Creon was tucking me into bed, the tent cloth around us dimly lit by a waxing moon and the glow of distant campfires. My attempt at protest came out groggy with exhaustion and died a swift death as he slid below the blankets beside me, silky skin and firm muscle soothing me into silence. ‘It’s alright, cactus,’ he muttered, arms wrapping around me. ‘They’ll wake us up if anything happens.’ If. When. But his body was warm against mine, and I was so very tired … I sank into feverish dreams of burning towns and screaming children, waking at every rustle and creak for the rest of the night.
