Her Heat was returning.
It seeped in slowly, the way warmth spreads through metal after a forge fire. She could feel everything again: the air against the down of her ears, the faint shimmer of light through her antlers, the whisper of fabric when she moved. Even the sound of Mallow’s boots outside made her stomach twist in sweet anticipation. For two days she’d been dulled, muted, her edges softened by the tincture. Now the quiet was gone, and the nearness of him, even imagined, made her dizzy.
She hadn’t realized how much she’d missed this. The world felt alive again, and she with it.
By the time they left the village, she was trembling with that strange joy, the edge of that rare and glorious hunger.
Morgan Balthir’s men were preparing to head upriver, toward the next settlement. When Mallow offered to guard their carts in exchange for a ride, the captain agreed easily.
The cart was half-covered with canvas, its edges drawn low against the wind. Inside, the light came in through the seams in thin, silvery stripes that cut across the wooden floorboards. It smelled of grain and oiled leather, and the slow groan of the wheels turned beneath them.
Lain sat close beside Mallow on the narrow bench, their knees nearly touching in the cramped space. Two of Balthir’s men rode on the front board, talking low and lazy to the driver. Beyond the flap, the valley rolled past in the muted colors of snowmelt and pine.
The Heat brightened like wine left too long in the sun. Every breath came heavy. Every shift of her cloak seemed to stroke her body raw.
They hadn’t spoken much that morning. The silence was easy at first, until the road narrowed and the noise of the wheels filled it instead.
After a while, Lain said quietly, “Do you hate me?”
Mallow looked over, caught off guard. “What?”
“After the village,” she said. “After what we saw. You said my songs moved the storms. If that was true, then I –” she stopped herself. “Do you hate me for it?”
He was quiet for a long time. The cart rattled on. Then, finally, he said, “It’s not you I hate.”
She risked a glance at him. “Then who?”
“The Dagorlind,” he said simply. “The ones who taught you to sing without ever telling you what it cost.”
She sat with that, her hands folded in her lap, the words heavy but not cruel. She was Dagorlind. If he hated them, he hated her, surely.
Outside, the wind caught the canvas, filling it like a sail.
After a moment, his voice softened. “That farmer yesterday. The one you saved from the river.”
She nodded faintly.
“You didn’t hesitate,” he said. “Didn’t think about who deserved saving. You just acted.” He let out a slow breath. “That’s the only part that matters to me.”
Lain didn’t know how to respond. The road blurred in the light, the motion of the cart rocking her forward slightly. When she finally spoke, her voice was quiet. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me. Just keep proving me right.”
When the cart lurched over a rut, Mallow caught himself against the wall, his arm grazing hers. His sleeve had fallen back, his hand bare. The skin of his wrist brushed her knuckles.
The touch was nothing. It shouldn’t have been anything. But the air changed when it happened, sweetening as though the world leaned closer to listen.
He froze. Then, slowly, his fingers spread, uncertain, just brushing against hers again.
Lain’s breath faltered. The Heat inside her uncoiled, greedy for that single point of contact. Her pulse jumped, hard enough that she swore he must have felt it.
His thumb traced her knuckles once, sending a shiver all the way up her arm.
He turned his head toward her, close enough that the edge of his cheek grazed her temple. “Lain,” he said quietly, and there was warning in it, but not conviction.
She kept her gaze forward. “Don’t,” she whispered. She didn’t know whether she meant don’t stop or don’t tempt me.
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He exhaled through his nose, a sound caught between a laugh and a curse. His fingers brushed hers again, and then with torturous slowness he eased his hand atop hers. He slid his calloused fingers between her knuckles until her fingers parted for him.
It was a strike of flint. The sensation careened through her, the edges of her vision brightening as she felt his emotions tumble through the bond – conflict, excitement, guilt, a keening want. Her mouth filled as if she were tasting something as forbidden as raspberries. Every inch of her awareness narrowed to where their hands met.
Mallow’s breath caught audibly. His fingers gripped down, once, testing. The Heat poured through that touch, gathering strength like water finding its course. He made a low sound, more exhale than voice. His hand tightened on hers, and the warmth of it made her legs tremble.
