Page 3

They were older and lived out in the boonies on a farm that smelled like hay and manure. Every day followed the same rhythm. Chores, meals, school in the tiny one-stop-light town about thirty minutes away, and bedtime at nine sharp. There was no shouting and no fear.

But there was no life, either.

Until Lily showed up.

She arrived a year later with a bag slung over her shoulder. Her mom—my aunt—had lost her battle with breast cancer, and just like that, Lily was shipped off to the same quiet farm and the same grandparents.

But unlike me, Lily wasn’t quiet.

She was loud and wild and full of life, the kind of person who turned everything into an adventure. Lily laughed in the face of fear and dragged me along with her, whether I wanted to go or not. She was a ball of energy that breathed technicolor back into my dull, black-and-white little world.

And from the moment she stepped through the front door of our grandparents’ house, we were like two peas in a pod, bound together by the loneliness of our childhoods and the certainty that, no matter what, we had each other.

We did everything together. Climbed trees, explored the woods, stayed up late whispering about the futures we’d have when we finally got out of that town.

Not that I ever did.

When the kids at school made fun of me for having my nose buried in a book, for being awkward, Lily was the one who stood up to them.

And when we were teenagers, and I wanted to back out of a spring break trip to the beach, because what if something went wrong?

What if I embarrassed myself? What if, what if, what if?

Lily had sighed, thrown an arm around my shoulder, and said, “Em, you’re not fixin’ to back out on me.

If you take a chance, sometimes good things happen, sometimes bad things happen.

But if you don’t take a chance, then nothing happens. ”

I think about those words now, with my arms wrapped around myself and my heart hammering against my ribs.

Lily would take a chance. If I was missing, taken by an anuroi, she’d turn over every stone, cross every river, go through hell and back again to find me.

And I’ll do the same for her.

No matter what it takes. Because I’m twenty-nine years old, and I’m done being scared. I’m done sitting on the sidelines, waiting for life to happen to me.

Lily’s the toughest person I know. That’s why, deep in my bones, I know this planet hasn’t beaten her. She’s a survivor. She’s out there somewhere. I can feel it, even if I can’t explain how.

Around me, my friends are chatting happily, their voices rising and falling in waves of excitement as they introduce themselves to the new arrivals.

It should be comforting. It should remind me that we’ve made it this far, that we’re not alone.

But instead, it only sharpens the ache inside me.

It’s a reminder of what’s missing. Who is missing.

My eyes scan the crowd one more time, like somehow, against all odds, she might just be there. Like I might have just glanced right over her. Standing among them, waiting for me to notice her. But I know better.

The voices blur into a distant hum as my thoughts spiral.

I glance around, desperate for a distraction, something to pull me out of my own head.

Haley stands near Draggar, her face lighting up as he leans down to whisper something in her ear.

Even here, on this alien planet, she’s found happiness.

I don’t begrudge her that. She deserves it.

All my friends do. But it only makes the emptiness inside me harder to bear.

Everything suddenly feels too loud, too bright as the celebration closes in around me like a tightening vise.

My heartbeat pounds in my ears as I turn away and let my feet carry me toward the pens where the eponirs are kept.

The shadows stretch long and dark here, and a cool breeze brushes against my overheated skin.

The eponirs shift restlessly in their enclosure, their heavy hooves scuffing against the packed dirt.

One flicks its ears and huffs, its bright red eyes following me as I approach.

I pause beside the wooden fencing and drag in a shaky breath.

The musty scent of animals and manure almost reminds me of home.

“Little female?”

The voice startles me, and I whip around, my heart lurching in my chest.

Ugh, not this guy.

Vrok, one of the warriors in the tribe, steps out of the shadows and comes to a stop a few feet away. He scowls like he’s auditioning for Broodiest Alien of the Year. His arms are crossed, his jaw is clenched, and his thick brow ridge is furrowed in a thunderous frown.

He’s massive, nearly seven feet tall, and built like he could snap a tree in two without breaking a sweat.

What really throws me, though isn’t his size or the bad attitude.

It’s his ears. They’re pointed like some elf out of a fantasy novel.

If elves were enormous, battle-scarred, and looked like they could kill you with a glance.

