Page 234 of Starside

The sand surges, circling, enclosing, caving in, as if to drown out my words. And that only means it’s working.

“Open your eyes,” I scream, because this sand … this sand will not silence me. It will not silence those moments where we have fought, and survived, and lived. Against all odds, we have endured, and even though I have hated him, and cursed him, every step of this has been side by side, and if he wouldn’t leave me behind before … neither will I.

The sand rages. It’s roaring. So. Am. I.

“I SEE YOU,” I bellow. “I see you, Harlan Raker. I see you, and I like what I see. I want to see more. I want … please. I want …”

Tears spill, sliding down my neck, mixing with the blood.

Fuck it. If these are my last moments, then I won’t let a single word go unsaid.

“I want you, Raker. I want to find you again when all of this is over. I want to see what life might look like beyond the misery. Beyond the vengeance. You make me want to see what’s left for me. You make me want to build a life in a world of ashes. So please. Please. Open your eyes. Open—”

He does.

And his sword drops between us.

“I see you too,” he says, eyes locked on mine, steel blazing through the desert.

I see you.

I know he does. Because at some point during this journey the moat I kept around myself lowered a bridge to him. He knows about my nightmares. He knows about my markings. He knows about my sister. He knows my fears and weaknesses and the things that make me smile.

Everyone else who knew me at all is dead. I almost just joined them, at his hand.

My knees buckle in relief, and he catches me around the waist. No one gets close to him. Everyone is too afraid. I should be too. He just almost killed me. But I throw my arms around him anyway. Together, we sink to the sand, knee to knee. I feel his arms curve around me tentatively as if he has no idea how this works, as if he hasn’t embraced anyone in a long while.

“I thought—I thought you were going to kill me,” I say, breathless, my cheek against his neck. Our hearts are both beating wildly, right against each other. I feel his hand against the back of my head, as he holds me to him.

He says nothing. He only holds me tighter.

40

There’s a line of blood along my throat. We have matching marks, now.

A reminder of my weakness, Raker called his, and I think that’s right. It’s a reminder that Raker—as much as I see him, as much as he sees me—is still my enemy.

An oasis awaits at the edge of the desert. It’s an entire cliffside of waterfalls that glimmer like diamonds are threaded through its liquid. They spill into various lopsided, bright blue pools, one larger than the rest.

I rush to one of the falls, drinking directly from it, water soaking my body in a rush of welcomed cold. I groan. When I turn around, Raker is just standing there, lost in thought.

“I’m getting in,” I tell him. He blinks, knocked out of his mind, then turns around. I turn too. Slowly, I begin to remove my clothing, sand spilling onto the rock beneath my feet. My skin has been rubbed raw. It’s an effort to take each piece off.

Behind me, I hear Raker doing the same. I hear every piece of armor come off.

Without a look in his direction, I slowly sink into the biggest pool. I test for the bottom and feel that it’s shallow. It takes a few steps to wade into where the water reaches my waist.

I hear the water part behind me. I can feel his presence. My markings glimmer beneath the sun. It’s strange, being out in the open, with them on full display.

But I’m not hiding anymore. I see him. He sees me. We’ve made it close to the end, together. Only one more day stands between us and the Land of the Gods.

I duck into the water to wash my hair and face. When I emerge, I turn—

And there he is.

Without a hood. Without anything on. For a moment, I forget to breathe. The water is dark enough that I can’t see anything beneath, but I can see his wide shoulders, and part of his broad chest. I can see parts of the thin, dark tattoos threading across his pale skin, down his muscular arms, to where they run down each of his fingers. I want to know what they mean. I want to look closer, so I can see the shapes they make. His hair is wet, small droplets falling from the dark strands onto his sharp cheeks, dripping toward his jaw, and I don’t know why that simple fact makes me feel like I’m losing my mind.

He just stares at me. Only a few strands of hair keep me decent, but … he sees everything else. My bare shoulders, and collarbones, and the shapes of my breasts, and the silver markings. I remember how he traced his thumb down them, like I was his favorite constellation.