Page 69 of The First Scar
His head tilted. Listening.
I forced my embarrassment down, straining to hear past the blood rushing in my ears.
Then I caught it. The heavy, rhythmic crunch of iron-shod boots on stone. Not one pair. Not two.
A squad.
"Sweep," Eryndor whispered. "Move."
He didn't wait for agreement. He caught my arm andhauled, dragging me toward the collapsed skeleton of a market stall just as the first lantern beam sliced through the fog.
The alcove was a coffin with pretensions.
We'd crashed into it gracelessly—my hip cracking against rubble, his shoulder slamming the back wall hard enough to shake loose a rain of plaster dust. I wedged myself sideways, one eye on the street, the other on the black mouth of the alley behind us.
Not ideal. But I could see both angles. I could manage.
The boots grew louder. Closer. Voices now—Enforcer commands, clipped and professional. The sweep was thorough. They were checking every shadow, every alcove, every hiding spot that might shelter a rebel or a fugitive.
"I have this side, little fox," Eryndor murmured and gripped my hips, firmly rotating me forward until I faced the street. In the same motion he stepped behind me, filling the space my body had just vacated—the broad mass of him sealing the gap at my back.
My jaw clenched so hard my teeth hurt.
He'd taken the angle. Taken my sight line. Replaced it with the wall of his chest and was close enough that I could feel his ribs expand with each controlled inhale.
The audacity. The sheer, unbearable arrogance of it.
But Eryndor waseverywhere. His breath warm on my hair, his fingers dug into my waist, and the length of him pressed up against my ass. My throat suddenly went very dry.
The marks pulsed once—a single, hungry pull toward the heat of him—and I bit down on the inside of my cheek until I tasted hot iron.
Half my brain screamed to turn around and sink my fangs into his neck so I could feel the flesh give way, the other half told me to shove him aside. Reclaim the angle he'd stolen and prove I didn't need his protection or his competence or his gods-damned sufficiency.
But the boots were closer now. Twenty feet. Fifteen. A lantern beam swept past our hiding spot, missing us by inches.
Hesitation would get us killed.
I forced my gaze forward. Forced my body to still. Forced myself to watch the street and trust that he would watch the alley at my back.
For this moment, in this suffocating dark, it would have to be enough.
The sweep passed. The boots faded. The lantern beams swept on to other shadows, other hiding spots, other prey.
Neither of us moved for a long moment. Neither of us spoke. Every breath that caressed my neck felt like a temptation cracking the foundation of my resolve. His fingers dug deeper and I involuntarily pressed my ass into him harder.
Eryndor let a deep moan slip before he cut it off and released me. Suddenly there was air between us again—thin and biting, smelling of spent charcoal.
I scrambled out of the alcove before he could offer a hand, cheeks burning and knees wobbling in a way no self-respecting warrior should ever admit to.
I side-eyed him but he said nothing. Just brushed debris from his pants, and continued down the street like the last ten minutes had been nothing more than a minor inconvenience.
I followed.
Three blocks. Four. His stride was unhurried—the walk of a man who knew exactly where he was going—and I matched it without thinking. I let his silhouette carve the path while I scanned the side streets, covering flanks he'd left open for me as if we'd run night patrols together for years.
I didn't realize that I was doing this until we turned the fifth corner and my feet followed his without my eyes ever checking the route.
I stopped dead.
