Chapter Forty?Eight — The Edge of Truth

  The camp did not sleep.

  Not truly.

  Not after Peterson’s attempt to drag Miles into the dark. Not after the night riders’ attack at the spring. Not after Cassian quietly posted himself at the far corner of camp like a shadow with a rifle.

  People murmured in low, cracked voices. Oxen shifted nervously. Finch tossed in feverish half-dreams.

  And Miles—

  Miles sat in the thin moonlight beside the Dunne wagon, Jonah’s coat draped around his shoulders, Jonah himself crouched beside him like a sentinel carved from worry and stubbornness.

  Miles stared at his hands.

  Bruised knuckles. Dirty palms. Fingers trembling.

  He couldn’t tell if the shaking was from exhaustion or fear or something far more dangerous.

  Jonah broke the silence soft as a breath:

  “You shouldn’t be out here alone.”

  Miles blinked. “I’m not. You’re here.”

  Jonah let out a quiet, humorless laugh. “That’s not what I meant and you know it.”

  He settled beside Miles fully, shoulder touching his, warmth seeping through layers of dust and fear.

  For a long moment, they just sat — hearing the wind rustle through stiff foothill grass, hearing Cassian’s distant footsteps, hearing the faint whimper of sheepish oxen trying to settle.

  Then Jonah said, voice low:

  “You scared me tonight.”

  Miles swallowed. “I know.”

  “No.” Jonah shook his head, eyes reflecting firelight. “Not the kind of scared where I think something might happen. The kind where it almost already did.”

  Miles’s chest tightened. “I just wanted to save Sammy.”

  “And you did,” Jonah said softly. “But you can’t throw yourself at danger like your life’s worth less than anyone else’s.”

  Miles tensed. “It’s not that—”

  Jonah reached out — hesitant, gentle — and took Miles’s hand.

  It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t forceful.

  But it was grounding.

  Heartbreaking.

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  His thumb brushed lightly over Miles’s knuckles, calming the tremor there.

  “I need you to hear this,” Jonah said. “Please.”

  Miles’s breath caught.

  “You matter to me,” Jonah whispered. “More than you know. More than I know how to say without sounding foolish.”

  Miles’s heart fluttered violently.

  Jonah’s fingers tightened around his.

  “And the thought of losing you—”

  He broke off, breath unsteady.

  Miles dared to lift his eyes — and Jonah was looking at him the way no one else ever had. Steady. Open. Unafraid of what he might find.

  It nearly undid him.

  Miles whispered, “Jonah… I never meant to frighten you. I— I don’t know how to stop putting others first.”

  “That’s because it’s who you are.” Jonah’s voice trembled on the edges. “But you deserve someone putting you first, too.”

  Miles felt tears prick his eyes. He turned away quickly, wiping them fast.

  Jonah cupped the side of his face and gently turned it back.

  “Don’t hide from me,” Jonah murmured. “Not you. Not ever.”

  Miles stared at him, breath catching on something sharp and terrifying and beautiful.

  “I’ve been hiding for so long,” Miles whispered. “I don’t know how to stop.”

  Jonah leaned closer, voice barely above a breath:

  “Then let me help you.”

  Miles’s heart stumbled painfully.

  He could feel the truth pressing against the back of his teeth — too big, too fragile, too dangerous to release.

  He looked down. “Jonah, if you knew the truth— you might not look at me the same.”

  Jonah took his other hand now, holding both tightly.

  “I don’t care what the truth is,” he said. “I care about you.”

  Tears blurred Miles’s vision.

  His voice cracked. “But you don’t know who I really am.”

  Jonah shook his head gently. “Then tell me. When you’re ready. And I swear I’ll listen.”

  Miles leaned forward without meaning to — pulled by gravity or fear or something larger — and Jonah moved instinctively closer, foreheads nearly touching.

  Miles whispered, breath trembling:

  “I’m not the boy you think I am.”

  Jonah’s breath shuddered. “Then who are you?”

  Miles opened his mouth— the truth rising— rising—

  But footsteps broke the moment.

  Cassian’s.

  “Jonah,” Cassian called softly from the dark, “Miles. We have a problem.”

  Jonah let out a frustrated breath, pulling back slow, reluctant.

  Miles dragged in a shaky breath, truth collapsing back inside like a wave dragged away from shore.

  Cassian stepped into the dim firelight.

  “Tracks,” he said. “Fresh ones.”

  Miles’s stomach dropped. “Riders?”

  Cassian nodded grimly. “Two scouts. Close.”

  Jonah’s grip tightened protectively on Miles’s hand.

  Cassian’s voice lowered, urgent:

  “We need to move. Now.”

  Miles’s heart raced, truth still burning on his tongue.

  Jonah squeezed his hand once more — fierce, promising.

  “This isn’t over,” Jonah whispered. “Not by a long shot.”

  Miles nodded.

  No. It wasn’t over.

  Not the danger. Not The Harrower. Not the truth rising inside him like a storm broken loose. But for this moment— for this one fragile breath— Jonah knew he was hiding. And he stayed.