Chapter 14
Promises, Promises
June
The next two days pass in a haze of domesticity that feels almost surreal after years of carefully controlled solitude.
I wake each morning wrapped in silk and limbs, Riven’s massive form curled protectively around me in whatever hammock we’ve ended up in.
The first time I stir, he’s already awake, all six eyes tracking my movements with an intensity that should probably unnerve me but instead makes me feel cherished in a way I never have before.
The days blur together inside Riven’s mountain sanctuary, time measured not by hours but by moments of discovery.
Learning to live with a twelve-foot spider man comes with unexpected challenges and surprising comforts.
For one thing, I’ve realized that my grumpy arachnid has absolutely no idea how to make a decent cup of coffee, despite owning a top-of-the-line espresso machine.
“You’re burning it,” I tell him on our fourth morning as I watch him murder perfectly good beans. “The water’s too hot. And you’re grinding them too fine.”
“Impossible,” Riven growls, his eyes fixed stubbornly on the machine as it produces what smells like liquid tar. “I followed the exact specifications from the manual.”
I slip between his massive form and the counter, nudging him aside with my hip. “Coffee isn’t about manuals. It’s about feeling.”
He clicks his mandibles skeptically but doesn’t stop me as I dump his attempt down the drain and start fresh.
“This is why I prefer tea,” he mutters, but watches with obvious fascination as I adjust settings and measure beans by eye rather than his meticulous gram scale.
Once it's finished brewing and I hand him the finished product, he takes a cautious sip, and all six eyes widen simultaneously.
“This is…” he pauses, mandibles working as he searches for the right word, “…acceptable.”
Coming from Riven, that’s practically a standing ovation. I hide my smile in my own mug.
In return for my coffee tutorial, Riven shows me how he creates his art.
I spend hours watching him work in his workshop, perched on one of the silk platforms while he creates new tapestries.
His movements in that space are hypnotic.
His eight legs work in perfect coordination as his upper body manipulates threads with a delicacy that seems impossible for someone his size.
He explains his process in that dry, matter-of-fact tone, pointing out how tension and humidity affect the silk’s behavior, how certain patterns require specific anchor points.
“This one’s for a museum in Seattle,” he says, gesturing to a half-completed piece that depicts mountains at sunset in stunning detail. “They believe I’m some mysterious genius folk artist.”
“Are you not?”
He pauses, and I swear he gets a little bashful. “Well, perhaps.”
Evenings are reserved for reality TV, which remains Riven’s primary anthropological text for understanding human behavior. His commentary has not improved in accuracy, but it has become exponentially more entertaining.
“Note the male’s territorial display,” he observes as we watch some dating show trainwreck. “The chest-puffing, the aggressive proximity to rival males. Textbook dominance behavior.”
“That’s just Chad being drunk and obnoxious.”
“Exactly. Dominance behavior.”
“That’s not—” I stop, because honestly, he might have a point about Chad.
“The female appears receptive,” Riven continues, fully committed to his analysis. “Observe the hair-tossing, and the strategic clothing adjustments to display assets.”
“Assets?”
“Mammary presentation is a key element of human courtship,” he states with the confidence of someone who has definitely been watching too much reality TV. “As is the ‘smoky eye,’ though I remain unclear on how atmospheric particulates enhance attractiveness.”
I’m laughing so hard I nearly fall out of his lap. “It’s makeup! It’s just a makeup technique!”
“Hmm. My research suggests otherwise.” He pulls me closer with one leg, settling me more firmly against his side. “Though I find your natural appearance far more appealing than these… enhanced specimens.”
“Smooth recovery.”
“I contain multitudes.”
The nights are… well. The nights are why I’m going to need at least a week to recover once I get home. Possibly a month. Maybe a year.
At night, we return to the hammocks—all of them, eventually, as I make good on my promise to try each one.
Riven approaches each session with the focused intensity of someone conducting very important research, carefully cataloging which positions I prefer, which angles make me gasp, which patterns of his vibrating cock make me completely lose the ability to form coherent sentences.
It’s during these moments, wrapped in his silk with his body against mine, that I realize I’ve stopped trying to optimize or control anything. For the first time in years—maybe ever—I’m just… existing. Being cared for. Letting someone else take charge.
