Page 13 of Tharn’s Hunt (Barbarians of the Dust #2)

DON'T CALL IT HEROIC (I'M JUST KEEPING SCORE)

JACQUI

P ain is the first thing I register. A dull, aching throb that pulses through my entire body.

The second is movement. A slow, rhythmic, agonizingly determined lurching.

I blink, my vision swimming. Fucking sand. An endless, rolling sea of it. The sun is a merciless hammer in a bruised yellow sky. And beneath me… the solid, unyielding muscle of Goldi's shoulder.

He’s carrying me. Again.

But this is different. Every step he takes is a visible struggle. His breathing is a harsh, ragged sound in the silence of the desert. The golden glow that usually shimmers under his skin is basically gone. He’s not walking; he's forcing one foot in front of the other through sheer, stubborn will.

He's dying. And he's still carrying me.

"Goldi?" I whisper, my voice a dry crackle.

He doesn't turn his head. Doesn't react. Every ounce of his energy is focused on moving forward.

"Hey," I try again, pushing up with what little strength I have. I'm still weak, still aching. The fever’s left a hollowed-out exhaustion in its place. I manage to shift my position, sliding from his shoulder until I'm looking at his face instead of his ass.

He finally glances at me, and what I see in his eyes makes my own breath catch. Raw pain. Bone-deep weariness. And a fierce, terrifying determination that seems to be the only thing holding him together.

"Put me down," I say, my voice firmer now. I slap his back, the impact jarring but necessary. "I can walk."

He lets out a low growl, a sound of pure refusal, and his arm tightens around my thighs.

"No," I insist, pushing against his chest, trying to create some leverage. "You're going to kill yourself!" In my struggle, my hand slips, my knuckles brushing against the edge of the angry wound on his shoulder.

He flinches violently, a sharp hiss of pain escaping him, but his grip on me doesn't loosen.

"Oh god, I'm sorry," I say, instantly retracting my hand. "Damn it, Goldi, just stop !"

He doesn’t.

I sigh, frustration and a terrifying wave of concern warring within me. Fine. If he won't listen, I'll make him. I start to squirm, to wriggle, to make myself as difficult to carry as possible. It's a pathetic struggle, but it's enough.

With a final, frustrated growl, he reluctantly lowers me to the ground.

The moment my boots touch sand, the world sways violently. I stagger, stars exploding behind my eyes as blood rushes from my head. Goldi’s hand shoots out, steadying me before I can face-plant into the dunes.

"Okay," I admit, clutching his forearm. "Maybe walking was ambitious."

A dry, exhausted huff escapes him, and his gaze fixes on my mouth. It's a look of desperate focus, as if he's trying to read my lips to gauge if I'm about to collapse again.

"Hey, my eyes are up here," I say, the joke falling flat even to my own ears. "You don't have to watch my mouth for a weather report. I'll let you know if I'm going to pass out."

He doesn't respond, of course, just continues that unblinking stare. Then his gaze shifts, scanning the horizon, muscles tensing beneath my hand. Even with his shoulder still clearly bothering him, he's on high alert. The constant vigilance of someone who knows danger is always one heartbeat away.

I take the moment to really look at him.

His skin has lost some of its luster, the golden glow dimmed to a faint shimmer that pulses irregularly.

The wound on his shoulder looks better than it did in the cave, but not by much.

Dark streaks still radiate outward, though they've faded from black to a dull, bruised purple.

His breathing is a shallow, controlled rhythm, but it's the tightness around his eyes that tells the real story. He's in agony.

He's not well. Not at all.

"Hey," I say softly, tapping his arm to get his attention. "We need to stop. You need to rest.”

His eyes flick to mine briefly before returning to scan the horizon. No response.

"Goldilocks," I try again, stepping in front of him to block his path. "You're going to die if you keep this up. And then I'll die. So, for purely selfish reasons, I am ordering you to stop."

He catches my wrist in a gentle grip, the gesture almost absentminded as he continues his surveillance.

When he finally looks back at me, there's a determination in his eyes that brooks no argument.

With careful movements, he lifts me again, this time cradling me in his arms rather than slinging me over his shoulder.

"Oh, come on," I protest, though it's halfhearted at best. "I can walk. Really."

He ignores me, adjusting his hold before resuming his steady pace across the sand. I sigh, resigning myself to being carried. At least this position is more dignified than the previous one.

