and Briargrave’s.
“I’ve never—” She loses the words when I find the sensitive spot beneath her ear. Tries again. “I’ve never felt this way before.”
“Which way?”
“Like I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.” Her hands slide beneath my shirt—what’s left of it—tracing the bark-scars that pattern my torso. “Like I’ve been running my whole life and I finally found somewhere worth stopping.”
I understand. I’ve been holding myself apart for the same reason.
“The King is going to try to use this against me.” The truth needs to be spoken, even now. Especially now. “What we have—it makes me vulnerable in ways I haven’t been in a long time.”
“I know.”
I kiss her again. And this time, I don’t stop.