Chapter 11
Before the Roads Clear
Riven
I wake before dawn, my six eyes adjusting instantly to the dim light filtering through the windows.
The weight against my side is unfamiliar but deeply satisfying on a primal level I’ve never experienced before.
June is curled against me, her smaller body fitting perfectly into the curve of my larger frame, her head tucked beneath my chin.
Her brunette hair has come loose from its usual practical ponytail and spills across my chest in a chaotic tangle.
Mine.
The word resonates through me with such force that I have to suppress the instinctive rumble building in my thorax.
Eighty years of solitude, and now this human woman has somehow bypassed every defense I’ve constructed and nestled herself against my most vulnerable parts—both physical and otherwise.
I allow myself the luxury of simply watching her sleep. Her breathing is deep and even, her face relaxed in a way it never is when she’s awake. Without that perpetual look of controlled competence, she appears younger, softer.
My hand hovers over her cheek, wanting to touch but reluctant to wake her. The need to provide for her, to protect her, to keep her satisfied and safe in my nest surges through me with unexpected intensity.
The scent of her sleep-warmed skin, mingled with the lingering traces of our coupling, sends a pleasant arousal through my body.
I feel my specialized glands shifting in response, and am certain my silk is now at peak quality, ready to create the most perfect, comfortable bonds.
My ancestors would be proud of such production; it’s a sign of a healthy, well-matched pairing.
June stirs against me, making a small sound in the back of her throat as she burrows closer. My mandibles click softly in automatic response, and her eyes flutter open, unfocused at first, then sharpening as she registers her surroundings.
There’s a moment of tension in her body as memory returns, and I prepare myself for regret, for her to pull away.
Instead, she relaxes again, a slow smile spreading across her face as she looks up at me.
“Morning,” she says.
“Good morning,” I respond, the formal greeting feeling woefully inadequate for this moment. “Here, allow me…” I use one of my sharp legs to slit open the silk wrapping her, releasing her limbs from its cozy binds.
“Oh, thank you.” She stretches against me, reminding me of a cat I once observed during my wildlife studies—all languid satisfaction and unconscious grace.
“Sleep well?” I ask, unsure of the proper morning-after protocol. My research had primarily focused on the courtship and mating phases; I’d neglected to study what humans consider appropriate behavior following successful copulation, perhaps because I never thought I’d get this far…
“I slept better than I have in years,” she admits, and she runs her fingers along the edge of my mandible with an endearing curiosity. “You make an excellent bed.”
“Technically, the sofa is the bed in this scenario. I’m merely an additional support structure.”
She laughs, the sound warming something deep in my chest. “Did you just make a joke?”
“I’m capable of humor,” I say with mock offense. “It’s simply not my primary communication strategy.”
“Well, I like it.” She sits up, running fingers through her tangled hair in a futile attempt at order. “I should get some clean clothes and toiletries from my truck. And you probably need to do… whatever morning routine Vyders do.”
“My morning routine typically involves creating new web anchors around my property perimeter and consuming approximately six hundred calories of protein. Although instead of freshly caught prey, I’ll opt for an egg breakfast with you.”
Her smile falters for just a second before she schools her expression, but not quickly enough. I catch the flicker of surprise.
“Eggs, huh? I didn’t take you for the domestic type.”
I sit up, careful not to dislodge her too abruptly. “You’ve domesticated me quite a lot already.” I motion toward the front door. “Go ahead. I’ll prepare food while you retrieve your belongings.”
“You sure you want to try cooking again?” She sounds skeptical.
“Such little faith in me! Even if I did almost burn down the kitchen… But after last night’s lesson? Absolutely. As you taught me, I will keep it simple.” I rise to my full height, stretching all eight legs while my primary arms extend above my head. “I am an exceptional student, you know.”
“You’re also exceptionally confident,” June teases, standing as well, leaving the silk cocoon to stand there gloriously naked. My mandibles click rapidly at the sight.
But before I can get too aroused, she grabs a throw blanket I made as one of my earliest textile projects, and wraps it around her form in a makeshift robe. “I’ll be quick.”
I watch her walk toward the door, admiring the way the morning light catches in her hair, the determined set of her shoulders, the graceful efficiency of her movements. When the door closes behind her, I allow myself a moment of pure, undiluted satisfaction.
