Page 35 of Burdened Bonds
“Towards us,” I say with alarm. “Do you think they saw our fire?”
Renzo scoops Pip up in one arm and grabs my upper arm with his free hand, his fingers tight and firm and causing electricity to dart across my skin despite our current proximity to danger.
“I can kill them,” he whispers, “or we can hide, little rabbit. Your choice.”
“Hide!” I tell him. “We don’t even know who they are. They may be no threat to us at all. We can’t just kill them.”
Renzo huffs in frustration like a kid who’s just been told he can’t play with his ball, then drags me along behind him. For such a large man, he moves silently, barely making a noise as we tread over dead leaves and branches and further into the forest.
“They’re still coming,” I hiss at him, peering over my shoulder and through the darkness, trying to make out who the hell is following us.
Renzo picks up his pace and drags me down to crouch behind a bush. It’s lost its leaves with the coming winter and it doesn’t shield us as well as it could, but in the darkness it should do.
We wait and soon we hear the snapping of branches, the rustling of leaves, then the whispered voices of people. I strain my eyes, trying to make out who it is out here in the woods.
Renzo bristles beside me as they come into view, his entire body is tense, his magic straining to be released in the air around me.
I rest my hand on his wrist, hoping to convey to him that we should stay still, not attack. His body relaxes ever soslightly and I can feel the thump of his pulse beneath his skin, the fine bones and taut sinew.
I brush the pad of my thumb over the veins that run beneath the surface of his skin as I watch the people emerge from the gloom. Not soldiers, people. Two, maybe three, families, I’m guessing. Three women, one man, a gaggle of children. All of them carry bags on their backs or their shoulders, wrapped up in warm winter coats, scarves and hats. The children whisper nervously among one another, their hands clasped in each other’s, while the adults swing their gaze through the trees, backward and forward, searching for danger.
I hold my breath. I don’t think they’re any threat to us – in fact Renzo is probably far more of one to them than they are to us – but they’re mere feet away and I’d rather not take the risk.
The man whispers to one of the women and they peer in our direction, my eyes almost locking with the woman’s through the branches of the bush. But then she points to the south and they trudge off in that direction.
When they’re far enough away, I release my breath, but I hang on to Renzo’s arm until the families are lost in the dark.
Then I turn to him.
“I don’t think they were searching for us. I think they were fleeing the fighting.”
His eyes are fixed on my face, so intense my cheeks heat in the cold air. Then slowly his gaze falls to where my hand clasps his wrist. The electricity, passing through our skin, crackles so loud I swear I can hear it and my bond hums in response, his magic brushing up against mine and making every nerve in my body hum too. I go to snatch my hand away, but he captures it, holding it in place.
“Don’t let go,” he whispers, “it feels so good, little rabbit.”
And I shouldn’t obey his order. I should zap him instead and pull my hand away. Yet, it does feel good, so good.
He strokes my knuckles with the calloused pads of his fingers – rough yet soft, soft yet rough. A sigh escapes my throat.
“Touch me more,” he says with a growl that should frighten me. He’s like a wild animal. Not one I can tame. If I touch him like he asks, I risk losing a finger, risk losing my throat. “P-p-p-please,” he adds and I wonder if he’s ever used that word before in his life.
I lift my other hand slowly through the cold air, so cold it nips at my nose and my toes, lift it up towards his face. He stops breathing and stares into my eyes and I remember the first time we met, when he bound me with his magic and looking into his eyes had felt like falling. I experience it all over again, the ground disappearing beneath me and my body falling, falling, falling.
He swallows, the lump in his tattooed neck rising and falling too.
What the hell am I doing?I think as I reach closer, nearer, feeling the heat of his skin before I touch his cheek. Rough and soft. Soft and rough. Beneath my fingertips. I wait. Wait for the attack, for the pounce, for the strike, and when none comes, I stroke my fingers along the groove of the scar that marks his cheek, feeling where the flesh split open and weaved back together, thinking how clever that is, cleverer than any magic, our bodies knowing what to do without us asking, my fingers stroking over his cheekbone, knowing they should, following the pull of my bond and not my commands.
His eyelids drift shut and the pulse in his wrist flutters.
I follow the curve of his cheekbone to the edge of his face, following it down to the edge of his jaw, the skin here sharp with stubble. I let my fingers crackle through it, pinching his chin like he’d done mine, staring at his lips.
I want to kiss him and the idea both excites and disgusts me. How can I want to kiss a murderer? How can I want to press my mouth to a man who’s stolen the breath of so many? Why do I want to touch him at all?
My bond spirals in my stomach, but it’s not the only sensation residing there, there’s nausea too.
I go to pull my hand away, but then he says:
“No one’s touched me like this before.”
