Chapter 9
Balar walked so often to his mate’s home now, he’d worn a new path through the forest. He’d seen more than one deer using it, and on a mild autumn afternoon, had even enlisted his brothers in helping clear and widen sections. They complained, of course, but the path was well established.
Once he’d gotten the area mapped in his head, it was easy to find the quickest route from the otherly village to Imogen.
And to circumnavigate the boundaries of her land, adding more of his own marks to warn away anything wishing to take a bite out of his lovely kigara—literally and figuratively.
Between claw marks, urine, and a few strategic ropes of spend, within a few days, he had the boundaries clearly indicated.
It’d be a stupid predator (or male) indeed that crossed that line.
With the path, she was hardly more than an hour’s walk away—frustratingly close this whole time. He just hadn’t thought to look in the depths of the forest, thinking human women preferred to keep to villages.
His wily Imogen was proving every day that what he’d learned about human women wasn’t much use to him now.
When he complimented her, she flushed and looked away. For a few days he’d thought it a coy tactic, but, no, his praise seemed to genuinely flummox her.
Worst of all was when he winked at her. That little trick sent most maidens blushing and batting their eyes.
All it did to Imogen was send her looking away and tugging at her hair.
He didn’t know why she thought she needed to show him deference like that.
He reassured her again and again she didn’t need to.
Once in a while, she blessed him with a stray thought or quip.
They were rare, and he suspected unintentional, but he coveted those moments when she teased him or made some witty observation.
Her mind was as sharp as her gaze, his sah-zenda, and he greeted each new dawn with the hope she’d bless him with some new thought that day.
He tried to follow Orek’s cautionary advice. That day in the woodshop, his friend had warned him to give Imogen his patience.
Although he grumbled to know that anyone thought he needed reminding, Balar had been doing his best since the beginning to do just that.
As he worked alongside Imogen each day, he filled their time with stories of his past, so that she would come to know him and understand what a good mate he’d be to her.
Perhaps he talked a little too much, but her conversation was sparse, and so he shouldered the weight of their dialogue.
He talked of these things rather than asking her what he really wanted to, the truly important questions.
Such as how she liked to be kissed and touched.
Or whether she would want to move to the otherly village or for him to dismantle his cabin and bring it here to add to her cottage.
He didn’t ask if she’d considered how many cubs she may want and whether they’d have her eyes or his.
Nor whether she would introduce him to her kin soon.
He wanted to ask. Oh, how he wanted to. But he held his tongue. Was the picture of patience and fortitude.
In the depths of his heart, though, when he lay in his bed at night, alone, there were times he worried. Days and days and he didn’t know that he was any further along than he’d been before.
His Imogen was somewhat difficult to read. And understand.
He knew Diar and Akila thought him a little mad—and very unfortunate. They saw only Imogen’s reticence and frowns. They couldn’t imagine living so alone and secluded, especially not with a female who hardly said two words at a time.
“No one would blame you if you left her to herself,” Akila said one evening.
“I think she wants you to stop bothering her,” added Diar.
But Balar only huffed at such nonsense, giving it the answer it deserved. If they were so easily put off and waylaid, no wonder it was him and not them who’d found his kigara. None of the mantii stories said anything about the bond being easy—the stories told of how it was worth it.
And he knew it would be. They didn’t appreciate the strong line of her back or the elegant swoop of her neck.
They didn’t revel in her sharp tongue or the way she sing-songed in a higher-pitched voice to the animals—or how she’d deny it if he ever mentioned it.
They weren’t preoccupied with the way her supportive stays plumped her generous breasts and emphasized the enticing curves of her waist. They hadn’t likened the freckles that dotted her nose and cheeks to the stars in the sky, nor the rich color of her hair to freshly tilled earth, fragrant with the smell of possibility.
Let them have her caution and her scowls. Balar would keep the rest, most especially her reluctant smiles—and, really, he preferred that they were only for him. Their rarity made them that much more precious.
When the nights were long, he reminded himself of his little collection of her smiles and thought, Yes, just a little more patience. It would all be worth it.
He earned himself another precious smile the next day, even if she tried to hide it and her laugh behind her hand, but Balar saw. It made standing knee-high in the freezing cold river, holding a wriggling fish in his claws worth it.
