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She sighs, the effects of the wine beginning to lessen, but not enough to silence her. Not enough to ice her over. “I’m afraid of you, too.”

His hands tense against her back. “Because of what I am?”

“Because of what you could do to me.” Dawsyn squeezes her eyes shut. The uncertainty is returning, the weight of mistrust.

With his mouth pressed to the top of her head, he exhales deeply, and the breath touches every follicle, sending shivers down her neck. “One day you won’t be afraid, malishka. I’ll await that day.”

And before her sense returns, before she can remember why she shouldn’t, she turns her face up to his, already so close that she can see the dark freckles beneath his eyes. She reaches her hand to the back of his neck and pulls his lips down to hers. When they touch, she feels drunk once more.

It is short, this kiss. She lays her hands on either side of his throat and lets the feel of his lips wash over her. With Ryon adoring her, revering her, it is hard to think of anything else. How simple it would be, to be lost in him.

He doesn’t stop her from pulling away. He just watches her go with his jaw tense and his eyes ardent. She is already too far away when he turns and throws a fist into the tree trunk. She doesn’t see it. She only hears its echo and the grunt that follows, reverberating through the woods, cutting her like a knife.

She thinks Ryon might be right. There is not enough distance in this valley to keep them from colliding.

CHAPTERFORTY-FIVE

At dawn, the camp is awoken by shouts.

Dawsyn hasn’t slept. Instead, she spent the night contemplating the days ahead, wondering where the mage was, and when she would bother to return. She therefore has the pleasure of watching the entire spectacle unfold from a stump by the snuffed fire.

Hector, who was asleep and quite firmly entangled with Esra, stirs, his head rising from Esra’s chest. He blinks wildly, eyes bloodshot, and when he spies his own limbs wrapped tightly around Esra’s body, he jolts.

Hector lurches away, landing himself squarely in Salem’s lap.

Salem howls, pushing Hector to the ground and curling in on himself, hands to his crotch. Hector mumbles an apology and tries to stand, but treads instead on Tasheem’s hand. The female shrieks and suddenly there are wings unfurling, Rivdan is drawing a knife, Salem is still cursing from the ground, and Hector is in the middle, hands up in surrender.

The camp is full of panting, staggering, as all try to take stock of their surroundings. All except Dawsyn, who shakes her head at the lot of them, and Ryon, who never returned to camp after Dawsyn kissed him in the woods.

Other than the intermediate grunts of, “Me tackle!” from Salem, everyone falls awkwardly quiet. Dawsyn has had the advantage of sobering through the night, drinking water, eating something, but the rest look as though a stiff wind might thwart them. Tasheem is shading her eyes with her hand, though the sun has only risen enough to bruise the sky purple. Ruby is cradling her head in her hands and moaning about needing pork grease. Gerrot wears the look of a man who has no idea of his surroundings, and Esra takes one bleary-eyed look around, and then retreats to unconsciousness again.

“Good day, everyone,” says Dawsyn, smirking.

“Shut up,” says Tasheem, her wings collapsing into her spine, her form sinking to the ground again.

“Sorry,” Hector says to no one, to everyone.

Tasheem sniffs. “You shut up, too.”

Dawsyn smiles, watching them return to their various states of uselessness.

“Where is Ryon?” Rivdan asks aloud, running a hand through his wild hair.

No one answers, not even Dawsyn. She imagines that he is just simply staying away from her. Perhaps he’s grown tired of waiting for her to set her mind straight, to decide whether she’ll deny them both forever, or give in.

With her current afflictions, something so trivial should hardly matter to her.

“Dawsyn?” Ruby asks, hauling herself upright. “Is there any water left?”

Dawsyn passes her a half-drained cup she’d meant for herself, and Ruby swallows it as though near death with thirst. “Is there any more?”

Dawsyn grins. “No. I’ll fetch some.”

“I’ll come with you.”

“You won’t collapse?”

“I might,” Ruby yawns. “But it will serve me right. I’ll never trust Tasheem or Esra again.”