Chapter 21
CHAPTER 21
Rekosh knew his eyes should’ve been upon the spitted nurunal roasting over the fire. Between the tantalizing song of sizzling meat and crackling flames and the tempting aroma filling his nose, his stomach was twisting with anticipation. And he was sure his mate was just as hungry.
It had been several eightdays since he’d last cooked, and the task required attention. Most of the humans were comfortable enough with the process that they scarce paid it any heed, almost instinctively tending their meals while engaged in conversations or other tasks. But Rekosh was not so skilled at it yet. He knew only that too little time would result in meat his Ahmya found unappetizing and potentially sickening, while too much would produce a charred, inedible chunk of waste.
And what of his surroundings? They’d found good shelter, but that didn’t mean he could neglect keeping watch. They were protected from behind and to one side by rock walls, overgrown with vines and moss. On their other side, a massive, misshapen tree grew at an angle, serving as a wall and roof of their shelter.
Though the entrance to this natural chamber was only a few segments across, that was more than enough for danger to make its way inside.
But he could not pry his eyes from Ahmya. She sat on a thick branch on the other side of the fire, watching the meat and the dancing flames, oblivious to his struggle.
She was wearing her boots again. He understood why; they were durable and dependable, and kept her feet protected. The boots didn’t bother him.
The pink silk coverings she’d put back on very much did.
Those simple garments had been inferior even before the ordeals Rekosh and Ahmya had endured. Now, they were stained and ragged.
And the silk wasn’t his .
That was the true source of his ire—his mate was wearing silk from another vrix, possibly another male. That was no different than someone else trying to claim her. He would not allow it, would not tolerate it any longer.
His grip on the stick holding the meat aloft strengthened, and the wood creaked in protest.
That fabric did not deserve to touch Ahmya’s skin, did not deserve to be anywhere near her.
Only his silk from now on.
He emitted a low growl.
Ahmya looked up at him and arched a brow. “I don’t believe that was your stomach rumbling.”
Rekosh huffed. “It was not.”
The corners of her lips curled into a wide grin, and she tugged on the end of her tattered skirt. “Are you still angry about this?”
His mandible fangs clacked together as he forced his eyes to the meat, folding his lower arms across his chest.
“Rekosh!” Ahmya laughed. “I already explained why I’m wearing this.”
Because the dress he’d made for her wasn’t appropriate for traversing the jungle, because she couldn’t bear to see it damaged or soiled, because she wanted it in perfect condition to show off when they returned to Kaldarak.
None of that changed the fact that she was clad in another vrix’s silk instead of his.
With a teasing glint in her eyes, she folded her arms across the tops of her knees and bent forward. “You’re cute when you’re powtee .”
“I do not know that word,” he bit out.
“Sulky, grouchy, grumpy.”
Forcing his mandibles down, he turned the meat over the fire. “I am not powtee .”
Sitting up, Ahmya stuck out her bottom lip and crossed her arms over her chest with a huff.
He narrowed his eyes. “What is this? What are you doing?”
“Copying exactly what you just did. Pouting.”
“Stop.”
Ahmya only stuck out her bottom lip again and peered up at him with wide, sad eyes.
Rekosh knew what she was doing. He knew, and yet…that look on her face, in her gaze, seized his heartsthread and pulled on it.
No . No, he would not let her distract him. His mood was justified. And if she did not wish to wear the dress for fear it would be ruined, he would make another, and he would leave her no choice but to don it.
Withdrawing the meat from over the fire, he rose and held the stick toward her. “It is done. Eat.”
As soon as she took the stick, Rekosh stepped away, snatched up his bag, and opened it. He reached inside and dug through the contents until he found a clean silk blanket tucked away at the bottom. He tugged it out, followed by his sewing supplies—needles, thread, and a blackrock knife.
“What are you doing?” Ahmya asked .
“Pouting.” He unfurled the blanket. “Eat, Ahmya.”
