Page 43 of Scorched Earth (Dark Shores #4)

KILLIAN

“Lydia!”

He screamed her name as she collapsed at their feet, her hair white and skin weathered as a woman thrice her age.

“She’s breathing,” Malahi said, even as Agrippa shouted, “Stay away from her! If she rouses, she’ll be desperate!”

The last of the deimos slammed into the bucket, teeth reaching for Baird. Killian stabbed it in the eye, sending it spinning out of sight into the carnage below.

“We’re almost down!” Baird roared.

And then the storm struck.

The pain was incredible, as though Killian’s skin was being scoured from his face and eyes scratched from his skull.

He couldn’t breathe.

“Get down!” Agrippa bellowed in his ear between coughs. “Cover your face! I’ll help Baird!”

Killian dropped, fumbling for Lydia’s still form.

She was faintly coughing, so he tore off a strip of his shirt and wrapped it around her face before doing the same for himself.

It was still like breathing dust, but the burn of sand striking him was diminished.

Catching hold of Malahi, he shouted, “Is your face covered?”

“Yes!”

The howl of wind intensified, drowning out all sound, but he could feel the others shaking as they coughed violently.

He had no idea how much farther down they had to descend. Nor any idea of what they’d do when they reached the bottom.

The bucket twisted violently in the wind. Killian clenched his teeth, praying to the Six that the rope would hold.

Then Lydia stirred.

His mark had been quiet but now screamed danger.

He didn’t know how to help her.

Protect the others. That’s what she’d want.

Hauling Lydia against his chest, Killian held her tightly against him, her arms pinned by his. “We’re almost down!” he shouted. “I’ll get you more space soon!”

He could sense her inner battle. Weakened as she was, if she decided to fight him, he’d be hard-pressed to contain her without help.

But he didn’t want to ask for it. Agrippa would protect Malahi at all costs, and trapped in a confined space as they were, the other man might choose to cut his losses.

“We’re almost there!” He wasn’t sure if that was truth or lie. “Hang on!”

Lydia strained against him, and Killian’s arms shuddered to keep hers in place. Please, he prayed to the Six. Help her.

Except he knew they wouldn’t. It had been one thing to throw off the Seventh’s active hold, but this was a war Lydia was fighting against herself.

The bucket jolted to a stop, the impact of it striking the rocky ground jarring his spine. Trusting that Agrippa would take care of the others, Killian spilled them both over the edge of the bucket. His back struck something squishy and wet, but then they were rolling down an incline.

Lydia pressed her advantage.

Wrenching her arms upward, she broke his hold, rolling away from him. And he couldn’t gods-damned see. Couldn’t hear any sounds she might make over the roar of the storm.

But she can see you.

Climbing to his feet, Killian ignored the coughs wracking his body and gave in to the sense gifted to him by Tremon.

What if she goes after the others?

She won’t. It’s you she wants.

How he knew, Killian couldn’t have said, only that he was turning, his arms rising to take the impact as Lydia slammed into him. They grappled, rolling across sand and rock, slamming against the corpses of blighters and corrupted alike.

Her hand latched around his throat, but she was still wearing gloves. He heard her scream of frustration above the wind. Killian ignored it and caught her wrist, rolling her facedown and then pinning her arms to her sides.

Every breath was a struggle, sand worming its way under his clothes, scratching and burning. If he died, there’d be nothing to stop her from turning on the others.

Think think think.

What had he seen when he’d looked down? A stone platform. Endless sand and rock and… a small stone structure next to the platform.

Now all he had to do was find it.

Keeping his arms around Lydia, his hand locked on his own wrist, Killian heaved to his feet, hunting for his bearings.

The wind was rebounding off the escarpment, billowing in all directions like a cyclone. Cautiously, he moved backward, praying he’d hit the cliff wall rather than wander into open desert.

His foot caught on a corpse, nearly causing him to fall, but Killian pressed onward. His lungs ached from coughing, his arms shaking from restraining the thrashing Lydia. If he hadn’t already been weeping tears from the sand, he’d have wept for joy as his back slammed against rock.

