Elena woke to a different kind of quiet.
Not the fever-hazed stillness of days before.Not the crackling tension of Soren refusing to leave her side.
But the soft murmur of a camp preparing to move.
She pushed herself upright—slowly, carefully—and blinked at the world around her.
She felt… better.
Not good. Not normal. Her ribs still ached. Her wrists were sore and scabbed. Every large movement felt like a negotiation with her own skeleton.
But she was upright. Awake. Clear.
Progress.
Soren noticed immediately—because of course he did.
He stood near the tent opening, speaking quietly with Kael. The morning light cut across his profile, all sharp lines and shadow, and Elena's entire autonomic nervous system staged a small protest demonstration.
He looked at her.
Stopped speaking. Stopped moving. Just… looked.
"Elena." Relief warmed his voice in a way she was absolutely not equipped to handle before breakfast. "You're steady on your feet."
"Barely," she admitted. "But I'm calling it a victory."
Kael nodded respectfully, though his expression carried unmistakable fondness—the quiet, unspoken kind he reserved only for Soren and, somehow now, for her.
Soren approached her with a softness that contrasted sharply with the lethal force he'd used to destroy an entire outpost days before.
"We ride for the citadel," he said. "If you feel well enough."
She took a breath. Her ribs complained but did not rebel.
"I'm ready."
"Good." His gaze swept over her—clinical, assessing. "But you will not ride alone."
"I assumed," she said dryly, "since I have approximately zero horsemanship training."
Soren's lips threatened to curve. Kael outright smothered a smile.
Elena narrowed her eyes. "Oh, go ahead. Laugh at the woman who grew up with public transportation."
Kael coughed to hide a laugh.
Soren didn't bother hiding his.
The camp bustled with movement. Sentinels tightened saddles. Horses stamped clouds of white breath into the cold air. The men were all impossibly fit, competent, carved from the same granite as the mountains—Elena's brain decided this was unfair and filed a complaint.
She tried to approach one of the horses confidently.
The horse snorted.
She held up her hands. "Okay. Rude."
Soren appeared behind her, silent as always.
"You're intimidated," he murmured.
"No," she lied. "I'm respecting the animal."
"It is sensing your fear."
"I am NOT—okay, fine, yes a little—stop looking so smug."
He stepped closer, heat radiating from him like a second cloak.
"This one is gentle," he said, laying a palm on the dark stallion's flank. "He won't hurt you."
"You say that," she muttered, "but everything in this realm tries to injure me at least once."
He turned to her. "Not this."
Not me. He didn't say it, but the implication threaded between them.
Soren mounted first, movements smooth and controlled. Then he held out a hand.
"Come."
Her pulse jumped. "I can—probably—get on by myself."
He said nothing.
Just waited.
Well. Fine. She took his hand.
He pulled her up as though she weighed nothing. Elena made a small, undignified noise she pretended she didn't make.
Once she was seated in front of him, the situation became very clear:
There was no space. None.Physical proximity had been outlawed in her brain for days and now here she was—
Pressed against a wall of armor and muscle.
Soren's arms slid around her as he took the reins.
Her brain: ERROR.
Her entire spine: SIREN NOISES.
"Comfortable?" he asked, voice low near her ear.
She swallowed. Twice. "Define comfortable."
"Safe," he murmured.
"Oh." Her breath softened. "Yes. That."
One of the Sentinels rode past—one of the Abercrombie-model-looking ones—and nodded respectfully to both of them.
Elena sank lower against Soren's chest. "Fantastic. Now the incredibly attractive death squad gets to watch me panic on a horse."
"They admire your resilience," Soren said.
"Is that what we're calling it?"
"You survived abduction, interrogation, and three cracked ribs," he said simply. "Yes. They respect you."
Her chest tightened—not from pain this time.
"That's… nice," she whispered.
Soren's arms tightened imperceptibly. "They would die for you."
"Oh." She blinked. "Wait. That escalated—"
He leaned in, his breath brushing her cheek. "I would kill for you."
Her heart stopped. Just—ceased all operations.
The Sentinels began to move. Soren nudged the horse forward.
Soren shifted behind her, settling his legs next to hers, his chest pressing to her back in a way that made her lungs forget their job entirely.
Heat rolled off him. Solid. Unyielding. Every breath he exhaled moved through her like a slow, deliberate stroke. Her thoughts derailed. Completely.
"Soren," she whispered, trying desperately to sound normal and failing. "You can't just—say things like that when I'm… like this."
His mouth dipped closer to her ear—not touching, but close enough to inflame her entire bloodstream.
"Why not?" he murmured.
Because you are a furnace made of muscle and darkness and I am one bad decision away from asking you to ruin my life.
"Because my ribs…" she managed, voice thin, "can't survive the emotional whiplash."
He hummed—low, deep, amused—and the vibration traveled through his chest into her spine, straight down, shattering whatever composure she'd scraped together.
"Elena," he murmured, tone shifting into something wicked and unbearably controlled, "if this is too much, tell me."
God. The way he said too much.
But then—his arms tightened to guide her posture, drawing her closer against him, and she felt it—
A subtle, unmistakable hardness pressing to the curve of her lower back as their bodies aligned in the saddle.
Her breath hitched. Mortifyingly loud.
Soren stilled, just for a fraction of a second.
Not ashamed. Not surprised.
Aware. Very aware.
His voice came quieter, rougher.
"Hold the pommel," he said, though his arms never loosened. "I don't want you falling."
Well, too late—she was already falling. Just not off the horse.
Her face burned; her entire body felt like a wire pulled too tight.
She gripped the pommel with shaking fingers.
The Sentinels began to move.Soren nudged the horse forward—
And his arm lowered across her waist, steadying her, possessive in a way that sent a deep, unholy thrill curling low in her belly.
She swallowed hard.
This man was dangerous.
And not just in the sword-and-shadow way.
She would absolutely not survive this ride with her dignity intact.