Without looking up to see if she obeyed, he began his work. While the blanket wasn’t necessarily the fabric he’d have chosen to make into clothing for her, it was woven from his silk, by his hands, and that was all that mattered.
The dress formed in his mind’s eye, clear and sure, and he deftly sliced and trimmed the fabric so it would conform to her body. Elegant but practical. That was what his mate needed, and that was what he would provide.
His long fingers manipulated the cloth without need for thought, slipping needles into place to hold the seam together. He checked the form, spreading it open at the waist, envisioning his hands around Ahmya’s body. He knew it now. Intimately.
No more guessing. This would fit her perfectly when it was done, he’d ensure it.
After a few slight adjustments, he threaded a needle and began sewing. Though he took care with every stitch, his fingers moved deftly, nimbly, with instinctual confidence and ease. Each time the needle pierced the fabric, he could imagine it more clearly—his silk hugging his mate’s lithe body in the form of this new dress.
He could envision patterns running across the fabric, accentuating her natural curves, and his fingers itched with the desire to add those flourishes, but he prevented himself from doing so. Practical. Functional. This wasn’t the time for such details.
Every stitch was straight, tight, and precise as he worked along the seam. Though the firelight was erratic, he didn’t need it to guide him; he could’ve done this with his eyes covered, in complete darkness.
As a broodling, how many nights had he lain awake with thoughts, with terrors, with memories tumbling through his mind that could only be silenced through distraction? How many times had he taken up thread in the darkness and focused on its feel, its strength, its delicacy?
When the world seemed so impossibly big, so lonely, so frightening, he’d always had the simplicity of thread to ground him. Because from that simplicity, such wonders could be wrought.
The humans had crafted a massive dwelling of metal, powered by lightning, that had carried them here from distant stars. Even in its ruined state, it had been fascinating. It had been awe-inspiring.
But a cloth skillfully and lovingly woven from tiny threads was no less impressive to him. Silk was everything to the vrix—it could be warmth and privacy, it could be stories and history, it could be community as weavers worked, talked, chittered, and grumbled.
It held everything together. Everyone.
Rekosh was nearing the hem of the dress when a hand appeared in front of his face holding a large chunk of meat.
“Rekosh, eat,” Ahmya said.
He started. The needle slipped, pricking his finger, and he reflexively snapped his hand back with a hiss.
Ahmya gasped, her eyes rounding. “I’m so sorry!”
Though he’d neither seen nor heard movement, she’d apparently stood up and walked around the fire to stand beside him.
With a soft chitter, Rekosh turned his finger toward the fire, checking for the telltale glistening of blood. “The pain was small, vi’keishi . What do you say? Teenie weenie?” He held up a hand, forefinger and thumb separated by a thread’s width of space. “But I do not want to stain the cloth.”
“I didn’t mean to startle you. It’s just…” She looked down, and Rekosh followed her gaze to the stick she held, along with the meat she’d torn from it in her other hand. “Sometimes when you work, you go someplace else, and it’s like everything ar ound you disappears. You forget to even take care of yourself.”
Something warmed in Rekosh’s chest, centered around his hearts. She’d seen. Did that mean that…that she’d been watching him for as long as he’d been watching her? For her to have noticed, to care so deeply, meant more to him than he could express.
And yet, he did not want to worry her. Did not want her to have to fret over him and his wellbeing. As her mate, his duty was to ensure her existence was as carefree as possible.
His mandibles fell, and he lowered the dress slightly. “I do not mean to cause you sadness, Ahmya.”
“I’m not sad.” She met his gaze and smiled. “I can feed you while you work. You needed to eat far more than I did.”
“You would feed me, my nyleea ?”
Ahmya nodded and held the piece of meat to his mouth.
A gentle trill rolled from Rekosh’s chest. He opened his mouth and extended his tongue, drawing the meat in. It had already lost much of its heat, but the flavor was still enjoyable.
More so due to how it had been given to him.