June Hartwell is in my home, wearing my silk, carrying my scent. Even if it’s temporary—even if it’s just for these few days—I will savor every second of this unexpected gift.
In the kitchen, I set about preparing what I hope will be an acceptable breakfast. Coffee first; I’ve observed this is non-negotiable for most humans before any meaningful morning interaction.
I measure the grounds precisely, add filtered water to the reservoir, and press the appropriate button.
The machine begins to gurgle satisfyingly.
The refrigerator yields eggs, bacon, and various vegetables that could be incorporated into an omelet.
After last night’s disaster, I approach the stove with appropriate caution.
Heat setting to medium. Patience, not force.
June’s cooking lesson echoes in my mind as I carefully crack eggs into a bowl.
I’m so focused on not destroying another meal that I don’t immediately register the sound of a door opening. Not the front door where June would enter, but the back entrance that only one other person ever uses.
I suppress a groan. Not the dust bunny…
“Riven? Are you conscious yet?” I hear Celeste’s voice echo through the room.
“I brought those special inks you needed for your latest textile project,” she calls, her footsteps growing louder as she approaches the kitchen.
“And also some of that weird organic honey from California that you insist is better than the generic stuff, though I still think you’re being pretentious about—”
Celeste stops mid-sentence, mid-stride, and mid-gesture as she enters the kitchen. Her enormous compound eyes go wider than I’ve ever seen them as her antennae freeze in place. The packages she’s carrying tumble from her upper arms while her lower ones grip the doorframe for support.
“You’re cooking,” she says gravely, as if witnessing something so improbable it might disappear if acknowledged too loudly. “Cooking human food and not just munching on raw bugs.”
“An astute observation.” I flip the bacon with perhaps more force than necessary.
Her wings begin to flutter rapidly, sending a fine dusting of scales into the air. “You never cook breakfast. You never cook anything. You exist on whatever poor creatures get caught in your webs outside.”
“I’m expanding my skill set.”
“You’re wearing those ridiculous slippers.” She points accusingly at my feet, where the pastel pink monstrosities are indeed adorning my chitinous legs. “And you made coffee, with two mugs set aside. You never make coffee for me, which means…”
“Yes, yes. Get on with it.”
Celeste takes a tentative step forward, her antennae twitching frantically. “Riven, did you actually—”
The front door opens, and June walks in, now dressed in her practical cargo pants and a clean shirt, her hair pulled back into its usual ponytail. She stops abruptly when she sees Celeste, and for a moment, the three of us form a bizarre standoff in my kitchen as none of us dares to speak.
Finally, June recovers first. “Oh. Uh, hello.”
Celeste’s wings begin to beat so rapidly they create a small dust storm in the kitchen. “There’s a woman in your house. And she’s still alive. And she’s smiling!”
“Celeste,” I say with what I consider admirable restraint. “This is June Hartwell. June, this is Celeste Moreau, my business partner and the bane of my existence.”
“It’s nice to meet you,” June says with that practical politeness that comes so naturally to her. “I’ve never met a… mothwoman?”
Celeste’s face breaks into a wide grin. “Mothman is the proper term, actually. I mean, think about it. You aren’t a huwoman, are you?”
June laughs, the sound warming the room. “Fair point.”
“Anyhow!” Celeste exclaims, finally releasing the doorframe and practically bouncing into the kitchen. “I have been dying to meet you! The delivery driver who got past Mr. Trust-Issues-And-Security-Webs! The woman who didn’t run off screaming the moment she saw Mr. Grumpylegs!”
“The bacon is burning,” I announce, turning back to the stove with a growl of frustration.
“Let it burn!” Celeste waves dismissively with her upper arms while her lower ones begin collecting the packages she dropped. “This is the most exciting thing that’s happened in this house since… ever!”
“There was a mudslide,” June explains, moving toward the coffee pot with the casual confidence of someone who belongs in this space. “I’m stuck up here until they clear the roads.”
“A mudslide?” Celeste repeats. “When?”
“Yesterday afternoon.”
“And you’ve been here since then?” Her compound eyes dart between us, clearly calculating the timeline and its implications. “Overnight?”
“Celeste,” I warn.