It feels like finally setting down a weight I didn’t know I was carrying.
On the fifth night, we’re tangled together in his largest hammock, my head on his chest, his legs curved around us like a living cage. The silk he’s woven around us is warm, and I can hear the storm outside, muffled by the cave’s depth.
“What happens when the roads clear?” I ask quietly.
His whole body tenses beneath me. “You return to your route. Your father. Your life.”
“And you?”
“I remain here. As always.”
There’s something hollow in his voice, and I tilt my head up to look at him. In the bioluminescent glow of the silk, his alien features are softened, almost gentle.
“That’s not what I meant,” I say carefully. “I meant… us. What happens to us?”
His mandibles click softly. “That depends on what you want to happen.”
“I’m asking what you want.”
“I want—” He stops, and I feel the vibration of his internal struggle through the silk. “I want you to stay. I want to wake up with you in my nest every morning and fall asleep with you in my arms every night. I want—”
He cuts himself off abruptly, and I realize his voice has been getting progressively rougher, more desperate.
“I want to keep you,” he finally says, so quietly I almost miss it. “But I have no right to ask that of you.”
My heart flips in my chest. This massive, alien predator who could literally keep me here with minimal effort—who has more strength in one leg than I have in my whole body—is asking permission. Is acknowledging my choice.
“You’re not asking,” I point out. “I’m asking you. Is that what you want?”
“Yes.” His legs tighten around me fractionally. “Yes, I want you to be mine. Permanently. Exclusively. In every way that matters to both our species.”
I should be scared. This is moving so fast, faster than any relationship I’ve ever had. We’ve known each other for such a short time, and most of that involved me being either professionally polite or literally tied up.
But instead of fear, I feel… settled. Like something that’s been misaligned inside me for years has finally clicked into place.
“Okay,” I say simply.
“Okay?” He sounds incredulous.
“Okay, I’ll stay. I mean, not full-time immediately. I still have a business to run, and Dad needs my help. But…” I prop myself up to look at him properly. “I want this. You. Us. Whatever this becomes.”
“You’re certain?” Those six eyes are searching my face like he’s looking for any sign of doubt.
“I’m not easy to live with. I’m territorial and possessive.
I will want to know where you are at all times, and I won’t react well to any perceived threats to your safety.
My species bonds for life, June. There is no casual dating.
If you choose this—choose me—I will never let you go. ”
“Promises, promises,” I say, and kiss his cheek.
The sound he makes is somewhere between a growl and a purr, and then I’m on my back, his weight carefully distributed on the hammock around me as he demonstrates exactly how possessive he can be.
It’s a very convincing argument.
The call from my dad comes the following morning, just as I’m teaching Riven the correct way to crack eggs without getting shell fragments everywhere.
“Too much force,” I’m saying, watching him pulverize another egg with his massive hands. “You’ve got to be gentle—”
My phone buzzes on the counter, Dad’s name flashing on the screen. I’m quick to answer. “Dad?”
“Junebug!” His voice is warm with relief when I answer. “Got good news. Road crews just cleared the main pass. You should be able to get down the mountain now.”
Instead of feeling relief, my stomach drops like I’ve missed a step in the dark.
“That’s great,” I manage, aware of Riven’s sudden stillness beside me. “What’s the damage to the route?”
“Pretty rough in spots, but your truck can handle it. I’ve got a backlog here that needs sorting, though. Mrs. Patterson’s been calling about her medication, and—”
“I’ll head down now,” I interrupt, my brain already shifting into logistics mode even as my heart protests. “Put together the priority list. I can start deliveries by noon.”
We talk for another minute about which roads are still closed, which clients need urgent deliveries, the usual operational details. Then I hang up, and the kitchen feels too quiet.
Riven is very carefully not looking at me, focused intently on the eggs in front of him. He manages to crack one shell perfectly down the middle, dropping its contents cleanly in the pan.
For a moment, the only sound is the egg frying.
“So,” I say eventually. “Roads are clear.”
“I heard.”
“I need to get back. People are waiting on their deliveries, and—”
“I understand.” His tone is perfectly neutral, which somehow makes it worse. “Your work is important.”