"Fine," I mutter, laying my head against his chest. I can feel the frantic, shallow beat of his heart. "But just so we're clear, this isn't you being heroic. This is you being a stubborn, thick-skulled idiot. And when we find my sister, I'm telling her you were a terrible patient."

He finally glances down at me. The weariness is still there, but for a moment, it’s overshadowed by a look of profound, searching curiosity. His golden eyes trace the lines of my face as if trying to memorize them, before his gaze lifts back to the horizon.

The look lasts only a heartbeat, but it leaves me feeling strangely breathless.

We travel in silence for what feels like hours.

The sun beats down mercilessly, and even with Goldi's body partially shielding me, sweat soon plasters my hair to my forehead.

I watch him for signs of fatigue, of the infection worsening, but his face remains impassive, his stride steady despite the burden of my weight.

Eventually, the monotony gets to me. "So," I say, "do you come here often? To this charming wasteland of death and despair?"

He glances down at me, brow tightening slightly.

"I'll take that as a yes," I continue. I’m fucking desperate to fill the silence. "Great vacation spot. Love the ambiance. The constant threat of horrible death really adds to the exotic appeal."

His expression doesn't change, but something in his eyes softens. It's subtle. The barest easing of tension. But it makes him look softer somehow. Less like a warrior and more like a ... something else. Something I shouldn’t really focus on.

"You're actually pretty handsome when you're not snarling or, you know, bleeding to death," I muse, then immediately regret the words. Heat floods my cheeks. "Not that I... I mean, obviously you're... God, why am I still talking?"

His brow tightens again, this time in what looks like concern. His pace slows slightly as he shifts his attention fully to me, amber-gold eyes scanning my face with that unsettling intensity.

"I'm fine," I assure him, waving a hand dismissively. "Just babbling. It's what humans do when they're uncomfortable. Or nervous. Or, you know, being carried across an alien desert by a golden god with amazing physique and a shoulder wound."

He doesn't react to the joke. At all. His head tilts, and a low, questioning sound rumbles in his chest. But it's short, sharp, and laced with an edge of something that sounds like a warning.

His golden eyes narrow, scanning my face, my neck, my chest, as if searching for the source of a new injury.

The intensity of his scrutiny makes the heat in my cheeks burn hotter. He clearly doesn't understand my words, but he has sensed the sudden shift in my emotional state. And whatever conclusion he's drawn, it isn't a good one.

As we crest a dune, I notice his glow flickering more noticeably, almost stop-starting beneath his skin. His breath stutters, a barely perceptible hitch that sends alarm bells ringing in my head.

"Hey," I say, suddenly serious. "Put me down. You need to rest."

He ignores me, his jaw set in stubborn determination as he continues forward. The flickering intensifies, his breathing growing more labored with each step.

"Goldilocks," I insist, pushing against his chest. "Stop. Please."

Nothing. He just keeps moving, his eyes fixed on some distant point I can't see.

Frustration builds in my chest. How am I supposed to communicate with someone who won't listen and can't understand me? I need this damn translator to work. I need...

I reach up to check if the device is still snug in my ear. It is. The small metallic curve has molded perfectly to fit my ear as if I was born with it. So why isn't it working? It should be translating his language, his gestures, something .

I tap it gently, wondering if it's malfunctioned. Maybe damaged in the fall, or when we crashed here. Hell, maybe alien tech just isn't compatible with whatever Goldilocks is.

I'm about to demand he put me down again when I hear him murmur something. The sound is so faint I almost miss it, a whisper carried away by the desert wind.

"... need more firebloom ..."

I freeze, eyes wide. Wait. What? I just heard him speak. In English. Clear as day.

But his lips didn't move.

I tap my translator frantically, suddenly unsure of what's happening. "What did you just say?"

He glances down at me, doesn’t respond, but at least he isn’t wincing anymore when I talk.

"You just said something," I insist, pointing to his mouth. "About firebloom. I heard you."

His expression shifts to something I can't read. Surprise? Alarm? Hope?

Am I losing my mind? Did I imagine it? No. No, I definitely heard him. But if his lips didn't move...

Oh God. It was in my head. The voice was in my head.

I tap the translator again, harder this time, as if that might fix whatever reality glitch is happening. "This can't be... I'm not..."

" Jah-kee ."

There it is again. His voice. But not in my ears—in my mind. Like when I was fevered and delirious, when I thought we were having conversations.

But I'm not delirious now. I'm clear-headed, conscious, fully aware.