“Thank you,” he said.
He resumed his work, keeping his attention divided between his stitching and his mate. Now that she’d broken through his haze, he could not help but notice her nearness and her scent, which remained prominent despite the smells of roasted meat and smoke. And every time she offered him another bite, he opened his mouth and accepted it readily.
When he tied off the final stitch, Rekosh cut the thread, removed the needles from the seam, and inverted the dress before holding it up for inspection.
“Were you really angry with me?” Ahmya asked.
Lowering the dress, Rekosh tilted his head and regarded her. “Angry with you? ”
She motioned to her clothing. “For wearing this.”
It felt like a snare cinched around his hearts and drew taut.
“Ahmya, how could I be angry at you? You are my vi’keishi , my nyleea . My wife.”
She smiled and shyly lowered her gaze, fingers picking at the meat on the stick.
Rekosh placed a finger beneath her chin and tipped her face back up. “I am angry only at that cloth touching you now.”
“You know these clothes and the vrix that made them don’t mean anything to me, right?”
“It is…instinct.” He tenderly stroked her jaw. “Vrix make silk. Even vrix who cannot weave can provide threads, and know that whatever it is woven into, it is from them. It is…a piece of that vrix. So to see you wearing this, it is as though another vrix is touching you, putting his scent upon you. And you are mine, Ahmya. Mine to hold, mine to touch. I would not allow another male to put his hands on you, and I cannot allow this cloth to embrace you.”
He felt the warmth of her blush against his fingers as her eyes softened. She leaned her cheek into his hand. “I understand now.”
“Good.” He set his tools aside, folded the dress over his lower forearm, and gently took the stick from her, placing it upon a nearby rock. “Now…”
Rekosh grasped Ahmya’s wrist and tugged her closer. The motion threw her off balance; she gasped, and he righted her by palming her ass, his hand now over the offending cloth.
She laughed. “What are you doing?”
Breathing in her scent, he trilled. This was the last time it would be tainted by the odor of foreign silk.
Rekosh would thoroughly enjoy this.
Releasing her wrist, he hooked the fingers of his upper hands beneath the pink silk of her top and bottom garments. The sound of the silk tearing as he rent it apart with his claws was amongst the most satisfying he’d ever heard. He ripped the fabric away from her.
Ahmya sucked in a short, sharp breath, hands flying to her body to shield her nakedness. “Rekosh!”
He tossed the tattered pink silks into the fire. The flames leapt and swirled, their light intensifying as the silk ignited. A foul odor, not unlike burned hair, filled the air.
“Not even fit to serve as rags,” he said.
That despised silk already forgotten, Rekosh lowered his gaze to drink in his mate’s naked form.
He’d been so focused on making the new dress—on her wearing it—that he’d overlooked this part of the process.
Her long black hair hung around her slim shoulders, obscuring the bite mark he’d left, but the rest of his marks were on clear display. Faint bruises and small scratches told the story of his hands on her body, gripping, squeezing, and kneading flesh as they’d mated. His fingers flexed with the yearning to hold her thus again.
He stared at the arm she’d banded across her chest. Even after they had come together so intimately, after she’d taken his stem so deeply, after his hands had explored every bit of her tender form, Ahmya retained her shyness. And he found it endearing.
Rekosh’s eyes flicked up to hers. He could not pretend to know all the secrets that dwelt in human minds and hid within their gazes, but he understood the hesitancy that flashed through hers.
Neither of them spoke for the space of a heartbeat, a moment stretched by its weight. A new light sparked in her eyes, strong, steady, determined.
Ahmya took a deep breath, chest and shoulders rising, and lowered her arms to her sides.
“Ah, kir’ani vi’keishi ,” Rekosh purred, his eyes dipping to her small, pert breasts, with their brown nipples. He grazed them with the backs of his fingers. She shivered, and before his eyes, those nipples hardened into little buds, responding swiftly, perfectly, to his touch.