The blasted thing smacked him in the face with its tail, fighting mightily to return to the water, but Balar held fast. Sloshing and splashing back to the rocky shore, he held out his final prize, adding it to the basket of catches.
He grinned at her rather than smiling to hide how his teeth chattered with cold.
Still biting back her full smile, Imogen replaced the woven lid onto the basket.
When she’d said that morning she meant to go fishing to round out her stores of dried fish for winter, Balar had readily agreed to help.
It was important she see he was a skilled hunter—even if the quarry were only a few trout.
Shaking out his wet legs and tail, he said, “Just as I promised, this is much faster than fishing with the line.”
“Mmhmm,” she hummed behind those closed lips.
Pleased to see her good mood, Balar lifted the basket before she could herself, pumping his legs in a march to get blood circulating again. He hadn’t realized the rivers would be so very cold already, but he’d committed to catching her a whole basketful.
“A whole basket?” she’d asked.
“To the brim. And an extra two for dinner,” he’d boasted.
And he had. It took the better part of the morning and early afternoon, but he kept his word. He might lose a few toes to cold, but it was worth it.
He followed her from the river back into the forest, Shadow trotting beside him to sneak interested sniffs at the fishy basket. As they walked, he told her all about the fat fish they used to pluck from the rivers—long-nosed gar, armored sturgeon, and catfish bigger than Shadow.
Imogen shuddered. “Ugh, I hate catfish. Their long whisker faces…” She shuddered again.
Balar cleared his throat. “They are barbel, not whiskers. True whiskers are very handsome and regal.”
She snorted, clapping a hand over her nose to hide her laugh. “That’s true. You’re right.”
Pleased, Balar preened, holding his wings aloft. He didn’t miss how her gaze snagged on them, and he wasn’t too proud to fluff them up, showing off the golden barbs.
After a moment, her eyes went wide before she looked away, tugging at her hair. Balar noted it but said nothing, unsure why her smile fell so suddenly from her lips.
At her cottage, Balar dragged a worktable over to the firepit she kept a ways from the house while she got the fire going.
Together they wiped down the table and began preparing the fish.
It was messy work, but Balar rolled up his sleeves and did as Imogen showed him.
He’d never dried fish before—winters in the savannah weren’t so harsh that they couldn’t hunt or fish.
Vegetation might go scarce, but there was game to be found for the intrepid hunter.
When there were but two trout left, Imogen filleted, salted, and seasoned them, then stuck them on sticks over the fire to cook. Balar watched on as he licked his hands clean. He’d already gotten to picking the meat from under his claws when Imogen turned to wash up in a deep pot.
She blinked at him and he blinked back.
“Waste not,” he said before licking his paw and winking.
Even in the dimming dusk, he could see how her face flushed, almost matching her goddess mark. Sig-zinim, what a strange and beguiling creature she was.
They were soon clean and the fish soon cooked. Settling down on the soft grass around the firepit, they ate their meal fresh from the flames, sizzling and savory. Balar groaned with satisfaction at the tender flesh and crunchy skin, licking his lips after the first fillet disappeared in two bites.
The meal was gone too quickly, and Balar licked his fingers to get the last of the juices. “A fine meal, urisá. I thank you.”
“You did most of it.”
“We are an effective hunting party,” he said with a wink.
She looked away again, but Balar wasn’t quite ready to give in. “You are most resourceful. And an excellent teacher. I’ve never dried fish before.”
“No?”
“In the savannah, we had no need. Although, we often dried fruits.”
Silence lapsed between them, and Balar tried not to chew on his frustration. He searched for something to say, but each inane topic he thought of he remembered telling her already. He didn’t want to sound like a forgetful buffoon.
To his surprise, it was Imogen who spoke first.
“Do you miss it? The savannah?” she asked, her gaze on the fire.
Balar made a considering noise. That was a difficult question. “I miss the savannahs of my boyhood,” he said. “When the grasses were still tall and the gazelle herds numbered in their millions. But then, I suppose everyone longs for the life they remember as a child.”
“Not everyone.”
