Chapter 4
The human was going to kill herself trying to keep up with him.
Tarek heard her stumble again, the third time in as many minutes, and something in his chest tightened. His beast stirred, restless and agitated, urging him to turn around. To help. To protect.
He ignored it. He wasn’t about to let down his carefully erected barriers just because some foolish human woman had wandered into his territory with her desperate eyes and her reckless bargains.
Why did I agree to help her?
The question had been circling in his mind since they left the grove, and he still didn’t have a satisfactory answer. He could tell himself it was because a nameless favor he could call upon whenever he wished was valuable, but that wasn’t the truth, and he’d never been good at lying to himself.
The truth was simpler and more troubling. Something about the desperation in her voice and the fierce determination in her eyes reminded him of himself. Reminded him of the choices he’d had to make, choices had led him here.
And beneath all of that, something else. Something his beast had recognized the moment he’d caught her scent on the wind.
Mine, his beast whispered, and he’d nearly choked on the word.
Ridiculous. Humans weren’t compatible with Vultor. They were fragile creatures with their blunt teeth and their soft skin, and this one in particular seemed determined to prove it by tripping over every root in the forest.
Even as he thought it, she stumbled again, and this time he heard the sharp intake of breath that meant she’d hurt herself. His beast snarled, and he slowed down before he could stop himself.
Fool, he thought, although he wasn’t sure if the insult was directed at her or himself.
“Thank you,” she gasped, catching up to him. “I was starting to think you were trying to lose me.”
“If I wanted to lose you, you would already be lost.”
She laughed, actually laughed as if he’d made a joke, and he gave her a startled glance. When was the last time anyone had laughed in his presence?
Her cheeks were flushed from exertion, and loose strands of dark hair had escaped her braid to frame her face. It was an unexpectedly appealing look, as if she’d been thoroughly—
He cut that thought off. “The path gets rougher from here.”
“I can manage.” Her chin lifted with that same stubborn pride he’d seen earlier. “You don’t have to slow down for me.”
“I know.” He started walking again, but he kept the pace slower than before and she fell into step beside him.
“So. Tarek. Is that a Vultor name?”
He grunted, hoping she would take the hint.
She didn’t.
“It’s a nice name. Strong. Does it mean something?
Human names often have meanings, though most people don’t know what theirs are anymore.
My name, Jessa, is supposed to mean ‘gift,’ though my mother always said I was more of a surprise than a gift.
Not an unwelcome one,” she added quickly, “just unexpected. She wasn’t planning to have children, and then suddenly she had two of us.
Me first, then my sister Dani ten years later. ”
He didn’t respond. The words washed over him like water, meaningless noise that he should be able to ignore but found himself listening to all the same.
“You’re not very talkative, are you?” Her lips curved up in a small smile. “But then I guess I’m not giving you much of a chance to respond.”
The smile transformed her face. He’d already noticed she was pretty—not in the sharp-edged way of a Vultor female, but something softer and warmer—but the smile made her radiant.
Stop staring at her, his beast growled, and for once, they were in agreement.
“Begin talkative is not considered a virtue for a Vultor,” he said, the words emerging before he could stop them.
She laughed again. “No, I suppose not.” Her gaze dropped to her hands for a moment. “I talk when I’m nervous.”
“You are nervous?”
“Wouldn’t you be? I’m a human woman wandering through the mountains with a strange Vultor warrior? I’d have to be an idiot not to be nervous.”
“And yet you continue to wander.”
“What choice do I have?” The smile faded, replaced by the same fierce determination he’d seen earlier. “For Dani, there’s no choice.”
“Your sister.”
“Yes. She’s… she’s everything to me.” Her voice dropped to a near whisper. “Our parents died of the fever three years ago. It’s just been the two of us since then. She’s only ten. And she’s sick.”
The last two words were heavy with an emotion so raw it made his chest ache. He remembered that feeling—the helplessness of watching someone you loved fade and the desperation that would drive you to do anything, bargain with anyone, if it meant you could save them.
“There’s a stream ahead,” he said, deliberately changing the subject. “We will stop there to drink.”
“Oh, thank the stars.” She pressed a hand to her side, grimacing. “I’m not used to walking this much. Or climbing. Or any of this, really. The farthest I usually go is to the market or the edge of the woods to gather materials to use for dye.”
He didn’t respond, but she didn’t seem to expect him to.
She kept talking as they walked, filling the silence with a steady stream of words about her cottage, her loom, her sister’s illness, and the unfairness of the village council.
Much of it washed over him, details about a life he would never be part of, but some of it stuck.
She’d raised her sister alone after their mother died.
She worked twelve-hour days at her loom to make ends meet.
The bolt of cloth that had caused all this trouble—the one that had started the chain of events leading her to his territory—had been an accident, a happy mistake born of curiosity and a willingness to experiment.
He recognized that, too. The drive to experiment, to create, to make something better than what existed before. It was the same drive that had led him to study medicine, to become a healer instead of a warrior like his father.
The same drive that had led to his exile.
The stream appeared ahead, a ribbon of clear water cutting through the rocky terrain. He knelt at its edge, cupping water in his hands and drinking deeply. The cold shocked his system, washing away some of the unwanted warmth that had been building in his chest.
When he looked up, she was rummaging in her satchel.
“Here.” She held out a small metal cup, slightly dented but clean. “It’s easier than using your hands.”
