Chapter 3
three
. . .
Calla
Anda pa’l carajo.
Calla stared up into a pair of dark purple eyes, and her entire body froze. She couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move. Could only stand there, heart hammering, as a tingling sensation blossomed in her chest and spread through her arms, down to her fingertips, settling somewhere hot and deep in her belly.
Was … was this what it felt like to meet your soulmate? That pull. That ache. That quiet yet thunderous knowing. Was this the distinctive connection everyone talked about? That all-consuming magnet of want and need and fulfillment?
Blessed be Demeter and Rhea …
She exhaled shakily. It was too much. And yet... not enough.
The other woman was still staring at her. Eyes locked. Lips parted. Then those lips curved slightly, and those purple eyes dipped lower … right to Calla’s mouth.
Calla’s breath caught. She missed the intensity of their eye contact the moment it broke, and gods, that was terrifying.
She took a small step back, enough space to look … really look at the woman in front of her.
Tall. Just a few inches more than her. Thick, intricate braids lined the sides of her head, while the rest of her black hair hung straight and soft past her shoulders.
Her body was all sharp muscles with broad shoulders, strong arms, small breasts wrapped in thick leather, and pale skin streaked with soot, sweat, and battle paint.
This woman wasn’t a warrior. She was war. They weren’t lying when they said Vulcanians were the children of Ares.
And yet, as rough and brutal as she looked, Calla felt no fear, only desire—raw, hungry, impossible desire.
Lust pooled low in her belly. Her thighs clenched.
Then she noticed Zera’s grip was tight around the handle of the hatchet strapped to her waist.
Calla’s soul almost left her body.
Those hands. Thick, callused, strong. They looked like the hands in her dreams. The ones that held her down. That touched her with reverence. That made her burn.
“Ay, puneta…” she whispered.
But of course, her mother heard her.
“Calla, ?todo bien?” Amara asked sharply.
Calla blinked hard, forcing her eyes away, and turned to her mother with the most casual smile she could manage. “Yes, mami. All good.”
“?Segura?”
“Yes. I’m sure.”
Amara scoffed but let it go. “Well… I leave you two to it. Dinner will be ready soon.” She turned to Zera, who hadn’t moved an inch, still staring at Calla like she was trying to memorize every inch of her face.
“Do you eat pork, Vulcanian?” Amara asked.
Zera nodded without blinking. Her eyes never left Calla’s.
Calla could feel the heat rolling off her.
“Bueeeno…” Amara muttered, squeezing Calla’s hand before walking away.
As soon as her mother disappeared down the path, Calla turned back to face Zera. The warrior still hadn’t moved. Her body was tense, frozen, and focused entirely on Calla.
Calla offered a hesitant, one-sided smile and gave a small, awkward wave. “Hola.”
Zera inhaled sharply. “Greetings, Calla… my mate.”
Calla’s eyes widened. Ay, puneta…
Calla waited until her mother was truly gone before she tried speaking again. Finding her voice was harder than it should’ve been. The certainty of it sat heavily in her chest. This woman was her soulmate. No question. She had never felt anything like that pull before.
And yet … she couldn’t meet those smoldering purple eyes. Not when Zera was already devouring her with a look.
“Do you understand Florensi?” Calla asked, carefully.
Zera tilted her head, pinching her thumb and index finger together. “Un poquito.”
“A little. Alright. Good enough. I don’t know any Arevulcan, and your accent is very, very thick, so—”
“Now we fuck. Bond snaps into place. Problem solved.” Zera stepped closer, dangerous and sure. “Here or your home?”
Puneta.
Calla stumbled back a step, hands lifting between them. “You’re not here for that.”
“No. Plans change.” Another step.
“’Pérate—wait!” Calla took another hurried step back, nearly tripping.
“Let’s… focus on what you came for.” She turned and pointed to the greenhouse, choosing slow, clear words Zera could follow.
Gods, this woman. Zera’s nostrils flared; that gorgeous, battle-forged body was coiled tight and controlled, but on the verge of breaking.
Redirect. Now. Or they’d both be lost.
“Follow me,” Calla said, pivoting on her heel and heading for the greenhouse. Her steps were light, whereas Zera’s were heavy like a predator stalking its prey, and for a second, Calla didn’t mind the idea of getting caught.
Calla opened the greenhouse door and stepped aside to let Zera enter. The Vulcanian ducked slightly through the frame, her broad shoulders nearly brushing either side.