“No?” Balar turned to her, his brows rising. Something inside him shouted in alarm—the somberness of her words, the way she gazed forlornly into the fire, it felt…wrong.
“No.”
The night air seemed to cool even as the fire crackled before them. In its light, he watched a troubled line appear between her brows, her gaze faraway as the flames danced in her eyes.
Slowly, carefully, Balar leaned forward, closer to her.
Feeling his attention on her, Imogen ducked away as she was so wont to do, hair sliding from behind her shoulder to obscure her face.
“You need not do this,” he reminded her gently. “I don’t want your deference, only your smiles.”
Her lips twisted as surely as Balar’s insides. “It’s not deference. I don’t…I don’t like people looking.”
“Looking at what?” His voice dropped to a whisper.
“At it. At me.” The words burst out of her, with far more feeling than she’d used to say anything before.
“And why shouldn’t they look at you?” he asked gently, his tone careful even though he was truly baffled. “You are a comely woman, Imogen.”
She snorted. “That’s not true. Not with…this.” She gestured angrily at the side of her face.
Balar went still. “Your birthmark?” That was what she was always hiding? Surely not. It was such a lovely color—but also quite large, there wasn’t really any hiding it. And besides, it was part of her. Like her rich brown hair or full pink lips.
“It’s all anyone sees when they look at me,” she said bitterly.
“Not everyone.”
She flinched, swaying forward where she sat. Her gaze skittered across the ground toward him but didn’t quite dare to lift and meet his.
In that moment, seeing her so rigid, so hunched, Balar worried she might break. Careful, so careful, he moved in closer, wishing to catch her if she did. His hunter’s instincts told him to go slow; he could smell the trepidation in her. But he couldn’t do nothing.
“Humans consider this mark…bad?”
“They consider it ugly.”
He rumbled unhappily before forcing the sound down into his chest, where it turned into a soothing purr. Slowly, giving her time to pull away, Balar reached to take her face in his paw.
She flinched again, inhaling sharply before holding her breath. Her shoulders had drawn nearly to her ears, so Balar didn’t dare anything more than the lightest touch. Holding her cheek in his palm, he gently smoothed the pad of his thumb over her reddened skin.
Her eyes clenched shut, but she didn’t flee. My brave girl.
“Nothing about you is ugly,” he murmured. “Not your stubbornness. Not your sharp tongue. Certainly not this mark.”
A shuddering breath left her as she opened her eyes. She still wouldn’t meet his gaze, but that was all right.
He realized now just what Orek had been trying to tell him. It was more than just patience his kigara needed. She wasn’t just stubborn or cautious—she was hurting.
Firelight caught in the tears gathering along her lashes, but she refused to release them. His heart and his turuk both ached for her. Imogen needed more than patience. She needed softness, companionship, reassurance. His winks and idle praise were far from enough.
The cottage, the isolation, the aloofness…they were the sum of so many hurts. The type of pains that didn’t go away with a few kisses and promises. She needed more—she needed all of him in a way he hadn’t reckoned.
He held a lifetime of hurts in his hand, and if he was honest, the totality of it was daunting.
But what were kigara for if not softness, companionship, reassurance? He could give her these things, slowly, steadily, until she believed.
He wished he could tell her all this, but before he could, Imogen’s gaze snapped up to his.
So close, he could see every golden fleck in her brown eyes. He could count her freckles and see the stark boundary of her birthmark. It was only for a moment, but Balar saw her terror.
Faster than a breath, she pulled away. Standing, she rubbed her palms on her pantlegs, avoiding his gaze when she mumbled, “I’m turning in.”
Without another word, she strode for her cottage. Whining, Shadow bounded behind her, just managing to get inside before she closed the door.
Silence echoed throughout the meadow. Balar turned his gaze to the fire, ears folding back onto his head.
Ibás, there was so much to consider.
Smoothing a paw over his whiskers, he sighed. He’d never backed down from a challenge, and he wouldn’t fail his kigara. Not now, not ever. But he thought it was prudent at least to acknowledge just how daunting he found this.
Imogen needed more than courting. She needed everything he was, everything he could offer.
But as Balar stared into the crackling fire, he couldn’t help the terrifying thought—will it be enough?