Page 73 of Unlikely Omega

“Because we don’t know how fast the stream might swell and rise in this gully.”

Getting up, I pace restlessly in the small protected space, then stand on the ledge and try to see out in the rain. “You’re saying we might drown.”

“A small improvement on getting hanged.”

“Not an improvement at all, if you ask me,” I mutter.

“Trust me. You haven’t seen the Summer Capital dungeons.”

“Neither have you.”

“I heard stories, though.” There’s a grin in his voice that’s so incongruous with us running for our lives that I turn back around to try and see it.

“Are you amused by something?”

“I’m not amused.” His grin lingers. “I’m… happy. I don’t remember ever feeling happy before. Ari…”

“You enjoy the idea of dying in various horrible ways?”

“No, I enjoy being with…” His voice hardens and he tilts his head, listening. “What’s that?”

“What?” I don’t make out anything and I want, really want to hear what he has to say, why he’s happy, but through the downpour, something moves.

A silhouette breaks through the wall of rain and steps into our shelter.

Finnen inhales and leaps up. “Drakoryas!”

This is him? The Wildman who attacked the Commander earlier? He’s standing there, dripping rainwater, long pale hair hanging in tangled braids and locks in his face, twining with his long, scraggly beard, his tall, broad-shouldered body clad in wet furs and leather and high boots.

He doesn’t look like an animal—that was how I’d envisioned him—but like a hunter. A savage one, sure, a strange one, but a man nonetheless and…

“Ari. Run!” Finnen steps between me and the savage, and it’s like two sides of a coin, a man and his wild reflection. Where the Drakoryas’ hair is tangled and matted, Finnen’s is pulled back in a neat tail, where the Wildman’s beard is long and filthy, Finnen’s face is bare, where the savage’s clothes are made of patches and bits of various furs and leather haphazardly tied together, Finnen’s clothes are woven and stitched. “I said run! What are you waiting for?”

“I’m not leaving you here!” I cast about for a weapon, anything I can wield against the berserker who seems to be glaring at us through his matted locks. “He’s just one man. We can take him on.”

The Wildman takes another step in, lifting his head and sniffing loudly, and I get a brief impression of wide blue eyes and sharp cheekbones.

Huh.

“You,” I say, stepping around Finnen. “Do you speak the common language? I’m Ariadne, and this is Finnen. We mean you no harm.”

“Ari, dammit!” Finnen snaps, grabbing my arm and hauling me back. “What are you doing? He’s a berserker!”

“He’s a man,” I snap back. “Who says he can’t speak or understand us? Who says I…” I stop, gasp. “Oh, crap.”

Oh. Oh, Goddess. His scent. It’s a punch to my chest, to my senses, a wrench deep inside of me. Pungent spice, pepper-like but with a sweetness to it, nutmeg and thyme and sage, and underneath it I smell bark and pine and resin, warm and gripping.

I choke on a wail as my core cramps. It’s as if with every new delicious scent, my body becomes more aroused and more demanding, as if the scents somehow weave inside of me, working to get me ready for…

For what exactly?

My mind is fogged up and dark, dark like the desire winding through my body.

“Ari.” Finnen’s grip on my arm tightens. His breathing has turned choppy. “Your perfume. I can’t… fucking think…”

Through the haze gripping my body and mind, I see the Wildman advancing on us and I struggle against Finnen’s hold to step forward, meet him halfway. My lungs are full of his scent, but also Finnen’s, and somehow the Commander’s as well, as if he’s also here with us, as if—

“Get the fuck away from her!” a new voice roars. “Don’t you dare touch her!”

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