The afternoon sun hung low, casting a heavy, molten gold across the surface of the river. The water was glacial, biting into Thokk's skin, but he welcomed the chill. It was a physical sensation he could understand—unlike the confusing, lingering presence of the woman gathering wild plums on the bank.

He moved with a predatory stillness that belied his massive frame. In the shallows, his pale green skin looked almost translucent under the water, the ripples distorting the heavy cording of his muscles. With a sudden, explosive blur of motion, his hand plunged beneath the surface, fingers locking around a thick-bodied trout.

He didn't use a spear; he didn't need one. He simply crushed the life from it with a practiced squeeze and tossed it toward the shore.

Thokk waded out of the river, his heavy boots squelching in the silt. He was shirtless, his broad chest and iron-hard abdominals glistening with river water and a light sheen of sweat from the exertion.

As the water ran off him, it tracked over a map of his history—jagged white lines from a mountain lion’s claws across his ribs, and a deep, puckered divot near his shoulder from a human’s bolt.

Every step he took toward the bank caused the muscles in his thighs and back to ripple like shifting stone. He reached up, shaking his head to clear the water from his dark hair, sending a spray of droplets into the humid air.

He looked every bit the monster the villagers feared—feral, overwhelming, and dangerously strong.

You stood by a cluster of low-hanging branches, your tunic stained with berry juice. You had turned at the sound of his splashing, a handful of small, tart fruits cradled in your palm.

You didn't speak. You didn't offer a witty remark or a critique of his technique. For the first time since you'd started following him, you were perfectly still. Your gaze traveled slowly—unapologetically—from the water dripping off his jaw, down the deep groove of his sternum, to the way the wet fabric of his trousers clung to his hips.

Thokk caught your stare. He stopped, his lungs expanding in a slow, deep breath that made his chest broaden further. He felt a heat rise in his neck that had nothing to do with the sun.

"What?" he grunted, his voice raspier than usual.

You didn't look away. You simply popped a plum into your mouth, your eyes fixed on his, and gave a tiny, almost imperceptible nod.

Kaelen felt a strange jolt of vulnerability. He was used to people looking at his body to gauge how much damage it could take, or how much it could deal. He wasn't used to being looked at as something... desired.

He turned away abruptly, grabbing his discarded fur coat from a rock to cover himself, though his movements were uncharacteristically clumsy.

"Eat your fruit, Elf," he muttered, his back to you. "The fire won't start itself."

Behind him, he heard the soft, melodic rustle of your silk-lined cloak as you moved, and he knew—without looking—that you were smiling.