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And she worries that even after all she knows, all she has taught herself, all she has faced to get here, that she might be lost in him.

“We won’t have the advantage of the night sky much longer,” he says eventually, when it seems she has wrung herself dry. “We should leave. Find better shelter.”

They walk to the edge of the cave together. Below, the inky sea churns against the shore. Ryon’s fingers brush along hers again, and she meets his eye.

“I could fly you away,” he tells her. “I could take you to whatever we might find beyond this sea.”

Dawsyn imagines he would. However Glacian he might be, the good in him runs thicker, and she finds that she wants to go to that unknown place, where Sabar and Glacian are not words spoken. She wants to vanish into the thin line between sky and water and begin again.

But the Ledge won’t collapse into the folds of this realm if she leaves. The people who suffer upon it will not cease to be. No matter where she finds herself, she will always know what remains behind, and the mere thought is intolerable.

“Maybe one day,” she tells him. “But not yet.”

He nods, reading her perfectly. “Not yet,” he sighs.

He holds out his arms to her, a question in them, and she reaches high to wrap her arms around his neck.

His hands slip to the small of her back, but before he lifts her, he kisses her forehead and murmurs to her skin, “I would not follow any other.”

Strange, Dawsyn thinks, that she should feel the same, that out of all the living humans on the mountain and in the valley, she can go with none if not him – a half-Glacian.

He lifts her to his chest, and they fly from the mouth of the cave.

Ryon takes them high, where the night sky swallows them, and Dawsyn lets her head fall back to watch the blur of stars above. Her fingers trace the lines between muscles on his shoulders, and he shivers. Perhaps it is the lifted weight from her mind, or perhaps she is just tired of pretending not to crave him, but she suspects it is something more. She guesses that for all their differences, he might just be the only other creature in their world who was born and made as she was. Perhaps souls like theirs can only wander so far before they collide.

She itches for him. Despite being hundreds of feet in the sky, her body begs to meld itself with his. She traces her fingers through the stubble along his jaw, and he leans into her touch, closing his eyes for a moment before they snap open, surveying the ground, switching back to focusing.

While he does, Dawsyn lifts her lips to the curve of his neck, where his skin burns hottest. Slowly, she presses down, feeling his warmth sink through her. Ryon curses, and the rhythmic beat of his wings stutter for a moment before resuming, but Dawsyn is lost. She is drugged by the taste of his neck, the silk of his skin, his pulse on her tongue. She takes her time, making her way up to the place where his jaw disappears, savoring the feeling, taking her fill at last, here, where nothing stops her.

It isn’t enough, and with every passing second, she grows hungrier, her lips press harder, her hands wander further, and the low rumble from Ryon’s chest turns to sounds of frustration.

He grips her tightly as they come to land, but Ryon does not bother to stop. His wings fold into his spine and disappear, and he rushes her to a moisture-worn door, shoving his shoulder into it, not flinching as it slams against a wall. The crumbling, long-abandoned cabin is dark, damp, its floor layered in dust, with nothing but an old bench and two chairs. Moonlight slips through the cracks between its bent timber boards and throws Ryon’s face into slithers of relief. He looks ravenous.

There is no pause to survey the room or find a surface. There is no stopping him from whirling her to the closest wall, anywhere that allows him to press hard against all of her. Her fingers are already searching for the paths to his body, pulling at his clothes to find more of him. He retreats until her mouth is wrenched away, and he holds her at eye-level, their chests and hips pressed together.

“I drink the contraceptive tonic,” he says. “You will be safe. Is this what you want?” His voice shakes. “Because once I have you, I will not let you leave me.”

“We both know you could not stop me from leaving,” she says, her breathing ragged.

“Maybe,” he concedes, his hand snaking down her front and between them.

Fingers suddenly touch her through her clothes, and she gasps loudly, pleasure rushing to heat her body.

“But I do not think you will try.” His hand moves then, grinding against the very center of that heat as his lips sink to her neck.

And she is his.

“I want you,” she tells him, her breaths rising and falling heavily. “Please.”

She feels him smile against her throat, and his hand leaves her.

“Good.”

All at once, he is in motion, and so is she. He lets her feet slip down to the floor and begins tugging the over-sized shirt over her head. She pulls at the ties of his pants as he tugs her shirt lower. The fabric crests over her breasts and the cold air hits them. He captures a nipple in his mouth, heating her with his tongue, melting her core. She aches to have him exposed to her, to feel the miles of his skin, so decadently smooth. But while his attention is so focused, she can only arch her back, push herself into his mouth, and beg him, plead with him. She pushes the remainder of her clothing down her hips and feels the fabric collect at her feet. His hands immediately find the rounds of her ass, and he clasps them, the muscles of his hands tensing with need.

When Dawsyn can wait no longer, she wraps her hand around his throat and pulls him off her, wrenching the shirt away from his marked stomach, his fine, scarred chest, until he lifts it over his head. He is astonishing. The hills and valleys of him are pathways to search, to explore, but not yet. Not yet.

He pulls off his pants, and she feels her body lurch with desire. His hardness throbs with his own lust in kind. He is lost in the haze of her, and she, in his. He presses against her once more and lifts her to him but not before she is able to grasp his length in her hand, pulling languidly, relishing the harshness of his groan. His hand slides along her thigh, finding the apex. He traps the moan she releases in his mouth as he delves two fingers inside her. They urgently rock against each other, his body encasing her, until she can bear it no longer and must guide him to her, wet and wanting. And when he finally fills her, the walls of her pulsing around him, she feels complete.