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“I’ve never seen them.”

He nods, slowing his gait. “In Glacia, the mixed-bloods in the Colony fly above the clouds to see them, to pay homage to their dead.”

“On the Ledge, we pretend that the dead never existed,” she mumbles, unsure if the words actually leave her mouth at all.

After a time, Ryon appraises her. “Can you walk?”

“I think so,” she says. Her legs wobble as he sets her down, but she does not fall.

“Ale and liquor are dangerous, girl. Your little ax will not find its mark if trouble finds you, which it inevitably seems to.”

“I do not need condescension from a Glacian.”

“No, you just need that Glacian to save you from execution and then carry your sorry ass out of a tavern.”

“You were willing enough to follow me to the Mecca. I did not beg for your company.”

“Are you going to pretend now that you want me to leave, Sabar? Would you kiss me and then act as though you wish me gone?”

“I do not need you.”

“Ah, but wanting is not the same as needing, as you so perfectly illustrated tonight.”

She grinds her teeth and for once, she has nothing to offer.

“I see how you look at me, Dawsyn,” he says slowly, eyes watching hers.

“I look at you the way I look at any annoyance. I know how to separate the wants of my body and my mind.”

“Good,” he spits, the muscles beneath his tunic jumping. “Because what you did in that tavern, you will never do again.”

She laughs without mirth. “Did it scare you, Ryon? Tell me, what will you do if I kiss you again?”

He grabs her wrist and pulls her down the path. “I will bury myself inside you, Dawsyn. And yes, it scares me.”

CHAPTERTWENTY-THREE

The scratch of rough thread against her skin makes her believe she is home – home in her den of girls. She keeps her eyes shut tightly, as she always does, awaiting the moment when her stomach falls, the day ahead demanding her to wake up. She refuses. She holds on to the nothing of sleep a little longer. Soon, the wood will need to be chopped and the water boiled and the food rationed and the cabin will be empty of anyone but her, and it will happen again the next day and on and on forever until death finally offers her a kind alternative.

But her bed is too comfortable, the room too warm. Instead of falling, her stomach tightens as she remembers and her eyelids flutter open.

No den of girls. No snow. No Ledge.

Instead, a dry tongue, a churning stomach and a headache to rival an ax to the skull.

“Good morning.”

Dawsyn’s head whips around and she curses, her temples pounding.

“You look awful,” Ryon says, leaning against the doorframe.

She grimaces and rubs her head, her eyes trailing over his easy posture: the darkened eyes, his lips curving upward beneath the stubble. Lips she now knows the taste of.

She closes her eyes. “Whoops.”

“Yes,” he says. “Well put.”

“Sorry,” she tells him, and she feels it.