Calla led her toward the far corner, where large clay jars and wooden crates sat stacked neatly near the compost pits. She paused beside a worktable laden with tools, jars, and baskets. “Tell me about the Vulcan Kingdom,” she said, motioning for Zera to stand beside her.
Zera arched a brow.
“The soil,” Calla clarified, scooping a handful of dark earth from a nearby bucket. “How dry is it?”
Zera blinked, as if suddenly remembering the cover for her mission. “Dry. Volcanic. Lava.”
“Volcanic. Got it.” Calla turned toward the table, scanning over her supplies, which were a mess of chipped clay pots of ground seashell, baskets of dried seaweed, jars of crushed eggshells, rotting fruit scraps, and the dark, rich humus she’d been tending for months.
The air was warm and earthy, scented faintly with mango peel and damp leaves.
“First, we need to loosen the earth, break it apart so it can breathe,” she explained. She bent over a low bin and used a hand rake to churn the soil, letting air filter through the packed dirt. She felt Zera’s eyes on her immediately, and heat bloomed in her cheeks.
To distract herself, Calla reached for a small clay vase filled with compost mix: banana peel, crushed passionfruit rind, and powdered eggshell. “This helps give the soil more life,” she said, lifting it toward Zera. “The fruit adds moisture and sugar, the shells give it strength—”
The vase slipped from her fingers.
Before it could shatter, Zera caught it with one hand, so fast Calla barely saw the movement. Their eyes locked as Zera held it out. When Calla reached to take it back, their fingers brushed.
It was electric.
For hands that had wielded hatchets, Zera’s were surprisingly warm. Calla’s mind betrayed her, wondering what they’d feel like elsewhere. Would she be gentle? Or absolutely barbaric?
She risked a glance at Zera’s face. The Vulcanian’s eyes were fixed on their joined hands, her expression enthralled.
“Soft,” Zera murmured in her broken Florensi, the word rich and slow, made more sensual by her thick accent.
She stepped closer, letting her fingers trail down Calla’s wrist before curling around her forearm.
“Strong.” The grin that followed was dangerous, her purple eyes lowering as her other hand slid to Calla’s waist, steadying her. “You come to Vulcan Kingdom with me.”
Calla’s chest slammed against her ribs. She pushed Zera back firmly enough to create space. There was a flicker of hurt in the other woman’s gaze before Calla turned away.
Her words tumbled over each other as she tried to continue her lesson, pointing out a stack of terracotta pots and a basket of seedling trays. But the heat in her cheeks wouldn’t fade, her pulse wouldn’t slow, and the space between them still felt charged.
She moved to grab another tool, not watching her step, and her foot caught on a stray coil of rope left on the floor. She stumbled, bumping into a hanging rack of drying herbs. The rosemary and lemongrass swayed, releasing a sudden burst of scent into the air.
But it was Zera who kept her upright, one strong hand gripping Calla’s waist, the other braced on the workbench beside them. The movement pushed their bodies together, pinning Calla between the Vulcanian and the solid wood.
Zera’s chest rose and fell against her back, her breath hot on Calla’s neck, surrounding her, caging her in.
Calla stared at the mess of dirt and tools scattered on the bench, willing herself to think about anything but the woman pressed against her.
Then she felt Zera’s mouth, warm and insistent, at the junction of her neck and shoulder.
“You smell like earth and heat,” Zera murmured, her voice low, rough, dangerous. She nuzzled closer, nose grazing Calla’s skin. “Fuck …” The foreign curse rolled off her tongue like something sinful. “I know you taste sweet …”
Calla gasped. Her hands scrambled for the nearest object, finding a bucket of clean water.
Before she could second-guess herself, she tipped it over her own shoulder, the cold stream splashing down her back and directly into Zera’s face.
The Vulcanian yelped, jerking back and cursing in rapid Arevulcan. “Cold!” she barked, wiping at her dripping face, but her eyes stayed locked on Calla, intense and searching.
Something in her gaze shifted, softened. Bewilderment replaced hunger as her eyes flicked lower.
Calla followed the look and cursed under her breath. The thin white linen blouse she wore was plastered to her chest, the fabric nearly transparent.
She spun to face Zera, flapping her hands in a frantic shooing motion before crossing her arms tightly over her breasts, trying and failing to hide the hardening nipples.
“We should wash up,” she said, voice tighter than she’d intended. Zera didn’t move. “Dinner is probably ready,” Calla added quickly, sidestepping around her and heading for the door. She opened it and slipped out without looking back, moving fast toward the small home she shared with her mother.
Behind her, Zera’s voice followed, still cursing in Arevulcan.