Chapter 28
AMAIA
Another week, another trip to the cropland, I thought, gritting my teeth against the strain of the basket of hatchling feed. This particular batch stank even more than the last.
Even though I’d woken this morning feeling untouchable, the high from last night had slowly descended into a brooding mood.
When Syris, Moak, and I had reached the farmstead, expecting to see Brune, we’d been informed by one of the tillers that he’d been sent away from his duties.
Nysa and his son, who Brune had been assigned to live with, didn’t want him under their roof any longer after what Ryak had done.
As such, I’d learned that Brune was living with Ethrisha but was evidently keeping a low profile around the village until it was a certain decision about his return to Dakkar.
The snickering stares as I lugged the feed back up the pathway, past the rider acolytes—Nevin not among them, making me think that he, too, had been driven from his post—and through the roads of Grymia, only added to my mood.
“Ignore them,” Syris panted, glaring at a small group of younger Karag who made snide remarks as I passed, laughing when I turned my back.
It didn’t stop there, however. As we rounded the corner near the washing house, a steam-filled dwelling solely for laundry, one of the workers outside spat as I passed.
Actually spat. I was so shocked, his spit narrowly missing my boot, that the feed bucket nearly tumbled from my hand when I tried to swing back.
“What’s wrong with you?” Syris hissed out at the stranger, surprising me because she was not someone who liked to be confrontational. But she was mad, her yellow eyes spitting fire. Her bucket dropped as she put her hands on her hips and glared.
“Whoa, whoa,” Moak said. He pushed between the Karag male and Syris when she stepped up to him.
“Hold on there,” he murmured down to Syris, his brow raising in what I thought was intrigue.
“As much as I would love to see you take him on, I don’t think you’ll be happy about it when the dust settles, all right? ”
“And it’s not your fight,” I added quietly. “Just leave it alone, Syris.”
She pushed Moak’s hands away. “Fine. I’m just tired of…of…small-minded, judgmental bastards like him who think it’s okay to spit at anyone.”
“They fucking deserve it,” the male said, glaring. “They don’t belong here.”
“What’s going on?” came a familiar voice, calling out from down the pathway. An angry voice, cutting and sharp.
When I turned, I saw Alaryk, Myzalla, and another male that I knew was one of his riders, heading toward the landing field. Dresnar was his name, if I remembered correctly.
The washhouse male tilted his chin up. “Nothing, Karath. Nothing at all.”
“I highly doubt that,” he said, breaking away from the others to approach, his strides quick.
Alaryk’s gaze cut to mine, and I felt it whittle me down to bone, like he could see everything I was feeling. How could he do that?
But I was looking straight back at him. When he stood an arm’s length away, I was reminded of the tingling between my thighs.
Remnants from the night before, like my body had been held suspended on the precipice too long.
I hadn’t seen him since last night, which likely also accounted for my brooding mood.
I’d swung my head to try to spy him in Grymia, my cheeks flushing at Syris’s teasing.
I’d wanted to catch the merest glimpse of him.
It was alarming how quickly he’d settled into my mind, a permanent fixture.
There had been a guard to greet me this morning, but Moak had assured him there wouldn’t be any trouble on his watch as we ventured to the farmlands, so he’d stayed behind at the hatchery, finally taking his meal for the afternoon.
Alaryk would likely have his head, now that I thought about it, which spiked my worry.
“What happened?” Alaryk’s clipped voice came, standing close enough that I could feel his heat. I wanted to reach out to touch him, the impulse so instinctive, but I was aware of the dozens of eyes on us.
Belatedly, I realized his voice was raspier, smokier than usual. Because of last night? Because he’d been groaning and bellowing out his pleasure as the moonlight had crept up the wall of his dwelling?
Part of me was proud I’d made him come undone, unraveling all his threads for me to see. Alaryk Arn’dyne, in the daylight, seemed untouchable. Physically large and impossibly intimidating, like the golden statues in Dothik, where you could look but never touch.
But in the hushed darkness of night? He was someone different.
Someone who’d lain his past out before me, to prod and judge.
Someone whose hand had tightened in my hair as I lapped at the metal piercings lining his shaft, trying to make him squirm beneath me, trying to elicit that half moan, half gasp that I feared I’d become addicted to hearing.
Someone who’d held me tight through the night, wrapping his furnace of a body around me like a fur, not moving once.
When the sun had risen and I’d woken to an empty bed, I’d had the alarming thought that I could fall in love with him and not even know it. How easy it would be.