On someone else they might look ridiculous, but on him, they just make him look more otherworldly.

His bright teal skin almost glows in the moonslight casting sharp highlights across the harsh planes of his face and the protective ridges lining his broad chest. Pale scars gleam across his torso.

He has more scars than I’ve seen on any of the other warriors.

I’d never admit it out loud, but sometimes I catch myself wondering how he got so many.

His hair is silver, jaw-length and thick, with streaks of vivid teal running through it.

It hangs in loose layers that brush his sharp cheekbones and frame his face in a way that somehow makes him look even more dangerous.

And when he shifts, two sets of sharp fangs, one on top and another set on bottom, glint in the light.

I roll my eyes. This day just keeps getting better.

He wears nothing but a loincloth, leaving his powerful, muscular frame fully on display.

Strapped across his chest and massive thighs is an alarming arsenal.

An enormous sword so large I doubt I could even lift it and several knives that gleam wickedly.

He looks dangerous, like a leashed predator just waiting to pounce.

But it’s his eyes that make my breath catch in my throat.

Pale, cold silver, they lock onto me with an intensity that cuts right through me.

There’s something there, something I can’t name.

It’s certainly not the warmth or friendliness I’ve come to expect from the other Laediriians, but it’s also not the open hostility I expected from Vrok, either.

It’s as if he’s measuring me. Weighing something.

And for reasons I can’t explain, that unsettles me more than the weapons ever could.

When he takes a step closer, I flinch. I hate myself for it, but old habits die hard.

He notices. Of course, he does.

And he stops immediately, his thick brow lifting in a silent question.

I know what he thinks of us humans. I’ve heard the things he and his father have said about us.

That we’re weak. That we don’t belong. That the Anuriix tribe has wasted their resources and kindness on us.

And I’ve seen the way the other warriors give them both a wide berth, like they have some contagious disease.

Suspicion follows them around like a shadow. Conversations die when they pass and warriors exchange wary glances around them. No one says it outright, but the message is clear.

Vrok and his father are not trusted.

“Are you alright?” He asks. His voice is a low rumble that I swear I can feel deep inside my chest.

“I’m fine,” I lie, but my voice cracks, betraying me. I look away from his penetrating stare and cross my arms over my chest, as if that alone can hold me together.

Vrok doesn’t move closer, but he doesn’t leave either. He just stands there, silent and impossibly still, like a stone statue.

Finally, I can’t take the silence any longer, and the words spill out of my mouth before I can stop them. “Did you hear what they’re saying? About the woman the anuroi took?”

He doesn’t respond, but I know he’s listening to me. He doesn’t even blink as he watches me.

I take a deep breath. “They said she’s dead.” The words taste bitter on my tongue. “But they’re wrong. My cousin isn’t dead. I would know if she was.” I press my hand flat against my chest, right over the frantic pounding of my heart.

I haven’t told my friends about Lily. So, I don’t know why I’m telling him now, of all people.

Maybe it’s because I know he won’t pity me.

Vrok doesn’t seem to care about anything.

Not us humans. Not the return of the amoris bonds.

Not anything except training until he drops and stalking around the village like some brooding storm cloud waiting to break.

For a long moment, he says nothing. Just watches me with that cold, steady silver gaze.

Then, finally, he speaks. “If you believe she’s alive, then perhaps she is.”

I let out a heavy sigh. “I just…” My voice cracks. “I can’t lose her. Not her, too.”

When he speaks, his voice is so low I barely hear him. “You won’t.”

His words shouldn’t mean anything. They should feel empty, the kind of thing people say when there’s nothing else to offer. And maybe they are. Maybe he’s just telling me what he thinks I want to hear.

But there’s something about the way he says it, like it’s a vow whispered in the dark.

And for reasons I don’t understand, it calms me. I can feel my heartbeat returning to normal.

Silence stretches between us, broken only by the faint sounds of laughter and drums drifting to us from the center of the village.

The sounds should be a reminder that life continues on even after everything we’ve lost. But out here, in the shadows beyond the firelight, they feel like they come from a completely different world. One I’m not sure I belong to.

“Did you follow me?” I ask finally, breaking the silence.