Allowing his mental map to guide him, he eased down the rock face until he guessed himself behind the platform, then he started forward until he reached the smooth stone.

Going by feel, he worked his way to the left side of the platform, then forward until he collided with a structure. As they edged around it, he found the opening, relief filling his chest as his boots found steps leading down.

He started the descent, praying that nothing worse than sand and dust would greet them at the bottom. His boots met a flat surface, and with the wind no longer blasting him in the face, he used the back of Lydia’s head to pull down the strip of fabric covering his eyes.

And was greeted with blackness.

With his arms preoccupied with Lydia’s squirming, there wasn’t anything he could do about the light, but he’d endured worse than sitting in the dark for a few hours.

With Lydia in his arms, Killian explored the space and swiftly determined that it was nothing more than a small chamber that had been carved out of the bedrock, either for the storage of goods or as a shelter against storms. Leaning against a wall, he slid down so that he was seated, Lydia on his lap.

He squeezed his eyes shut, coughing up sand and grit while she thrashed, drumming her heels against his shins.

“Don’t,” he growled back at her. “I’m not going to let you go, Lydia.”

She didn’t answer, only smoldered with rage and frustration.

Killian felt himself sinking into despair, but Baird’s words filled his thoughts, and instead he said, “Do you remember when we were sneaking into the sewers to help Finn take care of the orphans? How many children do you suppose you healed? Had to have been at least a hundred.”

“For all the good it did.” Lydia’s voice was low, once again carrying the cruel edge that it’d had when they were in the rowboat on the lake. “Emmy’s dead. She was poisoned by blight and spent her days telling everyone how you failed to protect her.”

“Wasn’t her doing the talking, though, was it?” He shifted, his ass already going numb against the rock. “Was the Seventh.”

“Doesn’t mean it was a lie.”

A shot of guilt fired through him, but Killian forced it away. “What is your goal in saying these things? Is it that you think I’ll get angry enough to make a mistake so that you have the opportunity to kill me? Or are you trying to provoke me into killing you myself?”

“Have you ever considered that I might just be saying what I really think?” she snapped. “Because I assure you, Killian, that the things I say are a small fraction of those that pass through my mind.”

He had , in fact, considered that. “There is a difference between a thought crossing your mind and it being what you truly believe.”

“Whatever makes you feel better.”

Part of him wished Agrippa were here, if only for the fact that the other man would relish the verbal sparring, whereas it made Killian miserable.

“I know that I’ve not been what you needed,” he finally said.

“In truth, I’ve been so consumed with my own anger that it’s been hard to see anything else. ”

“Are you angry because I’m not being a sweet girl that you can imagine marrying?” Her tone was saccharine and mocking. “No one wants a murderous monster to mother their children.” She hesitated, then said, “Though perhaps your concerns are baser than that.”

He ground his teeth but refused to rise to the bait. “Anger at myself, is the answer. My purpose is to protect you, but I’ve done a terrible job of it.”

“Perhaps I should enlist Agrippa,” she said. “Seems to come naturally to him. Either that or he’s not willing to allow his golden goose to come to harm.”

Against his will, Killian’s jealousy flared. “Malahi suffered because of my commitment to you.”

“Malahi did her level best to get me killed, and I’ve not forgotten that. Though to her credit, she was probably smart to try to put me down.”

“Stop.”

“ No. ”

She strained against him, and he tightened his grip, then used his teeth to pull down the fabric covering her face. “My point for bringing up the tunnels is that I remember how you recovered your strength from the life that was all around us. From those in the shelters.”

“The only thing living near me is you. ”

“Not true. Our companions are nearby.”

“Perhaps they’re dead.”

Agrippa was too clever to be killed by a storm. “Even if that’s the case, it only means that there are nine more corpses above us, many of which were marked. All that life spilled out into the world, and I know that you can take it into yourself. You don’t need to kill me to recover your strength.”

“Quite right,” she breathed. “I don’t.”

