The upper ledge stayed quiet except for the wind and the occasional low voice from the work below. Elizabeth sat with her back to the stone, legs stretched out, the damp seam of her trousers pressed against the cold rock.
The mess Aiden had left inside her the night before had not dried. Heat from the fight and the long ride had only kept it fluid. Every small shift sent another slow trickle along the inner seam.
Aiden sat close enough that their shoulders and thighs touched. The residual lock carried the exact temperature of his body and the steady, thickened current of his attention. He was not scanning the dark. He was focused on her.
"Still carrying it," he said.
"Yes."
"Good."
The word sat between them like a hand on the back of her neck. Elizabeth turned her head. In the thin starlight his eyes looked almost black. She reached down, openly this time, and pressed her palm against the soaked fabric between her legs.
