Page 31 of Chained to the Horned God
She chews slow, methodical. Then she takes the meat when I nudge it toward her. Her eyes flick up, meeting mine.
I don’t speak. Neither does she.
The silence between us is thick—not awkward, not empty. It’s full of the things we don’t dare name. The touch of her lips on my throat still lingers, even days later. The way she looked at me that night like I was something sacred, not a monster in chains. The way I touched her back like a prayer I wasn’t allowed to say out loud.
I don’t know what to call this thing between us. It isn’t lust. It isn’t love. It’s some raw, bleeding thing that we cradle between us and pretend not to see.
“You didn’t sleep,” she says softly, tearing the meat in half before handing me my portion.
“I watched you,” I answer.
She gives me a look—one brow raised.
“Not in a creepy way,” I add. “Just... made sure you were breathing.”
She laughs, short and dry. “You think I’m gonna die in my sleep?”
“I don’t take chances.”
She finishes chewing before responding. “You’re sweet.”
“Don’t say that out loud,” I mutter. “Ruins my reputation.”
She nudges my knee with hers. “Too late.”
We finish the meal in companionable silence. She leans back against the wall beside me, her shoulder brushing mine. I let it stay there. Her warmth seeps through my skin and into my bones like medicine I didn’t know I needed.
“I hate it here,” she murmurs.
“I know.”
“I hate that I’ve gotten used to it.”
“Me too.”
She sighs. “Sometimes I pretend I’m somewhere else. Just for a second. Somewhere with snow. Or fields. Somewhere clean.”
“Milthar’s cliffs,” I say. “Where the wind cuts so clean you feel it in your teeth.”
She closes her eyes. “That sounds good.”
“Better with a fire. And whiskey. And no screaming.”
“No chains,” she adds.
“No arenas.”
We sit with the fantasy for a while. I think she knows I’m building it just for her. I think she’s letting me.
Later, when the guards come pounding on the gate, I stand first. My back still aches from the serpent fight, and my legs are stiff from sleeping on stone. She rises beside me.
“Don’t die today,” she says.
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I say. “You still owe me a story about the time you set your kitchen on fire.”
She smirks. “I was five.”
“Still counts.”
