Epilogue
Even through her closed eyelids, Polly could tell that daylight had begun creeping into the sleeping cave, but she refused to acknowledge it. Instead, she screwed her eyes more tightly shut and burrowed deeper into her pillow—her big, warm, breathing pillow.
A deep rumble vibrated beneath her cheek.
“I know you’re awake, little one.”
“No, I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I’m your mate now. You have to believe me.”
“I do not think that is how this works.”
She smiled against his chest and opened one eye.
Njkall was watching her, his bright blue eyes warm with amusement, his white mane tousled from sleep.
She still loved seeing him like this. The rest of Hothrest knew the stern clan leader who could silence a room with one look.
She knew the male who snored—although he continued to deny it—and who invariably woke with his mane sticking up on one side.
She reached up and smoothed it down. It sprang back up.
“Very dignified,” she said.
“I am always dignified.”
“Of course.”
His eyes narrowed. “You are mocking your clan leader.”
“I would never.”
“Your mate, then.”
“That I do constantly.”
He growled and she laughed and stretched against him, feeling the pleasant ache of well-used muscles, the lingering warmth of the night before. “I need to go to Port Eyeja today. Zemma sent word they’re running low on the pendants.”
She felt him go still beneath her—just for a heartbeat, just a fraction of tension that rippled through his body before he deliberately let it go.
A year ago, that stillness would have been followed by careful questions and a dozen small ways of trying to keep her safe.
Now he simply waited, and she loved him fiercely for the restraint it cost him.
“Do you want company?” he asked, his voice carefully neutral.
She pushed herself up on one elbow so she could see his face in the morning light. Her mate. Her choice.
“Yes,” she said gently. “I want you to come.”
He couldn’t quite hide his relief, although he tried. “Because you need—”
“Because I want.” She leaned down and pressed a kiss to his jaw, feeling the texture of short dense fur against her lips.
“Because I like walking through the market with you. Because I like the way people look at us and know I’m yours and you’re mine.
Because Izzie invited us for tea and I want you to come. ”
The low rumbling sound that came from his chest was definitely a purr this time. She grinned against his throat.
“You’re purring.”
“I am not.”
“You absolutely are.”
His arms came around her and he rolled, swift and easy despite his massive size, until she was pinned beneath him and laughing, her dark hair spread across the sleeping furs, her small body dwarfed by his.
He braced himself above her on his forearms, careful of his weight, and looked down at her with an expression that made her breath catch.
“I am not purring,” he said, with immense dignity. “I am expressing satisfaction in a culturally appropriate manner.”
“That’s the longest way anyone’s ever said ‘purring’ in the history of language.”
He silenced her with a kiss that drove all thought of teasing from her mind. When he finally pulled back, she was breathing hard, her hands fisted in the fur of his shoulders, her body arched toward his in blatant demand.
“Breakfast,” she managed.
“Mm.”
“There are things—”
“Things,” he agreed, and his mouth found the curve of her throat, and breakfast became a significantly delayed affair.
Later that morning, she was bent over a particularly stubborn piece of blue stone when his shadow filled the doorway.
“Ah,” he said. “There you are.”
She looked up from her workbench. “Where else would I be?”
He leaned one broad shoulder against the entrance to what had once been her sleeping cave.
It no longer looked anything like one.
The sleeping furs were gone. In their place stood two low worktables, shelves Njkall had carved into the stone walls, and dozens of shallow trays containing beads, polished stones, bone, wire, crystals, clasps, and all the other treasures she’d accumulated.
Finished necklaces hung from wooden pegs along one wall, and the little sleeping cave’s excellent crystal light made it ideal for the delicate work.
His gaze traveled slowly around the room.
“I remember when this was a sleeping space.”
“So do I.”
“You used it occasionally.”
“I used it all the time.”
He gave her that look. “Little one.”
“Fine. I intended to use it all the time.”
His mouth twitched.
She picked up the necklace she’d just finished and held it towards the light. Blue stone alternated with tiny silver beads, the colors reminding her of sunlight on snow.
“What do you think?”
“I think it’s beautiful.”
“You say that about everything I make.”
“Because everything you make is beautiful.”
“You’re biased.”
“Yes.”
The simple admission made her smile. She laid the necklace carefully in the padded box with the other finished pieces. “These are the ones I’m taking down to Zemma. You can carry the box.”
“Ah. Now we reach the real reason you want me to accompany you.”