He stared at the cup, then at her. She was offering to share something with him. A small thing, insignificant, and yet…
When was the last time anyone had offered him anything?
“I don’t need it,” he said gruffly.
“Neither do I. But it’s nice to have options.” She filled the cup and drank, then refilled it and held it out to him again. “Please. It’s the least I can do, considering you’re helping me.”
Slowly, he reached out and took the cup from her hand. Their fingers brushed, and he felt that same strange tingle he’d noticed when they’d shaken hands—a spark of something electric that made his beast rumble with satisfaction.
Stop, he told himself firmly, and raised the cup to his lips.
The rim was still warm from her mouth. He could taste the faint ghost of her on the metal, sweet and unfamiliar. His beast purred.
“Good?” she asked, and he realized he’d been staring at the empty cup like a fool.
“Adequate.”
She laughed again, that surprised sound that made something in his chest twist. “Such high praise. I’ll treasure it always.”
He handed the cup back to her and stood, looking away to hide the heat he could feel creeping up his neck.
What was wrong with him? He’d been alone too long, that was all.
His instincts were misfiring, latching onto the first available female because his body couldn’t tell the difference between a compatible mate and a human who would be gone from his life as soon as she got what she came for.
“We should continue,” he said. “The sunvine grove is not too far, but the light is fading.”
She tucked the cup back into her satchel and rose to her feet. Her cheeks were still flushed from exertion, her lips damp from the water, and once again his mind went to places it absolutely should not go.
They climbed for another hour and her words finally died away.
He told himself he didn’t miss them. The trees thinned out, replaced by hardy shrubs and tough mountain grasses that clung to the slopes.
The wind picked up, carrying the scent of snow and stone, and the air grew thin and sharp.
He could feel the energy growing stronger as they approached the sacred place, the land itself humming with power.
She was struggling now, her breath coming in ragged bursts. Her face was pale with exhaustion, but she kept putting one foot in front of the other with a determination that bordered on stubbornness.
She is stronger than she looks, his beast observed, and he couldn’t argue.
Her boots, designed for village streets, offered little traction on the loose scree of the mountainside, and she fell behind again.
He found himself automatically adjusting his stride to match hers as they climbed the last steep incline.
Her hand occasionally brushed against his arm for balance, and each brief contact sent a jolt through him, a current of awareness he’d never felt before.
The sun was touching the western peaks when they finally crested the ridge and the sunvine grove came into view.
She gasped and he felt an unexpected surge of…
pride? It was a beautiful sight, he had to admit.
The grove occupied a natural amphitheater in the rock, a bowl-shaped depression filled with tumbled stones and ancient trees.
And draped over every surface, catching the last rays of sunlight like liquid gold, were the sunvines.
“Oh,” she whispered. “Oh, they’re beautiful.”
She was right. The vines seemed to glow with an inner light, their golden tendrils winding around rocks and branches in elaborate patterns. In the fading daylight, they looked like threads of captured sunshine, luminous and impossible.
“Be careful,” he started to say, but she was already moving, drawn forward as if hypnotized. Her hand reached out towards the nearest vine—
“No!”
He lunged for her, but he was too late.
Her fingers closed around the vine, and it moved. The golden tendril whipped around her hand, tightening with vicious speed, and she cried out in pain as the edges cut into her palm.
He reached her in two strides, his claws extending automatically.
He grabbed her wrist, holding her steady, and examined the damage.
The vine had wrapped around her hand three times, each loop biting into her flesh.
Blood welled up from the cuts, dark against her pale skin, and the sweet copper scent of it filled the air.
His beast roared.
Blood. Her blood. Our female is hurt.
“Stop moving,” he growled, forcing the beast back with an effort that made his vision blur. “The more you struggle, the tighter it will grip.”
She stared at her bleeding hand, then at him, her eyes wide with shock. “It… it attacked me.”
“A sunvine is a living creature.” He examined the vine, looking for the weak points he knew were there. “It will defend itself against an uninvited touch.”
He found what he was looking for—a small node where the vine connected to the main plant. He carefully extended one claw and severed it.
The vine went limp.
She gasped as the pressure released, and he gently unwound the golden tendril from her hand. Her palm was a mess of shallow cuts, blood seeping steadily from half a dozen wounds.
“Give me your hand.”
She offered it without argument, her trust in him so immediate and absolute it made something in his chest ache. He raised her hand to his mouth, and she froze. “What are you—”
“Vultor saliva has healing properties.” The words came out rough, almost a growl. “It will stop the bleeding and prevent infection.”
“Oh.” Her voice was barely a whisper. “I… okay.”
He licked the wounds, tasting her blood on his tongue—sweet and rich and utterly intoxicating. His beast howled with satisfaction, a possessiveness so fierce it frightened him. He forced himself to be gentle, to focus on healing rather than the primal urges clawing at his control.
When he finally released her hand, the cuts had already begun to close.
“Thank you,” she breathed, staring at her palm in wonder. “That’s… incredible.”
“It’s nothing.” He stepped back, putting distance between them. His heart was pounding, his claws still extended, and he could feel his eyes glowing.
Control yourself, he thought savagely. She is not mine. She will never be mine.
“It’s not nothing.” Her free hand came up to rest on his arm, a light, hesitant touch that sent warmth spreading through him despite the cool mountain air. She looked up at him, her hazel eyes wide and searching, and for one terrifying moment, he thought she could see right through him.
Then she smiled and said, “So. How do I harvest these things without losing my hand?”