21. “Jungle Toxins” #3
He lowers his head, kisses my throat, my collarbone, the edge of my jaw.
“I do not do temporary. And I do not give up what is mine. And when I claim you that way, you are mine. Forever. And you are not ready for that. I have waited hundreds of years for my bride. I will wait until you are ready.” His hands flex once at my hips as he gives me a last kiss.
Rythar pulls me back into the pool and washes me with his hands. He takes his time. He never tries to turn it into something else. He never asks me to return the favor. We exit the pool together. When I shiver, he wraps me in a towel, then tucks me into bed.
He lies down on the bed, not touching. His breath is deep and steady.
I stare at my hand, at the mark that ties me to this world, to this man.
I don’t know what this makes me. I only know I want it again.
But I can’t stop thinking about the way his mouth felt on me.
The way he said he would wait. The way, even now, I ache for him.
I close my eyes and let the burn settle.
I lie there, wrapped in heat that is not a battlefield, held by a man who did not claim what was offered.
He's not like anyone I've ever known. Rythar didn't stop because he lacked the right, or the desire. He stopped because he knew he had time. He has always had time. I have never had time in my life. That is the difference between us, and I am only now seeing how deep it goes.
We could have a thousand years together.
The thought appeals to me, even though he is an alien. Even though he’s what New Terra warned me about.
I am not the same woman who crash-landed here. I stare at the faint glow on my finger, at the mark that binds me to this place, to him. For the first time in my life, I don't just want to survive. I don't know what comes after that. I never got far enough to find out.
Sleep does not steal over me so much as open beneath me.
One moment I am aware of the warmth of our bed, of the faint spice-scent that clings to Rythar’s skin and to mine. The next, the world tips, and I am falling through memory.
I am running on New Terra, through the smoke and screams and sirens. The sound goes into my bones while concrete dust coats my mouth and nose.
I am counting compressions. Taking orders. Calculating triage in the thin, brutal arithmetic of disaster. There is no time to think of what comes next. There is only now. The next breath that might or might not come.
The ground splits beneath my feet.
The sirens cease. The particles of debris fall thick as winter snow, and with them falls silence.
I stand in a vastness of darkness shot through with pale light.
Beneath my bare feet run threads of white fire. They pulse with a rhythm slow and immense, like the heartbeat of something far larger than a single body.
The Concord Stone. It sends pressure through the bride mark. Something under my skin has leaned closer to listen. Far out in the dark, three points of light bloom, one after another, like embers coaxed to life. Three of my fellow Starfallen brides. We are a web.
Sophia comes first—heat and fury pulled tight. I don’t need a face to know her. I know the snap of her will. Her light flares too brightly, almost harsh. Her terror filled my mind before, but now it shuns my attention.
Maya is the second ember. Her spark is held behind glass.
Dana is the third, and for a moment I think it might go out. Then, it steadies. Trembling, yes, but stubbornly pleased about something. I can’t stop the sharp little jolt of jealousy that goes through me at how simple it seems for her.
There are more embers in the distance, but I can’t connect to them.
Why these three and not the rest?
Sophia’s connection pulls at me for help—distracts me from my bond with Rythar. Maya retreats. Dana barely holds her connection. There’s no pattern I can find.
The Stone whispers in my mind, You spark the circuit. But the others must choose to complete it.
I draw a breath as the ember that is Rythar flares to life, the same colors as his fierce eyes.
My connection to Rythar is a different circuit—but we’re not alone.
We’re all being watched by a cold, vast attention.
The High Lord. I feel him the way you feel a storm gathering. He watches. Measuring. Blocking.
He can’t touch Sophia’s fury.
Maya retreats further from him.
Dana’s fear steadies into something quiet and unbreakable.
And mine—
Mine joins Rythar and stops running. The alarms are gone. There is no blood slicking my hands, no body cooling beneath them while I tell myself I did everything I could. Only possibility. I have lived in crisis for so long I don’t know who I am without it.
I picture myself with Rythar, being held by him in the treetop canopy, the scent of cinnamon and fruit all around us. Rythar holds me to him, and for one suspended heartbeat, Sophia, Maya, Dana, and I form a closed circuit.
The High Lord feels it. He watches, but he cannot enter. The static rises.
Clarity strikes—the bond I share with my friends doesn’t weaken me.
It threatens him.
And he’s trying desperately to break it.