She caught her bottom lip between her flat, white teeth with a whimper.
The finest silk could not rival the feel of her delicate skin, and nothing could match the thrill of watching—of feeling—her body react to him.
Rekosh’s hearts thumped a little louder, a little faster, as he trailed his touch outward from her nipples, lightly tracing the soft mounds of her breasts. The heat of her flesh flowed straight into his body and intensified with each beat of his hearts.
“How you have bloomed for me…” He slid his hands down over her belly. He felt it quiver, heard her breath hitch, and something stirred in his core. A sweet, alluring scent danced upon the air, beckoning his fingers lower, lower. One hand shifted toward her hip, while the other continued straight down.
When his touch brushed over the dark curls at the apex of her thighs, Ahmya whispered, “Rekosh...”
That scent, Ahmya’s scent, strengthened, growing headier, and Rekosh’s stem throbbed, pressing against the inside of his slit. Hunger roared through him, louder than any beast.
He drew his claspers in tight, squeezing his slit closed against that pressure, and stilled his hands. How had he not anticipated this? How could he have expected himself to avoid temptation while she was unclothed before him, while he was touching her, smelling her?
If he allowed this to continue, if he allowed his hand even a thread’s width lower, he wouldn’t be able to stop himself. He’d plunge into another frenzy .
He’d never known such yearning, such need, as he felt for his Ahmya.
When he’d asked Ketahn what it was like to mate a human, Ketahn had offered only a cryptic response— Unlike anything. That conversation had left Rekosh more intrigued than ever, with a thousand new questions and not a single answer. It was a mystery he’d been determined to solve himself.
And now he knew. Now that he’d mated his human, his Ahmya, his nyleea , he knew that unlike anything was the only response Ketahn could ever have given. He knew there were no words that could ever describe the experience adequately.
Yet as much as he craved to be inside his mate again, to feel her pussy wrapped around his cock, he knew that he’d lost control during their rutting. He’d been rough, and her untried body was sore. Though she’d assured him it was a good hurt, she needed time to rest and recover.
He would set aside his desire and give her that time. He would give her whatever she needed, no matter the discomfort or hardship he’d have to endure to do so.
Rekosh forced his hands off her. He immediately found himself battling the impulse to touch her again, and his hands hesitated in their retreat. In that tumultuous moment, he almost swore Ahmya swayed toward him, as though meaning to follow his hands…
No. It must’ve been a trick of the flickering light, nothing more.
He snatched his hands back, unfolded the dress, and raised it.
“Arms up, vi’keishi ,” he said.
Ahmya exhaled shakily before lifting her arms over her head.
Willing his hearts to slow and his stem to relent, he slipped the dress on over her arms, trying to ignore the brush of his hide against her skin as he drew it down her body .
She lowered her arms once the dress was in place.
Withdrawing from her took nearly all Rekosh’s willpower. Before Ahmya, he’d never realized just how strong—and how conflicting—instincts could be. He was driven to protect her, provide for her, and rut her. He was compelled to clothe her in his silk, yet every time he saw her in it, he was assailed by the overwhelming urge to tear it off her body and claim her again.
That desire was raging now. But he denied it, taking another step back and running his gaze over his mate to survey his work. The dress flowed with the shape of her body, but it was loose enough to easily be donned and removed. The hem hung at the tops of her knees, and the skirt was wide enough that it wouldn’t restrict her movement if she walked, ran, or climbed.
“How does it feel?” he asked.
Ahmya smoothed her palms over the fabric toward her thighs. The dress slid down her body, baring the soft flesh of her breasts and exposing her taut nipples.
Rekosh clenched his fists, and the ache in his core intensified.
She caught the top of the dress with a chuckle and tugged it back up as she met his gaze. “It feels good, but I think I need something to hold it in place better.”
“Something to hold it in place…” His mandibles sagged as he studied the dress. He’d shaped it for her body, but had left just a little looseness so she wouldn’t have to fight her way in and out of it. Of course it wasn’t going to cling to her without some means of being secured.