“Well, you are very useful.”
His laugh followed her into the main cave.
Port Eyeja sprawled before them as the sleigh crested the last ridge, the landing field gleaming dully in the distance, with three ships currently grounded—a battered freighter, a sleek private vessel, and something squat and ugly that looked like it might be held together with duct tape.
A year ago, this view would have frozen her solid.
Now she looked at the crowded streets, the unfamiliar species moving between market stalls, the shadows where anything might be lurking, and she felt only a manageable flutter of wariness. It was still there. Maybe it always would be. But it no longer ruled her.
They left the sleigh at the stable near the gate and walked into Port Eyeja together, side by side, his massive frame a warm wall between her and the worst of the crowd.
But she walked with her head up and her shoulders back, nodding to traders she’d come to recognize, and pausing to examine goods that caught her eye without the fear that she’d be grabbed and taken.
Zemma’s shop sat in a sunny corner of the market square, squeezed between a furrier and a shop selling imported spices.
The young Hothian female had transformed the narrow space into a glittering cave of treasures.
Jewelry hung from every wall, displayed on dark fur and polished wood, while crystal lamps made the pieces sparkle.
She still experienced a ridiculous little thrill every time she saw something she’d made in the window. Today it held three of her necklaces. One was gone before they left.
“See?” Zemma said triumphantly as the elegantly dressed Kaisarian female swept out of the shop with her purchase. “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.”
She looked at the empty display stand. “That offworlders have more credits than sense?”
“That too.” Zemma flashed her fangs in a cheerful grin.
She was Baralt’s sister and the only Hothian female who had chosen to live outside the caves, largely because her mate was a huge Bukharan male.
The clan had accepted Polly readily enough, but they remained considerably less welcoming of strange males.
Zemma, however, seemed perfectly content with her mate and her shop in Port Eyeja.
“My point is that they’re willing to pay for something they can’t buy anywhere else,” Zemma continued.
“They’re just beads.”
“They’re Hothrest beads. Hothrest bone, Hothrest stone, and local crystal.” Zemma waved an impatient claw. “They’re souvenirs, but they’re beautiful souvenirs. In fact…”
She eyed the other female suspiciously. “In fact what?”
Zemma’s blue eyes gleamed.
“I’ve been talking to Gralar. The resort already sells luxury jewelry, but it’s all imported. He wants more local goods.”
Njkall made an approving sound from behind her.
“Stay out of this,” she told him.
“I said nothing.”
“You made a clan-leader noise.”
“I was unaware I had one.”
“You do.”
Zemma looked between them with obvious amusement before continuing. “I can get better materials. Finer metals, gemstones instead of crystals, that sort of thing. You design the pieces and do the detailed work. I provide the materials and handle the resort.”
“And the credits?”
“Half.”
Polly stared at her, and Zemma grinned. “I thought that might get your attention.”
It did.
For the next half hour they discussed designs and materials and how many pieces she could realistically make without turning something she loved into something she hated. By the time they finally left, she had agreed to make six pieces as a trial collection.
Six expensive pieces. Her pieces.
“You didn’t say anything,” she said as she and Njkall walked away.
“You told me to stay out of it.”
“I didn’t mean forever.”
“I thought you negotiated very well.”
Pride warmed her. “So did I.”
They had almost reached the end of the street when Njkall slowed.
Rjmar stood outside his shop with Doren beside him, the two males arguing over something in Rjmar’s enormous hand.
“No,” Rjmar was saying. “I’m telling you, if you hit it again, you’re going to break it.”
“I have not hit it.”
“You hit it yesterday.”
“Once.”
“With a hammer.”
“It was a very small hammer.”
She stopped, vaguely recognizing the item.
“Is that the thing from the ruins?”
Rjmar’s head came up. “Njkall’s female. Good afternoon.”
“Mate,” Njkall corrected.
Rjmar rolled his eyes. “As if the entire planet hasn’t heard.”
She ignored them and looked at the object in Rjmar’s palm. It wasn’t large, no bigger than one of her hands, and she couldn’t decide what it was made from. Dark metal, perhaps, except that strange markings seemed to move beneath its surface when it caught the light.
“You went back for it.”
“Of course I went back for it.”
Doren snorted. “He nearly brought half the mountain down doing it.”
“I did no such thing.”
“Baralt used several words I’m not going to repeat in front of the lady.”
“I’ve heard words,” she said, and Doren gave her a quick grin.