Page 190 of Starside

My chest tightens, my breath stolen away. It’s just a small movement, not a full expression at all, but I can’t stop looking. His teeth are straight and white. His eyes crinkle at the edges.

“What?” he demands, that glorious smile now in ashes.

“You smiled,” I breathe. “I’m waiting for the world to stop turning.”

He shakes his head, the corner of his lips twitching almost imperceptibly. “You’re funnier when I’m dying,” he says, dropping his head against the stone wall behind him. His eyes close.

“It’s because I’m so happy.”

“Are you?”

“Yes. I can’t wait to get that sword in my hand.”

At that, his eyes open. “You wouldn’t know the first thing about handling a sword that big,” he says.

“Now that sounds like something else,” I say.

I don’t know if he’s about to scowl, laugh, or frown. He doesn’t seem to know what he’s going to do either.

My cheeks flush. I can’t believe I said that. “You’re dying,” I say, definitely making it better. “You won’t remember this.” It’s almost like I’m trying to reassure myself.

Even if he doesn’t die, with this fever, everything is going to be a daze.

I hope.

“If I’m dying,” he says, voice strained, “and you’re so sure about it, and so thrilled … then tell me why you’re doing this.”

His breathing is slowing. His eyes are closing, then opening. I smooth my thumb across his wrist and feel his pulse. It’s not as strong as it should be, but it’s there. Maybe he needs to rest.

Or maybe he’s actually dying.

He looks at the place I’m touching, then back at me. I drop his hand before he demands it.

“You want to know?” I ask.

He nods.

I lean in close. He’s staring at me just as carefully as I studied him, even though he’s seen my face countless times in these past weeks. He’s staring like he might never see me again.

When I get close to his face, he stops breathing. I’m practically in his lap. I lean in even more to whisper my secret right into his ear. “I’m going to kill the gods,” I say, my lips brushing his skin.

And that’s when he goes very still.

“You’ll die,” he says flatly.

I can tell he’s fighting the sleep that’s coming. He’s fighting to stay awake. He tries to shift himself to be more upright, but his eyes are blinking closed. He’s losing consciousness. I pull back, so I’m right in front of him.

I shrug a shoulder. “It’s okay. I’ll be with you,” I say, meaning it as a mocking threat.

It’s the last thing he hears before he goes under.

Raker sleeps through the entire day, but he’s still alive. I know. I check often, worry for him twisting my gut.

His pulse beats weakly but steadily against my fingertips, and relief rushes through my chest. I press my hand to his forehead, assessing his temperature. Still burning up. Yet still living.

Please keep living, I think.

Fingers still against his feverish skin, I marvel at him. He looks like a sculpture. Immortals are perfect, but he … he has a dangerous, striking beauty. It’s a shame he hides it behind a mask.