Creating human clothing was new, which made it a thrilling challenge for Rekosh. Despite having spent most of his life weaving and sewing, there was so much he didn’t know about the garments humans preferred, so much he had to learn. And he welcomed the process of puzzling it out. He relished the creativity required to do so.
His gaze settled on her bare shoulders. “Ah… ”
Rekosh turned away from her, snatched the spare scraps of cloth off the ground, and took up his knife. The solution was so simple, how had he not thought of it before giving her the dress?
With care that belied his excitement, he cut the scraps into thinner strips, which he separated into two sets of three. Holding on to the ends, he quickly and firmly plaited the strips into cords.
When he was done, he closed the distance between himself and Ahmya.
“Be still a moment, kir’ani vi’keishi .” Rekosh slipped his fingers under the top of her dress, peeling it slightly away from her skin, and pinned the shorter cords into place over her shoulders. “This is good?”
Smiling, Ahmya ran her fingers over one of the braided straps and nodded. “I love them.”
Rekosh trilled. After stitching the straps onto the dress, he trimmed the excess silk and stepped back to look her over.
As the thornskulls might have said… Under moon and stars, his nyleea was beautiful. But there was another thing he could do for the dress—something that would adorn it while serving a practical function.
Sinking down, he took up the longest of the cloth scraps and sliced it into more strips, his gaze flicking to his mate as she ran her hands over the dress.
“You’re going to spoil me, aren’t you?” she asked.
“Spoil you?” Fingers stilling, Rekosh cocked his head, mandibles twitching. “How would you…spoil?”
Ahmya shook her head with a chuckle. “Not spoil like food. Spoil as in pampurreeng me. Um…showering me with lots of pretty new clothes and gifts.”
Rekosh chittered as he plaited the long strips of silk. “Yes, I will spoil you. I will not rest until I have given you a gift for each star in the sky. ”
“I’m only kidding, Rekosh! I don’t need gifts.” She stepped to his side and pressed a kiss to his headcrest. “I only need you.”
Soothing warmth coursed along his heartsthread. He caught her jaw in his hand before she could pull away and turned his face toward her. “All you need, all you want. Everything. I will give it to you, Ahmya. You are all I need.”
“I’m yours, Rekosh.” She trailed her fingers up along his forearm until she clasped his wrist, then slowly guided his hand down her throat to her chest, flattening his palm over her heart. “Until my heart stops beating.”
A growl tore from his chest. Setting his work aside, he banded an arm around Ahmya and tugged her against his body, pressing his headcrest to her forehead as his claspers encircled her legs. “You will remain mine even after we draw our last breaths, kir’ani vi’keishi .”
Cupping a hand behind her head, he roughly brushed his mouth over her soft lips, determined to mark her in every way.
Rekosh had nearly lost Ahmya more than once. The Eight seemed intent on proving she was not meant for this world. But she was. She was his, and he refused to contemplate a life without her, especially now that he’d finally claimed her. He would do anything necessary to keep her by his side—even if it meant defying the gods.
He pulled back to look at his beautiful mate. Ahmya’s eyes blinked open as though she were emerging from a slight daze. Her lips were red from the harsh kiss, and her eyes were dark abysses in the shadows cast by the fire behind her. He’d gladly lose himself in them forever.
Ahmya’s fragrance filled his lungs, clung to his fine hairs, permeated him wholly. And his body reacted to its sweetness, to her warmth, to her feel. His aching cock pressed against his slit, which he could feel parting.
Clenching his teeth, Rekosh withdrew from her. The space he put between them felt impossibly vast and cold .
Nothing had changed. She still needed time.
His claspers drew tight against his slit, and he barely held in a growl at the ache in his stem.
“Allow me to finish this,” he said, willing his hearts to ease and his body to settle, “so we can rest.”
Ahmya chuckled. “Okay.”
