Chapter 6
six
. . .
Calla
Calla thought Zera looked like a dulce de coco: dark, firm, dangerously sweet. Her arms flexed as she swung the hatchet through the thick stem of a stalk of plantains, her skin glistening with sweat. The blouse she wore clung to her back, and her dark hair blew freely in the wind.
Calla wanted to braid it.
Not for vanity. Not even to flirt. Just… to help. A braid or even a ponytail would keep Zera cooler and keep the hair out of her face. But braiding meant touching her. Running her fingers through those thick coils. Feeling the heat radiating from Zera’s scalp, her neck, her skin.
And if Calla touched her again, really touched her …
She would snap the bond.
Right here. In the middle of the plantain fields. Surrounded by sweat, dirt, and buzzing flies.
Not the most romantic place for a soulmate awakening.
She froze, her breath caught in her throat.
She wanted it. She wanted the bond.
Just… not here.
This was torture. Every time Zera moved, Calla’s brain short-circuited. She tried to focus on her own task, but the small knife she’d grabbed earlier was barely cutting through anything. She grunted in frustration.
“Zera!” Calla called out, interrupting her mid-swing.
Zera straightened and looked over, her cheeks flushed and shining. “Yes?”
“I’m going to look for my machete,” she said, waving the tiny knife like it offended her. “This one’s too small.”
Zera nodded immediately and followed her as they moved through the rows of plantains to a nearby wooden shed. It was where the family kept their farming tools, and Calla always left her machete there. Always.
She opened the door, went straight to the hook, and her stomach dropped.
Gone.
She blinked, stepped back, checked the ground, the nearby shelf … nothing.
Her machete was missing.
She never carried it like a weapon. It was her comfort tool. The one with her name carved in the handle. No one in the village would dare touch it without asking.
“What is it?” Zera asked gently, standing just behind her.
Calla turned and pointed to the empty hook. “It’s gone. My machete,” she said, then mimed the cutting motion. “To cut the plantains.”
Zera frowned, looked at the space, then at her. “I have hatchet. I cut, you collect. Yes?”
Calla hesitated but nodded. “I guess.”
Still, something about it unsettled her.
As they returned to the field, Calla pulled a wooden cart behind her, keeping her eyes on the soil but only half-focused. Calla kept stealing glances. She hated herself for it. Zera noticed. Of course she did.
The Vulcanian paused, turned, and with a wide, teasing grin, flexed both arms. “Touch? Yes?”
She choked on her own breath and looked away so fast she almost tripped over the cart. “Stop that!”
Zera just laughed and went back to chopping like she didn’t just obliterate every coherent thought in Calla’s head.
“Are you like this with everyone?” Calla asked, eyes narrowing as she gathered more plantains into the cart.
Zera glanced at her, confused. “Everyone?”
“Family? Siblings? I have seven. They don’t live in the village, but they visit a lot when they want to.
I already have ten nieces and nephews, I think, I’ve lost count, if I am being honest.” Calla pursed her lips, rambling was very unlike her, then again, she had never needed to share her life story with anyone, not until Zera.
She wanted to make sure the other woman knew what she was up against if she decided to stay.
Festivals and holidays meant there would be a lot of people in Calla’s home, people she loved and cared about, and she knew well they were very overwhelming.
“Anyways. Any family?”
Zera shook her head. “No real family. Just battle. War. Train. Brothers and sisters in arms.”
Calla raised a brow. “So you live for war?”
“I live to protect,” Zera said simply, placing her hand over her chest. “I protect King Vulcan. Now Queen Kenna.” She turned, catching Calla’s gaze. “Now I protect you.”
Calla scoffed, trying to brush off the flutter that stirred in her belly. “Don’t you think that’s... lonely?”
Zera shrugged. “Loneliness was fine.” She lifted her hatchet and, with one clean swing, brought down another heavy stalk of plantains. The stalk hit the ground with a satisfying thud. Then she looked back at Calla. “Until now,” Zera said softly.
Calla froze for half a second, her fingers tightening around the cart’s handle. Her throat went dry, and her heart decided it wanted to leap out of her chest, apparently.
Zera raised her hatchet to cut another stalk when Calla let out a sharp gasp. “Wait! Not that one.”
Zera froze, blade mid-air.
“That stalk’s not ripe yet,” Calla explained, rushing over. “Not ready to eat.” She mimed putting food in her mouth, hoping Zera would get it.
Zera didn’t move. Her dark eyes swept from the plantain to Calla. Then her lips quirked.
“You are ripe,” she said, as if that clarified everything.
Calla blinked. “I’m what?”
Zera repeated it, slower this time. “You. Are. Ripe.” Her accent curled around every syllable of Florensi.
Calla frowned, stepping back. “What in the world are you talking about?”
“Ready to eat.”
Her face went scarlet. “Blessed be Demeter…” she muttered under her breath.
Zera brightened. “That is good?”
“No! I—absolutely not!”
“Plátano is soft. Sweet. Delicious,” Zera said, and her smile turned wicked.
“If you’re trying to flirt with me, let me tell you right now, it is not working.”
Zera tilted her head, utterly unbothered. “Why not? I compliment. You don’t like?”
“I don’t like being complimented by someone who’s currently glistening like a damn forest goddess,” Calla snapped and immediately regretted it. Puneta… Her voice cracked at the end. Her whole face burned.
Zera looked down at herself in confusion, clearly amused. “I… glisten?”
Calla groaned into her hands.
There was a long silence. Calla busied herself brushing dirt from her pants, determined not to make eye contact again.
But the heat still curled in her belly, worse now, because Zera just stood there, shirt clinging to her torso, arms flexed from lifting plantains, and that smirk still playing on her lips.
Trying to salvage whatever remained of her dignity, Calla blurted, “Maybe we should bond.”
Zera’s eyebrows shot up.
“I mean—” Calla looked anywhere but at her. “For language. Better communication. Less … ripe disasters.”
A long beat.
Zera leaned in, low and slow. “We bond… for better talking?”
“Yes,” Calla said quickly, trying to wave her off. “Just words, you know. Obviously.”
Zera’s grin widened. “Obvious.”
Calla turned away. “I don’t like you.”
“Yes, you do,” Zera said softly.
And Demeter help her, Calla did.