“He won’t be here forever,” Jaren replied, just as quietly. “Neither will you.”

Kiva turned to him, the moonlight shining down and accentuating his strong features. She’d never held much of an interest in art, but looking at him now, her fingers itched for some paint, for some charcoal, for anything that could capture his near-perfect angles. She wondered if he knew how appealing he was, wondered if, before Zalindov, he’d used his looks to his advantage. Perhaps that was what had led him here, an illicit liaison or a secret affair. A courtier’s daughter, a guard’s sister, a nobleman’s wife—any of them could have cost him his freedom. But Kiva didn’t think that was it. While Jaren was roguishly charming, she doubted he had an unfaithful bone in his body.

“I hope you’re right,” Kiva said, looking away from him and down at the wallowroot saplings near her feet.

Gentle fingers on her chin had her head tilting upward again, his hand cupping her face.

“Something to know about me, Kiva Meridan,” Jaren said softly, “is that I’m always right.”

Out of nowhere, Kiva’s heart began to thump madly in her chest. It was so loud that she was sure Jaren must be able to hear it. But he gave no indication, only stared into her eyes, the moonlight flowing like liquid between them, dusting everything with a glittering bluish-silver.

Kiva was frozen to the spot, unsure if she wanted to push Jaren away or if she wanted to pull him closer. Her brain was screaming warnings at her, telling her she needed to keep her distance, the tunnel dust on his face a damning reminder of where he worked and the odds of his survival. He, like all of Zalindov’s laborers, had one foot in the grave, whether he knew it or not.

But . . . Cresta had survived for years working in the quarry, and a handful of other prisoners had defied certain death as well. Maybe Jaren would be among them—maybe he would live long enough for it to count.

Kiva, however, still had two Ordeals to face, either of which could take her life. And if by some miracle she survived, she would then be free to leave Zalindov, never to see Jaren again.

They were doomed to fail before they even started.

And yet, despite what her mind was telling her, despite all the rules she had carefully maintained for years, when he inched forward, Kiva didn’t stop him. Her hand rose of its own accord, clutching his dirt-smeared tunic as she leaned into him, her knees wobbling as he continued closing the distance between them.

“Kiva,” he whispered, his breath touching her lips.

A shiver ran down her spine, her eyes drifting shut as one of his hands trailed through her hair before coming to a rest at the base of her neck.