Chapter 24
Let's Get Out of Here
The air in the mess hall was heavy—stew spilled across the stone floor, the sharp scent of blood hung in the air, torches spitting in the draft.
A different kind of heaviness was there, too.
The true traitor had been found out, yes, but still it had been their own people they had had to fight.
It would take a tremendous effort to unite the group; to lay aside doubt, and suspicion, and resentment, and stand together as one.
So, while some people were laughing and clapping each other on the shoulder for the sheer relief of having survived, others sat and watched the hall contemplatively.
Maven’s followers were nowhere to be seen, including Seraphina.
Were they simply not in the mess hall, keeping their distance, or had they left for good? Well, tomorrow would tell.
Kael stood beside Alina at the edge of it all, his presence grounding even as the world spun.
She had missed him fiercely when she was gone but now that she felt him beside her again, she realized how much she had come to depend on that feeling.
She kept half-expecting to vanish if someone looked away too long, but every time a rebel offered food or murmured a thank you, every time she glimpsed awe or relief in their faces, she realized she was truly there.
Real, and—against all odds—welcomed. At least by some.
Finn whistled at her from across the hall, waggling his eyebrows until she couldn’t help but laugh.
Tamsin glanced up from tending a wounded man, her smile brief but full of understanding.
Even Marcus gave her and Kael a slow, approving nod before turning back to watch the door.
The message was clear, spoken and unspoken alike: it was over. They survived. The right side had won.
But for Alina, the noise and celebration faded behind the sensation of Kael’s hand in hers—steady, warm, anchoring.
She felt the rapid flutter of her own pulse and wondered if he could sense it through her skin.
She had her answer a moment later, when he leaned close, his voice a velvety promise meant only for her. “Let’s get out of here.”
She blinked in surprise, then grinned, irrepressible. “Where?”
He didn’t answer, just wove their fingers together, holding on so tightly the bones aligned, and pulled her through the tangled maze of tables and people.
For a moment, she hesitated, unwilling to leave the miracle behind, but the urgency in his touch and her own anticipation flaring in her belly pulled her onward.
Soon, her steps matched his, her laughter echoing off the stone.
The tunnel outside was dark, lit only by a solitary wavering lamp.
As soon as voices faded, Kael pressed her against the rough wall.
His breath was hot against her cheek; her heart hammered wildly in her chest. She met his golden eyes, glowing, full of intent, and her voice came out a trembling whisper. “Are you all right?”
He hesitated, words failing him.
“I will be,” he said, and kissed her.
He’d kissed her before in many different ways—quick, fierce, desperate, passionate—but not like this.
This time, he lingered; he savored her, and she tasted the wild joy in him, the salt and blood and fear and hope.
She wrapped her arms around his neck, holding tight as if she’d fly apart without him, until there was nothing left between them but heat and longing.
He pressed himself more strongly against her, breath quickening. She broke the kiss, gasping for air. “Not here,” she whispered, and the urgency in her own voice made her laugh.
“Come on,” he said, and this time they ran.
They raced through the passageways—heedless, breathless, bursting with reckless delight and utterly uncaring of their responsibilities.
There were repairs to be made, questions to be answered, the fallout of Maven’s betrayal needed to be cleaned up—but there would be time enough for that later.
For now there was only each other, and the sheer joy of being alive.
Her laughter echoed ahead of him and when they finally tumbled into the safety of Kael’s small quarters, she stood in the dimness, flushed and wild, hair a mess, soot and ash on her skin.
He leaned back against the door, breathless. She stepped forward—needing, wanting—and he met her halfway.
This kiss was different yet again. Slower. Deeper. She felt the heat of his palms on her face, the way his mouth opened upon hers, the unhurried exploration of lips and tongue. She was undone by it, by the gentleness and hunger wrapped together.
She pressed her body against his, trembling. Her hands moved over his arms and into his hair, amazed by its softness, so at odds with the steely strength of his body. He murmured her name, helpless, kissed her jaw, her throat, her collarbone, and she sighed, giving herself over completely.