As he plucked up the partially braided cord, she stepped away. He wanted nothing more than to drag her back against him, lift her dress, and plunge his cock deep inside her hot, wet pussy, to feel her body wrap around him. Instead, he focused on the feel of the silk and the movements of his fingers as they worked, expressing his true desire only through a low, ragged growl.
But no matter how much he tried to concentrate on his task, he was aware of Ahmya’s gentle, curious hum, the sound of her boots on the ground as she moved farther away, the whisper of silk against her skin, and the rustling of shifting vegetation.
She drew in a sudden, sharp breath.
The hairs on his legs stood on end and the cord fell from his hands as he rose and spun toward her, seeking the threat.
But there was none. There was only Ahmya, standing next to the stone wall and holding a curtain of vines and moss aloft.
She beckoned him with a hand, eyes alight with excitement. “Rekosh, come look!”
Hearts pounding powerfully enough to rival thunder, he huffed. The strength that had instantly flooded his muscles at what he’d mistaken for a sound of distress made his legs unsteady as he strode to join his mate. Before he’d even crossed half the short distance, his curiosity had moved to the forefront, and anticipation skittered through his chest.
“What is it?” he asked.
“I thought I saw something here. At first, I figured the firelight was playing tricks, but then I saw this.” Keeping the vines raised, she shifted aside to allow him to view the wall. “They look like symbols.”
Rekosh leaned closer to the wall and brushed his fingers across the surface. He could just feel the tiny grooves in the stone, very shallow but too regular and tightly clustered to have been natural.
“It is writing,” he said distractedly as he moved his face even closer to the markings. Though time had worn the symbols down to mere memories of themselves, the shadows cast by the firelight sharpened them enough for Rekosh to recognize the web-like forms and patterns. “Vrix writing.”
Backing up, he grasped the vegetation and gently tore the vines and moss away, exposing a wider patch of the stone.
No, not stone, stones .
With the plants cleared, the individual stones that comprised the wall were far more apparent, though the space between them had filled with dirt, debris, and moss.
“This wall was made by vrix long, long ago,” he said.
“We didn’t even notice until now.” She pressed her hand to the wall. “I guess the jungle took this place back.”
Ahmya glanced over her shoulder, looking in the direction of the spring. “When we first climbed up here, the rock formation reminded me of steps…but maybe it was steps.”
He twisted to follow her gaze. The fire’s glow reduced everything outside their shelter to utter darkness, even for his eyes. But as he thought about it now, he realized that there’d been something very deliberate about the area, about the lay of the various stones and rock formations.
Humming thoughtfully, Rekosh met Ahmya’s gaze. Her eyes gleamed with enthusiasm that made his heartsthread sing.
“Help me, vi’keishi . Carefully.”
Together, they peeled away more of the vegetation. As more of the stone was revealed, so too was something new—images in relief above the writing .
“Those look like vrix,” Ahmya said.
“They are vrix. It is like Takarahl, where there are carvings in some of the tunnels that show queens and warriors of old. But these…”
“There are so many.” Ahmya stood on her toes to point up at one set of figures. “These ones look like thornskulls.”
Rekosh cocked his head. “They do. And these… They look like shadowstalkers.”
The vrix depicted here were clustered into several groups, the members of each bearing appearances that were distinct even in these relatively crude, time-damaged reliefs.
“What are the other vrix called?” she asked.
“I know of a few.” As he spoke, he gestured to the carvings he believed to correspond to the other vrix kinds, each of which seemed to be represented here. “The fireeyes are from the lands where the sun crests. Winddancers are smaller, and are said to move silently and as swiftly as the wind itself, but no one has seen their kind in many years. I have also read of stonehides, mossweavers, and rainsingers, but little is known of them.”
He raked his gaze across the exposed reliefs, watching the shadows dance on them. “But I do not see the spiritstriders. They dwell deep understone, deeper than we shadowstalkers in Takarahl. And they are known to make war on all vrix.”
