Page 89 of Tharn's Hunt
And Tharn's head and shoulders break the surface.
"THARN!" I'm scrambling forward before I know I'm moving, my heart in my throat.
He looks terrible—covered in sand, his golden skin dulled to a sickly brown, his eyes closed. For one horrifying moment, I think we're too late.
Then he coughs, a violent spasm that sends sand spraying from his mouth. His eyes fly open, wild and disoriented, his claws flexing weakly as Rok and the bronze hunter drag him fully from the sand.
He's alive. Somehow, impossibly, he's alive.
I fall to my knees beside him, my hands shaking as they hover over his sand-caked skin. I can't seem to touch him, as if he might be a mirage that will vanish. "You're okay," I whisper, but the words are more of a question than a statement. "You're okay. You're okay."
His eyes focus slowly, finding mine with visible effort. "Jah-kee," he rasps. "Saaafe?"
A sob escapes me, half-laugh, half-cry. "Am I safe? Y-you're asking if I'm safe?” Tears stream down my face, feeling wet and sticky.
At the sight, Tharn tries to sit up, but his body seems to rebel, a violent tremor running through his massive frame.
“I’m fine.” I sob-laugh. “You saved me.”
Tharn collapses backward, eyes on me and only me. One arm trembles as it reaches toward me, and I grab his big fist, curling my fingers into his as I press his hand against my chest.
“Sa—fe,” he grunts again.
Safe. I’m safe. Because of him.
Before I can say anything more, movement catches my eye. Figures appear on the distant dune, their silhouettes sharp against the harsh sunlight. A half dozen hunters, their golden skin gleaming like molten metal, sprint down the dune toward us with effortless speed.
They move as one, their steps synchronized, their focus unyielding. Even from this distance, I can feel the weight of theirpresence. A primal energy that seems to hum through the air as they approach.
Sarven straightens beside Rok, his crimson eyes flickering as silent communication passes between the hunters. But my attention snags on Rok.
His massive hands hover over Jus-teen’s injured leg, close enough to feel the heat radiating from her wound but not touching. It’s as if he fears breaking her further. His nostrils flare, his chest rising with a sharp inhale, but the sound that escapes him is pained. A low rumble that makes the hairs on my arms rise.
The glow beneath his skin dims and brightens, dims and brightens, pulsing erratically like a struggling flame.
Jus-teen reaches up before he can move. She cups his jaw, her thumb brushing the ridge below his eye—once, twice—a gesture so tender it makes my throat tighten. The moment feels too intimate to watch, but I can’t look away.
Rok goes utterly still. The tension in his massive frame holds, his claws flexing against the sand. Then, with aching slowness, he leans forward and presses his forehead to hers.
His claws dig into the sand, carving furrows as he fights to steady his breathing.
No words. None needed.
When they part, Jus-teen’s tears glisten on her cheeks—and on his.
The hunters reach the edge where we rest, their movements slowing as their attention shifts. Their eyes sweep over the scene, taking in everything: Jus-teen in Rok’s arms, Sarven, Tharn, me.
But it’s not Rok or Tharn that seems to hold their focus.
It’s us.
Me. Jus-teen.
The newcomers’ gazes linger on us longer than feels comfortable, their stares sharp and assessing. My skin prickles, a strange heat rushing to my cheeks under their scrutiny. There’s no hostility, but there’s something else. Curiosity? Oh God… anticipation? I can’t tell, and that only makes it worse.
One of them tilts his head slightly, his nostrils flaring. Another’s claws twitch at his sides.
And that’s when I notice something strange.
