Page 34 of Tharn’s Hunt (Barbarians of the Dust #2)

But I don't need words. Action will speak for itself.

I grab his wrist, ignoring the way he jolts at the contact, and tug urgently in the direction I came from. " Please ," I say again, pouring every ounce of desperation into my voice. "You have to follow me."

For a terrifying moment, I think he's going to refuse. But then he tilts his head in a way that seems like affirmation, a sharp, decisive movement, and gestures for me to lead the way.

Relief floods me so completely my legs nearly buckle. But the sand is already flying beneath my boots as I spin and sprint back toward the others, the bronze hunter shadowing my every step.

The dune fights us. Every stride feels like wading through water. Twice I nearly fall, catching myself on hands already raw from digging. Beside me, the hunter clicks something—whether encouragement or impatience, I can’t tell.

The world tilts as we finally crest the rise. Below, Rok’s massive form is half-buried in the shifting sand, still clawing desperately at the ground. Justine kneels nearby, her injured leg stretched out as she digs with bare hands.

"HURRY!" I scream, but my voice is lost in the expanse.

The hunter takes in the scene with one swift glance, and something like recognition flashes in his crimson eyes. Without hesitation, he leaves me behind as he sprints toward Rok.

Rok doesn’t even look up as he arrives, and I realize they’re probably communicating in the mindspace. The newcomer drops to his knees, then they’re both digging furiously, their powerful arms throwing sand aside with renewed purpose.

I stagger down the dune, my legs shaking with exhaustion, and drop to my knees beside Justine. Her face is grey with pain, her makeshift poultice soaked through with blood.

"You made it," she whispers, her voice weak. "And apparently…you found…” She glances at the male, her gaze zoning out in that way that tells me they’re communicating. “Sarven."

I swallow hard. “Friend?”

Justine nods, deep breaths coming from her chest. “Friend.”

The sand shifts violently beneath us, another of those vibrating hisses reaching us through the ground. Both aliens dig faster, their movements becoming frantic.

Suddenly, the bronze hunter lunges forward, plunging his entire upper body into the sand. His legs brace against the ground as he strains, pulling at something beneath the surface.

Rok grabs the hunter around the waist, adding his strength to the effort. For a moment, nothing happens. Then, with a spray of sand and another ear-rending hiss, they heave backward.

And Tharn's head and shoulders break the surface.

"THARN!" I'm scrambling forward before I know I'm moving, my heart in my throat.

He looks terrible—covered in sand, his golden skin dulled to a sickly brown, his eyes closed. For one horrifying moment, I think we're too late.

Then he coughs, a violent spasm that sends sand spraying from his mouth. His eyes fly open, wild and disoriented, his claws flexing weakly as Rok and the bronze hunter drag him fully from the sand.

He's alive. Somehow, impossibly, he's alive.

I fall to my knees beside him, my hands shaking as they hover over his sand-caked skin. I can't seem to touch him, as if he might be a mirage that will vanish. "You're okay," I whisper, but the words are more of a question than a statement. "You're okay. You're okay."

His eyes focus slowly, finding mine with visible effort. "Jah-kee," he rasps. "Saaafe?"

A sob escapes me, half-laugh, half-cry. "Am I safe? Y-you're asking if I'm safe?” Tears stream down my face, feeling wet and sticky.

At the sight, Tharn tries to sit up, but his body seems to rebel, a violent tremor running through his massive frame.

“I’m fine.” I sob-laugh. “You saved me.”

Tharn collapses backward, eyes on me and only me. One arm trembles as it reaches toward me, and I grab his big fist, curling my fingers into his as I press his hand against my chest.

“Sa—fe,” he grunts again.

Safe. I’m safe. Because of him.

Before I can say anything more, movement catches my eye. Figures appear on the distant dune, their silhouettes sharp against the harsh sunlight. A half dozen hunters, their golden skin gleaming like molten metal, sprint down the dune toward us with effortless speed.

They move as one, their steps synchronized, their focus unyielding. Even from this distance, I can feel the weight of their presence. A primal energy that seems to hum through the air as they approach.

Sarven straightens beside Rok, his crimson eyes flickering as silent communication passes between the hunters. But my attention snags on Rok.

His massive hands hover over Jus-teen’s injured leg, close enough to feel the heat radiating from her wound but not touching.

It’s as if he fears breaking her further.

His nostrils flare, his chest rising with a sharp inhale, but the sound that escapes him is pained.

A low rumble that makes the hairs on my arms rise.

The glow beneath his skin dims and brightens, dims and brightens, pulsing erratically like a struggling flame.

Jus-teen reaches up before he can move. She cups his jaw, her thumb brushing the ridge below his eye—once, twice—a gesture so tender it makes my throat tighten. The moment feels too intimate to watch, but I can’t look away.

Rok goes utterly still. The tension in his massive frame holds, his claws flexing against the sand. Then, with aching slowness, he leans forward and presses his forehead to hers.

His claws dig into the sand, carving furrows as he fights to steady his breathing.

No words. None needed.

When they part, Jus-teen’s tears glisten on her cheeks—and on his.

The hunters reach the edge where we rest, their movements slowing as their attention shifts. Their eyes sweep over the scene, taking in everything: Jus-teen in Rok’s arms, Sarven, Tharn, me.

But it’s not Rok or Tharn that seems to hold their focus.

It’s us.

Me. Jus-teen.

The newcomers’ gazes linger on us longer than feels comfortable, their stares sharp and assessing.

My skin prickles, a strange heat rushing to my cheeks under their scrutiny.

There’s no hostility, but there’s something else.

Curiosity? Oh God… anticipation? I can’t tell, and that only makes it worse.

One of them tilts his head slightly, his nostrils flaring. Another’s claws twitch at his sides.

And that’s when I notice something strange.

Rok and Tharn are the only ones glowing.

The golden light beneath their skin is unmistakable, pulsing in time with their breathing.

Two of the larger males move toward Tharn. He snarls, a sound that sends a shiver down my spine, his claws slashing the air in warning.

Even now, blood streaking his golden skin, he rises…and reaches for me. His breath comes in ragged heaves, his muscles trembling with exhaustion, but his arms lock around me before anyone else can touch me.

" Tharn —" My voice cracks.

He doesn’t listen. Just lifts me against his chest with a pained growl, his grip iron-tight.

I don’t fight him. Can’t . Not when his wounds weep fresh blood with every step. Not when his heartbeat thunders against my ear, too fast, too wrong.

I see another hunter approach us. Tharn doesn’t acknowledge him. Just adjusts his hold on me and limps forward.

Behind us, the hunters haul the serpent’s corpse from the dunes.

Sunlight glints off its segmented plates, casting jagged reflections across the sand.

The sight should be triumphant. But all I can hear is the way Tharn’s breath whistles through his teeth.

The way his muscles tremble with each step, as if he’s dragging the weight of the desert itself.

And me?

I press my face into his neck and let the tears come.