Ahmya peered up at him. “Why?”
“Because they hunger. For food, for flesh, for what other vrix have and they do not.” Rekosh folded his lower arms across his chest and drummed his fingers on his biceps. “When I was a broodling, we were warned about spiritstriders. Do not delve too deep, do not wander too far, or you may be snatched by a spiritstrider and be eaten.”
“That’s… terrifying .”
“It is. But it is fear that is meant to protect broodlings. The stories—the histories—written in Takarahl speak of them also. Many past queens battled the spiritstriders, who swarmed from the deepest darkness to attack. Urkot knows more than I do. Delvers must always watch and listen for signs of spiritstriders, and they are taught to do so as broodlings.”
“Do they attack often?”
“I have not heard of an attack during my life. But I have heard of vrix going missing in the deep tunnels, never to be seen again. Their fates forever unknown. Every time that happens, there are whispers of spiritstriders, but none can say for certain.”
“Why aren’t spiritstriders pictured here?” Ahmya asked, looking back at the carvings.
Rekosh brushed his fingers beneath the faded writing on the wall. It wasn’t easy to read, and what he could make out was incomplete, but there was enough to make a guess. “I think this was a place of…friendship. Where different vrix came together. Carvings in Takarahl show other vrix only making war, but these are not fighting. They are at peace, as we are with the thornskulls now.
“Spiritstriders do not know peace, do not know friendship. They only know hunger. So they are not here.”
Rekosh shifted his gaze to his mate. Her brow was pinched as she ran her fingers over the reliefs, and he could see sadness in her eyes. “What is it, kir’ani vi’keishi ?”
“These carvings are all nearly eroded away. It was only by chance that I noticed them. Time and nature are erasing what was once here.” She glanced around. “This place is a ruin, lost to time, forgotten. I imagine it was once a beautiful, joyful place, where vrix from all over shared stories and traded. But that’s all gone.”
His mandibles drooped, and he turned his head to again look out at the darkness. It was difficult to imagine what this place might once have been. Impossible to imagine all the different vrix gathered here, when he’d never seen any with his own eyes but shadowstalkers and thornskulls. Yet he felt that sorrow all the same.
Rekosh and his kind had been taught from hatching that other vrix were their enemies. That the only contact between them could be in the form of war, because they feared the shadowstalkers’ strength, because they coveted what Rekosh’s kind had, because they envied Takarahl’s splendor. But despite the bloody past they shared, the thornskulls had welcomed Rekosh’s tribe of shadowstalkers into their home and had gladly woven a new friendship with Takarahl.
And that left Rekosh to wonder if it really had been other vrix who’d been making war on the shadowstalkers…or his kind who’d made war on everyone else. If Takarahl’s past queens hadn’t been quite so noble and honest as the stories claimed.
If Zurvashi hadn’t been the exception, but an inevitable progression.
“This place is gone, but it was ,” he said, returning his gaze to Ahmya. “That means those bonds can be woven anew. It has been done before, and it can be done again. The sorrow of this place is also hope, is it not? The threads between Kaldarak and Takarahl have already been mended.”
“It is hope,” Ahmya agreed, running her fingertips over the sharp points depicted upon a thornskull’s headcrest. She chuckled. “The thornskulls aren’t quite as scary when they’re shown like this. They’re actually kind of cute.”
He huffed and pounded his fists against his chest. “ I am cute. They are…prickly.”
Ahmya grinned up at him. “You can be prickly too. You’re actually quite prickly when you’re jealous.”
“I am not jealous, Ahmya.”
She gave him a droll look. “You just tore off my clothes and burned them because it wasn’t your silk. And I swear you were about to throw Cole off the tree when you came to visit me the other day.”
Rekosh turned his body toward her, cupping her chin in one hand and staring down into her eyes. “I am not jealous. I am possessive. You are mine. Nothing and no one will come between us, my nyleea .” He chittered. “Even if I must throw them off a tree.”