“He spat at her feet,” Syris helpfully supplied when I didn’t say anything.
I sighed, cutting her a sharp look of warning, which she shrugged at.
She’d been in a foul mood all day, likely due to another hatchling birth in the middle of the night.
They’d all gotten only a few hours of sleep, and I’d felt immensely guilty when I’d discovered that upon my arrival. I should’ve been there to help.
“He did what?” came the quiet words from Alaryk, staring directly into the male’s eyes, making him freeze.
“N-Not at her,” the male stuttered. “She just happened to step there as I was spitting.”
Syris scoffed. “What a bucket of lies.”
“Leave it,” I said softly to Alaryk, looking up at him with pleading eyes.
I didn’t want to make anything worse in the village, especially since this incident was already attracting a large crowd of onlookers.
One of them was the female from the feast, one of Alaryk’s lovers, and seeing her made my gut twist as jealousy tangled with the mess of emotions inside me.
I forced myself to look away from her, to meet Alaryk’s eyes.
I felt like we were all holding our breath still. The tension was rising, and I just wanted peace.
“Please,” I said quietly, the word meant just for him.
“Potra,” came Alaryk’s icy voice, though his eyes never left mine. His arm brushed my side.
“Yes, Karath?” the male asked, trepidation in his voice.
Finally, Alaryk’s gaze cut to him, a cold glare in his eyes that had me even shuddering. “Some livestock gave birth this morning on the farmlands. Some of the dressings need to be picked up, washed, and delivered to Gralkin before nightfall. Take care of that.”
Potra’s shoulders fell. “That’s usually Hethro’s responsibility, and—”
Alaryk’s glare cut off whatever he was about to say. “It’s yours now,” he said, his withering tone allowing no further questions.
“Yes, Karath. Right away,” Potra squeaked and headed off down the road that led to where we’d just come from. I imagined him carrying up armfuls of stinking, bloodied bedding from the births and only felt marginally better.
“Serves him right,” I heard Syris mutter.
“What has gotten into you today?” Moak asked quietly. His voice lowered, deeper. “And why do I like it?”
My friend’s face flamed red, but I was already looking back at Alaryk.
“Where is your guard?” he asked, peering around the small group as if making a point.
I nearly gulped. “I, uh, wanted him to stay back at the hatchery while we went to get the feed. No use in all of us suffering. And he hadn’t eaten all day.”
Alaryk’s nostrils flared. “He doesn’t leave your side when you’re not with me,” he rasped. “And I’ll make sure he remembers that.”
“I insisted,” I said, seeing Moak’s color drain a bit from the corner of my eye, since he was the one who’d convinced the guard to stay behind. “I’m fine. A little spit doesn’t worry me when I’ve had my arm up inside a pyroki giving birth.”
“You did what?” Moak asked, his tone sounding like maybe that knowledge made him respect me a little more.
Alaryk looked over his shoulder to Myzalla and Dresnar. “Go on without me—I’ll meet you down there.”
Myzalla inclined her head, her gaze flitting to mine briefly, brows pulling down, before they left. “Break it up,” she grumbled to the crowd, who slowly dispersed as she waved her hands at them.
“I’m fine,” I insisted. The stink of the feed was starting to permeate the air around us, stagnant. Alaryk took the bucket from me, hoisting it effortlessly, like it weighed nothing. And he took Syris’s too.
“I’ll see you there myself,” he rasped, jerking his head in a movement that made it clear I should start walking. “Get moving.”
His lips nearly twitched at the sharp look I cut at him. We didn’t need to bond our magic for him to hear the thought, loud and clear, that went sizzling through my mind.
Bossy.
His eyes dropped to my lips, his pupils flaring. I nearly sucked in a squeaked breath, but then I turned on my heel and trudged up the path, falling in line with Syris, who looked back and forth between Alaryk and me.
“I don’t want to hear it,” I said quietly.
“I wasn’t going to say anything,” she whispered back. She flexed her hand, a line of red cutting across her palm from the bucket’s rope handle. “I’m just glad I don’t have to lug that thing around.”
“You’re the one who offered to help Moak,” I pointed out.
She was wisely silent.
I cast a look over my shoulder. Moak was ahead of us on the pathway, but Alaryk was directly behind us. His blue eyes were piercing when they connected with mine. Then they flicked to my backside before running down the line of my long legs. Then back up again.