Page 13

Chapter 12

T he cloth was warm, damp from the basin. I wrung it out and smoothed it over Kazrek’s forehead, down his cheek, along the column of his throat to the hollow of his collarbone. He shifted, just barely, his breathing slow and even. The firelight caught on the curve of his tusks, the ink winding down his arms shifting as his muscles tensed in sleep.

He was so big. I’d always known that—he took up space without trying, presence like stone, solid and steady. But like this, with my hands on him, it felt different. More real. His skin was hot, the old scars rough beneath the cloth. I exhaled sharply, sitting back in the chair I’d pulled beside his bed.

At least he was in his bed now. That had taken more effort than it should have.

Now, he lay sprawled atop thick furs, his dark hair damp against the pillow, deep green skin dulled with fever. His chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm, but now and then, his brow twitched—discomfort pulling at the edges of his usually unreadable expression.

I dipped the cloth again, wrung it out, and passed it over his forehead. Practical. That’s all this was. The fever needed to break. He needed to cool down.

That was the only reason I was still here.

But as my hand smoothed over his fevered skin, I became acutely aware of something else. I was touching him. Really touching him.

And it had been so long since I had touched anyone like this.

Maeve still curled into me at night when the shadows outside made her uneasy. Iris hugged me on occasion, brisk and firm. But those touches were different—needed, given, expected.

This was something else entirely. Not obligation or practicality.

This was me, sitting in the quiet warmth of Kazrek’s home, running a cloth over his skin, noticing how his lips parted slightly in sleep and how the firelight turned his tusks to gold.

This was me, not pulling away.

I set the cloth aside.

It was supposed to be the end of it—wipe him down, make sure he was cooling, then let him rest. But I didn't move away.

My fingers hesitated at the edge of his wrist, hovering over the ridges of old scars, the dark ink of his tattoos. I traced the black lines where they curved over the thick muscle of his forearm. The patterns weren’t just decorative—they meant something. Somewhere in these lines were stories he hadn’t yet told me.

My hand moved over his forearm, up the ridge of his bicep, where another scar intersected the ink—something jagged, long-healed but unmistakably born of violence. A blade, maybe. A battlefield wound.

I pressed my palm to the curve of his shoulder, just to feel the weight of him. Even now, weakened and asleep, he felt unshakable.

My hand drifted upward, almost without thinking, to the line of his throat. His tusks curved from his lower jaw, smooth and ivory-pale in the firelight. I brushed a fingertip over one, curious. He shifted—just a breath—and made a sound that wasn’t quite a sigh or a growl.

Something clenched in my chest. This was dangerous.

And still, I didn’t stop.

I moved up, fingers ghosting over the edge of his scar—the one slashing down his face, just missing his eye. I had wondered about it before but touching it now, feeling the faint ridge beneath my fingertip, was something else entirely. It made it real. It made him real. A man who had bled, who had survived, who had changed. A man who had hesitated before meeting my lips when I kissed him in the woods—who hadn’t taken, hadn’t expected, just waited.

A man who wasn’t awake to see how I was looking at him now.

The thought sent a jolt through me, but even then, I found myself smoothing back the strands of dark hair that had fallen across his forehead.

And that was my mistake.

Because his eyes opened.

Bleary, unfocused at first, then sharpening on me—dark, hazy with fever but still piercing right through. I froze, my fingers still tangled in his hair, my heart pounding.

Kazrek blinked sluggishly, like waking was a battle he wasn’t quite ready to fight. His gaze drifted over my face, heavy-lidded and dazed. When he spoke, his voice was raw with sleep.

“I thought I dreamed you.”

It hit me low in my stomach, like warmth curling its way through my spine and setting fire to my skin. My hand jerked back from his hair as if burned, but he caught my wrist before I could fully retreat. His fingers, big enough to wrap easily around mine, were too warm, fevered but steady.

He gave a gentle tug, and I tipped forward onto the bed beside him.

I let out a soft noise of protest, but it was half-hearted at best. The mattress dipped beneath my weight as I landed against him. He shifted, wrapping one arm around me. The heat of his body seeped into mine, the broadness of his chest an unshakable wall of warmth and strength. I fit too easily into the space he made, my legs tangling awkwardly with the heavy furs, my face near the hollow of his throat.

His hand settled low on my back, a slow, steady weight. Not urging. Not pressing. Just holding.

The air between us felt heavier, thicker, but Kazrek only let out a slow breath, his body sinking further into the bed, the last remnants of exhaustion pulling at him once more. His breath stirred the loose strands of my hair, and then, low and quiet, almost too soft to catch, he murmured something against my temple.

“ Dorthan’zul .”