She helped him with her jacket, laughing as his ruined shirt gave way. He was beautiful in the lamplight—scarred, strong, vulnerable only with her. When she touched the wound above his heart, he shuddered.
“You’re beautiful,” she whispered, and she saw him believe it, just for her.
They collapsed onto the cot, a jumbled mess of blankets and limbs.
She shed the rest of her clothes, unselfconscious for the first time ever, letting him look at all of her—every imperfection, the black burn marks on her arm, every reality of survival.
The intensity of his gaze as he watched her made her feel bold and beautiful.
He crushed her into the mattress, their bodies pressed close, kissing greedily.
His mouth wandered from hers to her throat, her breasts, her belly, lower; his hands not staying far behind.
She dissolved into speechlessness, floating in a sea of sensory overload.
His tongue, warm and wet and soft, the intimacy of it—it was almost too much.
How could you love somebody so much? Somehow, the rest of his clothes had vanished and she wanted to return the favor, so she did, reveling in wicked delight as she watched him giving himself over to her touch, her mouth.
There was power in that, she realized, and she loved it.
“Alina,” he panted and she understood. So, she moved up to him, and he gripped her by the hips and positioned her above him, her hands braced on his chest. Ever so slowly, he moved her down and entered her, both holding their breath, both shuddering.
When he was fully seated, she started to move.
There were no words, no flirty banter, only sighs and whimpers, growls and moans and a seriousness that sprang directly from pain and loss.
They moved together, slow and then urgent, giving and taking, until every thought dissolved in sweat and sound and feeling.
Sometimes they watched each other, sometimes their eyes fell shut.
He took her high and higher, the delicious tightening in her belly unstoppable.
Her movements becoming jerky, she leaned forward onto his chest and came apart in his arms, his name falling from her lips.
He followed, holding her tight as he shuddered and, finally, relaxed.
For a very long time, they stayed like this, not wanting to move, not daring to separate, both not ready to let go.
Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, she lifted her head to look at him. “You really came back,” he said and kissed her again.
After, she slid down to his side and rested her head on his chest, listening to the wild staccato of his heart. He wrapped his arms around her and she let herself be held, the rest of the world fading away.
He stroked her hair and pressed a kiss to her forehead. “I love you,” he said, his voice small with wonder.
She looked up at him, eyes bright with tears—and something more. “I love you, Kael. I think I always did.”
He laughed, disbelieving and joyful. “Then stay with me. For the rest of it. For all of it.” She kissed him, slow and sweet.
“I’m not going anywhere,” she promised—and she meant it.
Alina awoke with her head on Kael’s chest, her hair in wild disarray and her hand splayed over his stomach. Could it get any better?
She lay still, listening to the quiet, her mind tracing the route of his breath as it moved beneath her cheek, rising and falling just above his heart.
She wanted to stay in that moment forever, cradled by warmth and the soft cadence of his heartbeat, and marvel at the contradictions of his belly, hard and soft at once.
With her finger, she traced the curve of the belly button and the line of dark hair leading south.
But duty—and, perhaps more pressing, the first sharp pangs of hunger—prodded her to move.
A bath wouldn’t go amiss either. She shifted slightly, feeling him bring a gentle hand to rest on her tangled hair.
He made a small, contented sound, and she felt it vibrate through her chest.
A shaft of light from the corridor slipped under the door, illuminating the mess they had made of the room—blankets tangled, clothing discarded, a shallow basin half-full of water.
The golden glow fell across his bare shoulder, and in that light, she saw the full inventory of what he had endured: the bruises blooming along his collarbone, the raw scrape along his jaw, the dry crust of blood at his temple.
She slipped out of bed with careful movements, not wanting to disturb him, and crossed the room to pour water from the basin into a cup.
When she turned, she saw him watching her through half-closed eyes as she found a clean scrap of cloth, dipped it, and wrung it out.
When she returned to the bed, he let his lips curve into a lopsided smile.
“You look like hell,” she said softly, concern and affection mingling in her voice.
“You should see the other guy.” He grinned at her, unable to resist the old joke.