Page 67 of Savage Devotion
"Stay close," he'd said. "These tunnels are older than the clans themselves."
But when the support beams cracked and the ceiling came down, I was alone. Thek had slipped through a gap I couldn't reach, his voice echoing from the other side of tons of fallen rock.
"Find another way out, Kael. I'll meet you at the surface."
He never came back for me.
I spent three days in those collapsed mines, drinking my piss and eating cave moss, before I finally clawed my way to a drainage tunnel that led to daylight. Three days wondering if my brother had abandoned me on purpose, if the accident was just convenient timing for him to escape whatever trouble he'd gotten himself into.
I found out later that he'd tried. Spent two weeks digging with his bare hands until the clan elders dragged him away, told him I was dead and gone. But knowing the truth doesn't erase the fear. Doesn't stop the panic that starts in my gut and spreads through my chest like poison.
"Kaelgor. Your breathing."
I realize I'm hyperventilating, sucking air in quick gasps that make my vision blur at the edges. The torch shakes so violently that sparks fall to the stone floor.
Control. Focus. She's watching.
I force my breathing to slow, counting each inhale and exhale until the panic subsides. But the fear remains, coiled in my stomach like a serpent. Not just fear of the collapsed tunnel—fear of abandonment. Fear that when survival becomes difficult, people show their true nature.
"Better?" she asks.
"Fine."
But I'm not fine. I'm studying her face in the torchlight, searching for signs. Calculation. The moment she realizes that staying with me is a liability. Her chances of survival increase if she leaves me behind.
My gaze drops to her weapons belt, cataloging what she carries. Standard mercenary kit: curved sword, two throwing knives, a dagger at her left hip. The dagger hasn't moved. Still secured in its sheath, leather peace-tie still knotted.
She could have killed me when the ceiling came down. One quick thrust while I was disoriented.
She could have taken my weapons and left me for dead.
She could have?—
"You could have left me," I say, the words coming out rougher than intended.
"What?"
"Your dagger. Still there. Unused." I gesture toward her hip. "When the collapse started, you had opportunities. Could have put steel between my ribs and walked away clean."
Ressa stares at me for a long moment, torchlight reflecting in her green eyes. When she speaks, I hear a note I can't quite identify. Hurt, maybe. Or disappointment.
"Is that what you think of me?"
"I don't know what to think." The admission tastes bitter. "People show their real nature when death gets close. When survival means making hard choices."
"And you think I'd choose to murder you?"
"I think you'd choose to survive. Smart tactical decision."
She takes a step toward me, and I smell the leather of her armor, the faint scent of steel and determination that seems to follow her everywhere.
"Let me be very clear," she says, each word precise as a blade thrust. "If I wanted you dead, you'd be dead. Not from some cowardly backstab in a collapsed tunnel, but in honest combat where you could see it coming."
The conviction in her voice surprises me. Not just the words, but the underlying fury. As if the suggestion that she might resort to assassination is genuinely offensive.
"Besides," she continues, "killing you would be wasteful. You're too valuable alive."
"Valuable how?"