The syllables curled against my skin like a secret.

Then he was asleep.

I had meant to stay only a moment. Just long enough to make sure he drifted off. But the fire crackled low, and the heat between us blurred the line between necessity and something else. I closed my eyes.

And let sleep take me, too.

Sometime in the night, I drifted toward wakefulness.

The fire had burned low, casting flickering shadows against the walls. The air was cooler now, but I was warm—impossibly, perfectly warm. My body was cocooned in heat—the steady rise and fall of a broad chest beneath my cheek, an arm curved around my waist.

My eyes snapped open.

Kazrek's fever had broken during the night. I could tell without looking, could feel the difference in his skin where we touched. But that wasn't what made my breath catch.

He was awake.

And he was watching me.

His dark eyes were clear now, alert, fixed on my face with an intensity that made heat bloom across my skin.

"Your fever broke," I said quietly, needing to fill the silence with something practical.

Kazrek hummed in response, the sound low in his chest. His eyes hadn't left my face, and in them, I saw something that made my breath catch—clarity. Whatever fever dream had loosened his tongue before was gone. He was awake now, aware, and still, he held me.

"You stayed," he murmured.

I swallowed hard. "Someone had to make sure you didn't die."

His lips curved slightly, the barest hint of a smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. "Is that the only reason?"

The question hung between us, weighted with everything we weren't saying. I could have lied. Could have pulled away, made some cutting remark about duty or obligation. But in the quiet dark of his room, with the dying fire casting shadows across his face, I found I didn't want to.

"No," I whispered. "It wasn't."

His hand tightened on my back, pulling me closer until there was barely any space left between us. Then, his head dipped, his lips brushing mine—a feather-light touch that sent a shiver racing down my spine. It was a question, almost. An offer.

And I answered by leaning in, my mouth meeting his.

There was nothing tentative about this kiss. This wasn't a stolen moment in the woods, a fleeting brush of lips before fear sent me running. This was fire.

He kissed me like he was starving, like I was the only thing that could satisfy him. And I kissed him back with the same ferocity, my body arching against his as if I could somehow get closer, as if I could press myself into him and lose the last sliver of distance between us. His grip on me tightened, locking me against him, and his other hand slid down, past my waist, settling with firm possession against the curve of my hip.

Heat coiled low in my stomach, sharp and insistent. Every nerve in my body was alive, every inch of me attuned to the way he felt beneath me—solid muscle, steady strength, the roughness of his scars beneath my fingertips. His tusks scraped against my jaw as he tilted his head, angling the kiss deeper, and I gasped against his lips.

Kazrek made a low, satisfied sound in response—a rumble deep in his chest that sent shivers crawling over my skin. There was something heady about it, the way he held me there, kissing me like he was proving a point. Like he was staking a claim. Like he was letting me know, in no uncertain terms, that this wasn't a mistake.

This was deliberate. Intentional. I wouldn’t be running from this.

His fingers pressed into my hip, his thumb tracing slow, lazy circles that sent sparks racing up my spine. I twisted slightly, pressing closer, and the shift only made things worse—better. His body was a furnace against mine, and I felt him everywhere. I arched into him again, and this time, his restraint cracked. He rolled, swift and decisive, shifting me beneath him, pressing me down into the furs as his weight settled over me. It should have felt like too much.

It didn’t.

It felt inevitable.

I lifted a hand, running my fingers along the sharp edge of his jaw, tracing the heat of his skin. His throat worked as he swallowed, his muscles tensed beneath my touch, but he didn’t pull away. He was so steady, so still, as if waiting for me to decide—if I would push him back or pull him closer.

His eyes searched mine, dark with want, but steady. “I’m not going to chase you.” His voice was rough, like he was holding something back.

A lump rose in my throat.

His thumb brushed slow, steady circles against my hip, grounding, waiting.

“I’ll wait,” he said, softer this time. “As long as it takes.” His fingers flexed slightly against my waist. “Just don’t run from me again.”

Something in my chest ached, sharp and deep. Because wasn’t that what I always did? Run before I could be left behind? Before someone could decide I wasn’t worth holding on to?

But Kazrek wasn’t asking me to promise anything. He wasn’t demanding answers or certainty. He was just asking me to stay.

The tightness in my throat burned. I didn’t trust myself to speak, so I didn’t. Instead, I shifted, pressing closer, letting my fingers curl against the heat of his skin.

Kazrek made a low sound, something almost like relief, and then he eased back down beside me, pulling me with him. His arms wrapped around me, solid and warm, steady in a way I hadn’t realized I needed.

I let him hold me. Let myself press against him, feel the quiet certainty in the way he kept me close.