Lain swallowed hard. She couldn’t speak. The closeness was unbearable in the small, dark space, the sound of his breathing against her ear, the press of his thigh against her own as the cart swayed. She did not know what he was thinking, but she could feel through his Tuning what he felt, an ache, a pull, restraint. She wanted him to move, to slide his hand up her arm, to do anything that wasn’t this exquisite stillness. But he didn’t. He just sat there, hand locked over hers, palm flexing atop her hand, their bodies barely touching yet caught in something more intimate than words.
“Lain,” he said at last, her name rasping like it hurt to say.
She turned toward him slightly. She could see the fine line of stubble along his jaw, the hollow at the base of his throat. She resisted a sudden and inexplicable urge to bite him. “Yes?”
He hesitated. His thumb traced the inside of her wrist once, twice, before he stopped himself. “You can’t keep doing this,” he murmured.
“Doing what?” Her voice came out too soft.
“Whatever this is,” he said. “You don’t know what it does to me.”
But she did. Of course she did.
His hand was still holding hers, tighter now. He wasn’t letting go.
His hip flexed beside her, his face turning again to whisper. “Does this… help?”
No, she thought. No, it just made her want more, made her desperate for his grip to deepen, made her imagine him sliding her cowl back and kissing her before laying teeth to her ear, before twining that hand into her tines and pulling her forward –
“Yes,” she muttered.
She wondered if he knew she was lying. As long as he held fast, she didn’t care.
For an impossibly long moment they rode like that, her blood singing along with the wheels, the sky widening to pale silver behind the flap.
One of the soldiers at the front began to whistle a tavern tune, and the sound carried thinly through the cold air.
When Mallow finally pulled his hand away, it was with a kind of careful violence, as if it cost him something to let go. Cold air rushed into the space between them.
Lain exhaled shakily. Her whole body ached from the loss of contact.
He stared forward again, jaw set. “Saints preserve us.”
She turned her face toward the canvas wall, hiding her expression. Her fingers still tingled. The warmth lingered.
Outside, the road curved north, the wind gathering along the cliffs. But inside the cart, the silence pressed close, heavy as a held breath.
They stopped at midday where the road widened beside a half-frozen stream. The other carts had pulled off into the clearing, and Balthir’s men gathered wood for a quick fire. Mallow dismounted without a word.
He said he’d stand guard, but Lain could tell it wasn’t caution that kept him apart, it was restraint. He lingered near the edge of the trees, arms folded, eyes fixed on the distant ridge. His posture was easy, practiced, but his energy was all wrong, taut and still.
When one of the soldiers passed him a hunk of bread, he took it absently, gaze flicking once toward the cart where she sat before dropping away again. Even at that distance, she could see the brightness in his eyes, the faint tension at his jaw.
He was fighting it.
She turned away, pretending to study the water where ice clung to the reeds. The sunlight struck her face, warming, and the sensation made her sigh, soft and involuntary.
They rode on after, the road curling higher through the foothills. The day had turned gold, wind combing through the pines as the sun slipped toward the horizon. The cart swayed gently, each jolt stirring something in her belly.
Mallow climbed back up beside her, his cloak drawn close, his hands tucked into his sleeves. He didn’t speak, didn’t look at her. The space between them hummed like a wire drawn too tight.
She sat very still, watching the light shift across the canvas walls.
After a while, she lifted her hand to steady herself against the motion of the cart. Her fingers brushed the edge of the bench, then, with an unearned certainty, she took hold of his knee. The touch lasted all of a moment before she returned her hand to her lap.
Something in him gave way. He exhaled sharply through his nose, then pulled one hand free of his sleeve. It hovered for a breath, uncertain, and then he placed it on her thigh.
His palm rested there, sinking a little into the wool of her leg beneath the slacks, warm and trembling through the fabric.
Lain didn’t dare move, didn’t dare look at him. The touch sank through her like sunlight through water, and with it came the old dangerous awareness, his want mingling with hers until she couldn’t tell whose it was anymore.
Neither spoke. The cart rolled on, the road stretching before them in long ribbons of shadow and light. The soldiers’ laughter drifted faintly from the front board, ordinary and far away.
By the time the next village came into view – a scatter of rooftops along the river, smoke curling from the chimneys – her whole body thrummed with that same strange brightness.
When the wheels hit the packed earth of the main road, Mallow’s hand finally slid away. But the mark of his touch lingered like jam on her fingertips.
He jumped down first, offering her a hand out of habit. She took it, and their eyes met, both of them wide, startled, alight with some unspoken thought:
They were in trouble.
And yet, somehow, the road ahead had never looked more inviting.