Chapter 11
Ember
The cold wakes me before anything else. Not the biting, immediate cold that forces you upright.
This is worse, a slow seep through layers of exhausted sleep, creeping into my bones like water through stone.
My body tries to pull me back under, desperate for real rest I haven’t had in days.
But consciousness wins, dragging me up through layers of dreams about fire and falling.
Bioluminescent veins pulse in the cavern wall. Blue-green light that barely qualifies as light at all, but enough to see by once my eyes adjust. The rhythmic glow reminds me of a heartbeat. Like the mountain itself is breathing around us.
I’m warm where it counts, though. Cocooned and secure. Wrapped in something solid and steady that I don’t immediately recognize.
Then I do.
Luke.
I’ve shifted in sleep; I’m no longer lying with my back to him. I’m curled into his chest, my cheek resting against the rough fabric of his vest. His arms circle me; one around my shoulders, the other draped across my waist. His chin rests against the top of my head.
We fit together like puzzle pieces.
Except my hand has found its way beneath his shirt.
I don’t know when it happened. At some point, my fingers must have slipped under the hem where it’s come untucked from his pants.
Now my palm rests against the bare skin of his ribs, feeling the steady expansion of his breathing.
The warmth is startling after hours of cold.
Electric. His skin smooth over hard muscle that shifts with each inhale.
My God, he’s so damned… taut.
As if sinew and muscle have been pulled over a frame of high-tensile steel. Then wrapped in warm silk.
I should move. Pull my hand away. Pretend I didn’t notice.
Instead, I lie perfectly still, fighting the urge to let my fingertips explore further.
His heart drums beneath my ear; steady and sure, like everything else about him. Our breathing has synced without my realizing it. His exhale. My inhale. The space between us nonexistent.
I’m aware of him in ways I shouldn’t be. The weight of his strong arms around my body. The scent of him; smoke and metal and something darker I can’t name but would recognize anywhere.
My fingers move without permission.
Just a fraction. Tracing the line of muscle beneath my palm. His ribs. The plane of his stomach. My thumb draws little circles as I absorb his texture. He’s all hard edges and controlled strength, even in sleep.
Heat spreads through my chest. Lower. Pooling between my thighs.
I shift—barely—trying to ease the sudden restlessness building in my limbs.
That’s when I feel it.
His body’s reaction. His cock, hard against my hip where we’re pressed together, impossible to miss.
Holy shit!
My heart slams into overdrive.
Part of me wants to freeze. Pretend it isn’t happening. Another part—the part that’s been monitoring every detail of how he feels wrapped around me—wants to see what happens if I don’t move at all. If I just lie here pressed against him with my hand on his smooth, warm skin.
Heat floods my face. Builds lower.
What the hell is wrong with me?
He’s centuries older. Mature. Worldly. And so freaking hot. Out of my league in every way that matters. And I’m lying here in the dark, acting like some inexperienced girl who doesn’t know better.
Because you are, my brain supplies helpfully. Inexperienced and foolish.
But my body doesn’t care about logic right now. It only cares about the fact that his hand is splayed across my waist, thumb resting against my ribs. That his breath stirs my hair with each exhale. That every inch of him is pressed against every inch of me, and it feels—
He stirs.
I go rigid.
Shit!
His breathing changes first; no longer the deep, even rhythm of sleep. His arms tighten fractionally around me, then go still. Then drop away from me. Awareness returning in stages.
The silence stretches so taut it hums.
Then his hand moves, finding mine where it rests against his bare stomach. His fingers wrap around my wrist. Gentle but unyielding.
“Don’t.”
The word is quiet. Rough with sleep and something deeper.
He draws my hand away from his skin. Sets it carefully against his chest instead, on top of the fabric. His touch lingers for a second—warm and deliberate—before he releases me entirely.
Oh God, I’m going to die.
Then he’s moving. Unwinding himself from around me with a control that somehow makes the rejection worse. His arms leave my body. His chest no longer pressed against my cheek. Cool air rushes in where his warmth had been, and I fight the impulse to follow.
I don’t look at him yet. Can’t bring myself to.
“We should move,” he says somewhere above me. All business now. Like the past few hours never happened. Like waking up wrapped around each other meant nothing. “Another hour and the tunnels will be active with patrols.”
My face burns. Embarrassment and something sharper twisting in my stomach.
“Right.” My voice comes out steadier than I feel. “Of course.”
I sit up, wrapping my arms around myself against the sudden cold. The unearthly light paints everything in shades of blue and green, making it easier to avoid eye contact. I focus on the wall instead. The steady throb of light that matches the frantic hammering in my chest.
Behind me, Luke’s already gathering our meager possessions. Efficient movements. No hesitation. Like nothing happened because, technically, nothing did.
Except it feels like something.
Some line we didn’t cross but came too close to.
I force myself to stand. My legs protest after hours pressed against cold stone, but I push through it. Find the jacket where it fell when he stood. Pull it on with shaking fingers that have nothing to do with temperature.
When I finally turn around, he’s going through the pack. Shoulders tense beneath tactical gear that somehow looks unfairly good even after days on the move.
I want to say something. Acknowledge what just happened or didn’t happen or whatever that was. But the words stick in my throat.
“Eastern exit is our best option,” he says without looking up. “Syndicate will expect us to backtrack toward the entrance. We go deeper instead.”
“Okay.” I clear my throat. Try again. “How long?”
“Four hours if we’re lucky. More if we run into complications.”
Complications. Right. That’s one word for it.
He finally meets my eyes. Just for a second. Something changes in his expression—regret maybe, or frustration—before it’s gone again, buried under that infuriating control.
“Let’s go,” he says.
And just like that, we’re back to mission mode. Operative and asset.
Nothing more.