Chapter 16
Chapter
Sixteen
ASH
The mountains vibrate under my skin, low and steady—the same note that thrummed through her mouth when I kissed her.
I’ve been in the saddle since first light, hoping distance will drown what happened at the petroglyphs.
It hasn’t.
I tug a sprig from a nearby pine tree, crush it between my fingers. The resin bites my skin, masking the faint metallic tang that rises whenever that frequency gets too close.
But nothing can mask what I did.
Stupid. Reckless. Unforgivable.
Put Josephine at risk. Myself. Perhaps other Wildbloods.
And all while DHS is breathing down our throats.
An echo of the legend passes through me. Whispered around fires. Never spoken in daylight.
Of the resonance.
The mated pairs.
Catastrophe.
It was never supposed to answer a human.
The tattoos on my chest and arm burn faintly, half-pain, half-yearning. Every few minutes, the ink pulses, as if it remembers her touch. I flex my hand, willing it to stop.
But the resonance is stronger than rules, older than blood. It’s already inside me, circling like wildfire through dry timber.
Wind lifts dust across the valley floor. Each gust carries echoes—her laughter, the quick hitch of her breath, her heartbeat. I swear I can still smell her. Sage, honey, and sin.
“Enough,” I mutter, pressing my knees to the mare’s sides. The horse moves, sure-footed and fast, hooves drumming the hard earth like a heartbeat trying to outrun itself.
I crest the ridge that separates my land from Martin’s. Below, the ranch lies quiet, the roof glinting with dew.
And there she is—on the porch, wrapped in a dusty rose quilt, watching the same sunrise. I can almost smell the scent of rain and ozone when our lips met. Like I couldn’t tell where the rain ended, and she began.
Even from this distance, I feel the pull.
The hum spikes through my spine, sharp enough to steal my breath. For a heartbeat, I think the mountain is calling me home.
No, it’s her.
I hesitate.
Despite myself. Despite knowing better.
For one moment, everything stills to the same rhythm.
Breath.
Pulse.
Her.
If she looks up—if she lets me know she still feels it—I won’t go.
The council. The future. They can all be damned.
I hold my breath.
The pull is a rip tide… drowning me.
But she doesn’t look up.
I exhale ragged.
Then, turn away.
Winnie moves beneath me, breaking into a gallop. Each hoofbeat is another ending.
Still, the echo follows—maybe to torture me—her pulse braided with mine, the vibration of the Starborn Range rising between us.
I head for the winter pasture, the old herding cabin to disappear.
Long enough for her memory of me to evaporate, though I know that will never happen.
The kiss quickened the resonance. Not enough to bond, plenty to break.
The council’s final judgment rings in my ears.
Self-exile.
No hesitation.
No waiting.
Shame transforms into determination. I almost gave in. Almost caved to the need.
I numb my mind—at least, I try—pushing the herd northward. Winnie breathes hard, straining from the work of many horses.
But my head aches less the further I get from the mountains and Josephine. The empty ache in my chest goes quiet and dull.
I need this solace, the quiet that comes with it.
At the cabin, I strip to my waist, nothing worse than fabric against the marks when they burn.
The dark air fills with their luminosity. Moving and pulsing.
But it’s faint this time, growing more so. I’ve done right, though I feel something much darker and more dangerous lingering at the margins of my soul.
Anger. Rejection. Jealousy.
Four breaths in.
Six breaths out.
Control.
If it takes six months.
Or six years.
I can’t get this wrong.
Night falls, a storm rolling in as I check the herd, testing the fences one more time.
The horses dash around the paddock, as if they’ve caught fire in their veins.
Winnie spooks, rears back and nearly throws me from the saddle, reacting to some invisible force.
I whisper to the fracturing mare in secret tones, patting the side of her neck and restoring the steady peace I need from her.
She snickers, whole body relaxing as I notice distant bands of lightning. A whisper of thunder.
Not yesterday afternoon’s tempest. Something softer.
A promise of something that won’t touch this place. Or me.
Or Josephine.