Page 58 of Fated in A Time of War
He doesn’t answer, just grits his teeth, pressing a clawed hand to his thigh where the blade still juts out obscenely.
I stumble to him, knees threatening to buckle. My hands move before my mind catches up, automatic, healer’s instinct overriding everything else. I drop my blade, yank open the med-pack strapped at my side. My fingers fumble, slick, but they find the med patch—a thick square of gel and nano-mesh designed to seal flesh in seconds.
“Hold still,” I breathe.
He snorts, low and bitter. “I’m not going anywhere.”
It almost sounds like a joke, but his voice is frayed at the edges, ragged.
I press the patch against the wound. He jerks, a growl ripping out of him, sharp and raw. His hand clenches the pillar hard enough to leave gouges.
“Easy, easy,” I whisper, but my voice cracks. My hands won’t stop shaking.
The gel activates, hissing, burning faintly under my fingers. His blood steams, sealing shut with a chemical tang that makes my eyes sting. His breathing stutters, catches, then steadies.
I meet his gaze. His eyes are molten, burning, but not with rage. Something else. Something worse.
“You should’ve run,” he says, voice low.
“Don’t you dare,” I snap, sharper than I mean to. My throat is tight, tears pricking though I refuse to let them fall. “Don’t you dare tell me to leave you. Not after all this. Not after?—”
My words catch. The memory of his mouth on mine, his body against mine, burns too hot in my chest. I swallow hard. “Not afterlast night.”
His expression flickers, something unreadable passing through it. But he doesn’t argue. Doesn’t push. Just leans heavier against the pillar, letting me hold him up while my hands shake over his blood.
The silence between us hums, heavy, alive.
Finally, I whisper, “You’re not allowed to die. Not here. Not like this. You hear me?”
His gaze holds mine, steady despite the pain. “Then don’t let me.”
And I swear to every broken god and dead star above us—I won’t.
I press the med patch harder than I should, fingers slick with blood and trembling so badly I can barely keep them steady. His jaw tightens, fangs showing in the faint light, but he doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t snarl. Doesn’t tell me to stop. He just breathes through it—each exhale ragged, deep, molten with pain.
And somewhere in that ragged breathing, our faces draw closer. I can feel the heat of him, smell the iron tang of his blood mixed with the dust of crumbling concrete. His scales brush my knuckles, hot and alive, and for a heartbeat I forget the scavengers, the bodies cooling on the floor, the box behind me holding the only hope for a camp full of dying people.
All I see is him.
I search his eyes, hunting for the frost I’ve seen there before—the soldier who bound me in silence, who glared at me like I was nothing but a liability. An enemy. A threat.
But there’s none of that now.
Only exhaustion. The kind that sits deep, marrow-deep, heavier than armor. And something else—something he’d never admit, something he’s probably choking on just trying to keep buried.
Something that feels an awful lot like love.
My throat tightens. I want to say it. The words claw at my chest, burning to get out. But I don’t. Because saying them would make it real, and real is dangerous. Real gets you killed.
So I swallow them, choke them back, and settle for silence.
Instead, I shift, reaching past him for the case. My fingers brush the cold metal latch, but before I can pull it toward me, his hand covers mine. Heavy. Warm. Steady.
I freeze.
It’s not restraint. Not command. Not even a soldier’s instinct to control. It’s… something else.
His claws don’t dig in. His grip isn’t tight. It lingers, that’s all. Just rests there, solid and sure, like he’s anchoring me to the ground. Like if he lets go, I’ll float away into the ash.
