Page 54 of Hunted By the Wraiths
“I was bored.” She finally looked at me, and her expression shifted. “You’re vertical.”
“Solren ran out of threats.”
“Doubt that.” She moved toward me, stopping just out of reach. Studying me. “You look...”
“Devastatingly attractive?”
“I was going to say ‘less like death warmed over,’ but sure.” Her hand lifted, hesitated. “Can I?—?”
“Maris.” I caught her hand, placed it against my chest. Right over the scales that used to lock and scream. They stayed perfectly emerald under her touch. “No more pain.”
She pressed harder, like she was testing. The bond sang between us, nothing but warmth and want and her particular brand of exhausted affection.
“No more pain,” she repeated. Then, quieter: “Took us long enough.”
“Nine years, eight months, and approximately fifteen days. But who’s counting?”
“You are, apparently.”
“I had a lot of time to think.” I pulled her closer. She came willingly, fitting against me in that way that still felt like coming home. “Eight years in a cell gives you plenty of time for math.”
“Your math is terrible.”
“Your face is terrible.”
She laughed, and I felt it resonate in my chest. Her relief. Deep, bone-deep relief that we were here, alive, together, and whole. Or as whole as two broken people could be.
“Your quarters or mine?” she asked.
“Yours are bigger.”
“Yours don’t smell like Zevik’s cologne from when he was hiding from Jessa.”
“Why was he—never mind. Yours it is.”
Her quarters were bigger. Slightly. The Raptor wasn’t built for luxury, but Maris had somehow negotiated for the executive officer’s cabin. It had an actual bed instead of a fold-down bunk. A desk. A viewport. Almost civilized.
She locked the door behind us. Not that anyone would interrupt—the crew had learned to give us space—but the gesture mattered. This was ours. Private.
“How do you feel?” she asked. “Really.”
I considered lying. Saying I was fine. But she’d know. And besides, we were past lies.
“Like I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop,” I admitted. “Eight years of pain, then that hellish fight to get to us, then a week of healing... and now... nothing. No pain. No crisis. No one actively trying to kill us. It feels wrong.”
“I know.” She sat on the bed, started pulling off her boots. “I keep checking the door. Counting exits. Waiting for someone to kick it down.”
“But no one’s coming.”
“No one’s coming.” She looked up at me. “We’re safe, Thoryn. Actually safe. At least for now.”
Safe. The word felt foreign. When was the last time either of us had been safe? Before my capture? Before her empire? Maybe never.
I sat beside her, the bed dipping under my weight. “So what do we do with safe?”
She turned to face me, and there was something in her eyes I hadn’t seen before. Not desperation. Not grief. Not even the sharp edge of survival. Just... want. Simple, uncomplicated want.
“We enjoy it,” she said, and kissed me.