It is. I know it is. I have clients who rely on my deliveries, who need their medications and other essential supplies. Not to mention my dad will need help sorting the backlog that’s surely been piling up in the warehouse.
But the thought of leaving this cabin, of returning to my normal routes and schedules and carefully controlled life, makes me want to scream.
“Do you have a phone number?” I ask instead. “So I can… We can…”
I trail off, hating how uncertain I sound.
Riven finally looks at me with an unreadable expression.
“I don’t have a phone number,” he admits quietly. “I’ve never had anyone to call before.”
The words hit me square in the chest. Eighty years of isolation, and I’m the first person he’s ever wanted to stay in touch with. The first person who’s made him want contact with the outside world.
“Email then,” I say, pulling out my phone before I can think better of it. “Give me your business email.”
He recites it slowly while I type it into my contacts, and when I look up, something in his expression has softened slightly.
“As long as your truck is on this mountain,” he says, reaching out to run one armored finger along my jaw, “I’ll know. The vibrations—I feel them through the earth. I’ll know when you’re coming.”
“That’s either romantic or stalkerish,” I tell him, but I’m leaning into his touch. “I haven’t decided which.”
“Both,” he says. “Definitely both.”
I laugh despite the ache in my chest, and he pulls me against him in an embrace that feels desperately possessive.
“You’ll come back,” he says, but it’s not quite a statement so much as a question.
“I’ll come back,” I promise, and mean it with every fiber of my being.
Twenty minutes later, I’m in my truck with a thermos of coffee Riven insisted on making and the burgundy scarf wrapped gently around my neck.
The drive down the mountain is treacherous.
The road crews have cleared the worst of the mudslide, but debris still litters the asphalt, and new streams cut across sections where water has redirected itself.
I navigate carefully, my mind already shifting back into logistics mode: planning routes, calculating delivery times, prioritizing packages based on need and location.
Dad calls as I’m partway down.
“How’s it looking up there?” he asks.
“Passable,” I report. “They did a good job clearing the main road. Some of the side routes might still be blocked though.”
“I’ve got the manifest ready for you,” he says, and I can hear papers shuffling. “Thirty-six packages total. I’ve marked the priorities.”
We spend the next ten minutes discussing the delivery plan for the coming days. Dad’s voice pulls me back into the familiar rhythm of Hartwell Delivery Service after days in Riven’s otherworldly domain.
“You okay, Junebug?” he asks suddenly, breaking the flow of our logistics discussion. “You sound… different.”
“I’m fine,” I assure him quickly. “Just tired. It’s been an intense few days.”
“Mmm,” he hums, unconvinced. “Did the client treat you all right?”
Heat rises to my face as memories flash through my mind of Riven’s voice rumbling praise as he claimed me in ways I never imagined possible.
“He was a perfect gentleman,” I say, fighting to keep my voice steady.
Dad’s silence speaks volumes.
“Well, uh, I should stay focused on the road.”
“That you should,” Dad says dryly. “All right, Junebug. Drive safe.”
We hang up, then as I round a bend near the base of the mountain, flashing lights catch my attention. A police cruiser is parked across one lane, creating an impromptu checkpoint.
I pull to a stop beside the cruiser. Deputy Dale Brennan stands beside his vehicle, looking official in his uniform. When he recognizes my truck, he straightens, his expression hardening into something that makes my stomach knot with unease.
Dale approaches with his official face on, the one that means he’s in full deputy mode rather than the awkward guy who flirts with me at Merry’s Diner.
“Ma’am,” he says formally. “Please step out of the vehicle.”
Not “Hey June,” or “Good to see you made it down safely.” Just formal, clipped, and very serious.
My hand freezes on the door handle as I process the implication of that tone. Behind him, I can see another officer I don’t recognize waiting by the cruiser.
“Is there a problem, Dale?” I ask, keeping my voice level.
“Step out of the vehicle, please.” His hand rests on his belt, not quite on his weapon but close enough to make the threat clear.
Ice floods my veins. This definitely isn’t a friendly welfare check…
I unbuckle my seatbelt with careful, deliberate movements and open the door, my mind racing through the possibilities. There can’t be outstanding warrants; I’ve never even gotten a speeding ticket. The truck’s registration is current. My insurance is paid.
So just what the hell could this possibly be about?