His instincts roared a second before she broke free of his grip. Killian flung himself sideways, but she was on him in a flash, gloved hands pinning his wrists to the rock, her knees to either side of him.

“Do it, then,” he said. “If this is what you want, then take it.”

He could feel her breath against his throat, smell the scent of her hair as it fell against his face. Knew that there was no escaping her grip unless he killed her, which he refused to do.

Yet Lydia hesitated.

It was the voice that whispered in his dreams that said, “I’m tired of wanting what I can’t have. Tired of giving my heart nothing so that it is consumed with want for everything.”

“What have I ever refused to give you?” he asked, not knowing exactly what it was he was offering, only that he’d give up his soul for the sake of her, so what was his life?

But as she lowered her face, Lydia didn’t take anything, only brushed her lips against his. “This.”

She hadn’t pushed back the darkness, he knew that.

Knew that the woman kissing him stood on the edge of a blade, but maybe that was all right.

Maybe that was who she was, and to be with her, he needed to accept that every kiss was a risk.

Every touch was a gamble. Maybe there was no better woman for him.

“Yours,” he murmured. “Until my last breath.”

Lydia’s lips found his again. Not a brush but a kiss so fierce it hurt. Her tongue was in his mouth, the taste of her making him want more even as his heart throbbed with fear that his last breath was coming.

Except she wasn’t taking.

Her gloved fingers flexed around his wrists, grip strong enough to bruise, but her lips kissed lines of fire down his jaw, then his throat, his pulse no longer roaring with fear but with want.

Gods help him, but he needed this. Needed her. Because what they’d had so far wasn’t enough. Not for Lydia and not for him, and Killian would risk everything to have it.

She let go of his wrists, and he rolled her over, ripping off his coat, shirt, and gloves, casting them into the darkness. He kissed her, then bit her bottom lip, the moan that pulled from her mouth unleashing something primal in him.

He jerked open the buckles on the leather corselette she wore.

Lydia lifted her shoulders to allow him to pull off the garment, and though he could see nothing in the blackness, his memory delivered him what his eyes could not.

Pale skin and long lines, pert breasts that peaked in the chill of the air.

“Touch me,” she breathed. “I need to feel you.”

Because her gloves were still on.

He debated removing them, then abandoned the thought as her leather-clad fingers trailed down his arms, his chest, his back, every part of him wanting to strip her naked and take her in a way he’d thought of more times than he’d ever admit.

“I love you.” He traced a finger down her sternum, over her flat stomach to the belt of her leather trousers. As he unfastened it, he lowered his lips to her breast, hearing the intake of her breath as he kissed the tip of it. “And you are mine. Every part of you, light and dark.”

“Just as you are mine,” she breathed, whimpering as he kissed her stomach, his body aching to take her. To claim her. To lose himself in her.

Lydia’s gloved hands tangled in his hair, her long legs wrapping around his waist and pulling him against her, drawing a sound that was half growl, half plea from him as she ground against him. “Are you sure?” he asked. “Are you sure this is what you want?”

“Yes.” The word came out in a gasp. “I want this. I need… I need…”

She trailed off, and it didn’t matter, because he knew.

Felt the same blinding compulsion to cross a threshold they’d stood on the wrong side of for too long.

All they’d had was words, but words had no place in this moment of ragged breaths and touch, in these heartbeats consumed by sound and sensation that he prayed would last forever.

Then the scrape of a boot caught Killian’s attention. He twisted toward the stairs to see a figure holding a blade outlined by muted sunlight.

“Well, this is a pleasant turn of events,” Agrippa said. “I was quite confident that I was going to find you drained into a husk of a man, but here you are, expending the adrenaline of a near-death experience in a much more productive fashion. Well done.”

“I am going to kill you!” Killian snarled, pulling Lydia against him so his body concealed hers from their laughing companion.

“Well, you might have to fight for that privilege,” Agrippa answered. “Because the storm is near spent and judging from the activity atop the escarpment, it won’t be long until we have thousands of walking dead back on our trail. Now shall we?”