Page 97 of Vasmora

A shiver jerked her muscles, and she pulled the cloak tighter around her body. “It seems no matter how warm the fire, the cold is relentless.” It wasn’t just the cold settling over her, but likely shock. Adrenaline giving way to whatever aftereffects she was suffering. No different than the times he’d watched Rykaia suffer through withdrawals.

“Would you like me to warm you?” At her nod, he lurched forward before hesitating. Against every fiber of his being, he resisted the urge to smother her in his arms. Instead, he eased back again and raised his palm, sending a radiant heat over her body.

Her eyes shuttered closed, and forehead pressed to her folded arms, she buried her face between bent knees, sighing. “That’s better. Thank you.” Except, when she lifted her head again, her brows were pinched to a frown.

“What is it?” Zevander dared to ask.

She shook her head, and Zevander didn’t press, not even when she rubbed the heel of her hand over the grime on her arm as though trying to rub it off.

Minutes passed in silence, the troubled expression on her face rooting itself.

“Why did you hesitate?” she finally asked.

“What?”

“To warm me yourself. You hesitated.” An angry, red patch of skin bloomed where she scrubbed at that streak of dirt too hard. “You never hesitate.”

He held his tongue, reflecting on her comment. It was true, he’d always moved on instinct rather than emotion. Gut before brain. His own sister had called him a tyrant for years because of it. This was different, though. The way she’d turned away from him when he’d attempted to kiss her, back at Loyce’s, the look of shame and remorse in her eyes—both were all too telling. Too familiar.

After his own time with General Loyce, he, too, had pushed others away. For nearly a century, rejecting anyone who’d ever attempted to get close. The thought of being touched had repulsed him. Until Maevyth came along.

But gods alive, if his touch left her feeling that way, he’d stab his own fucking heart out.

“You’re overthinking things. I can see it in your eyes.” Her voice held the slightest amusement.

“I suppose I’ve always acted impulsively.”

“That’s not true. You’re the most calculated man I know. Precise. You snuck into the home of the most powerful general in all of Solassios to find me.”

“Perhaps the most reckless thing I’ve ever done.”

The corner of her lips twitched. “And yet, both of us got out alive. Because that’s what you do. It’s who you are. You act on instinct. No hesitation.”

“What do you need me to be?” he asked honestly. Desperately.

Her eyes held a shine that didn’t break into tears. “What you’ve always been.”

“What I’ve always been didn’t give you much choice. I’m driven to protect. No matter what.”

“I don’t need choice. I need familiarity. I need—” The shine in her eyes wavered, and she turned away toward the flame, hiding her tears.

He studied her small, frail form that would so easily fit in his arms. Even at the risk of rejection, he longed for it.

Do it. Hold her.

His instincts clawed at him.

Careful not to startle her, he lowered his bent knee and pushed off the wall, but he stilled when footsteps reached his ear, and he turned to see a guard striding toward the cave. Zevander tensed as the masked figure neared, palm ready to cast the first flame, if necessary.

From the entrance, the stranger gave a pat to the razorwolf still standing guard, then pointed to Zevander. “You. Come with me.” The sound of his voice told Zevander it was the same man as before.

Zevander didn’t jump, as commanded, but instead looked back to Maevyth. He rose with deliberate calm and reached out to help her up.

“Not her. Just you.”

Maevyth’s spine snapped straight, gaze flicking between Zevander and the stranger. “Where are you planning to take him?”

“To one of the tents nearby, is all.”