Chapter 4
STACY
Today makes my heart hurt so much. For a little while, it was almost like having my Pashov back.
Not the Pashov with the single horn and the confused smile on his face when he changes diapers.
For a brief, shining moment, we felt like husband and wife.
Or mate and mate, I suppose. Like nothing had ever come between us.
But something always comes along to burst that bubble.
I hear a happy giggle and peer out from under the hood of my fur wraps.
I’ve been keeping my head down and my eyes closed ever since we started traveling along the cliffs.
I’d forgotten—safe and cozy in the tribal cave—that this land is nothing but peaks and valleys and snow as far as the eye can see.
There’s not a lot of flat surface, and I’ve got a killer fear of heights, which means that when it gets rockier, I get freaked out.
I want to go down low, where it feels safer to me, but Pashov says it’s not as safe or fast to travel there, and I trust him.
I don’t like the answer, but I trust him.
I glance out and see Pacy wiggling in his papoose, strapped on Pashov’s big, broad shoulders.
Pacy’s small hands are waving in the air, and he’s laughing that happy, careless baby giggle that just makes you feel good all over to hear it.
I don’t see what he’s laughing at, though.
Then, a moment later, a long strand of leather with one of Pashov’s decorative feathers comes flying over his shoulder.
Pacy gives another shrill giggle of delight and tries to grab it as Pashov pulls it slowly back.
He’s rigged his sled to where both handles are strapped across a chest harness and it leaves him one hand free.
I guess he’s using it to tease Pacy with a feather toy.
It reminds me of someone playing with a cat, and I smile.
I’ve never thought to entertain my baby while he’s on my back.
He’s going to be spoiled, but I can’t find it in my heart to chide Pashov.
For a man that doesn’t have any memories of his son, he’s really, really good with him.
I look out at the sky, but the snow’s still coming down in thick, heavy flakes.
They’re so big they’re practically Cornflake-sized…
and now I’m hungry for a bowl of Cornflakes and some warm milk.
Sigh. I know that’s a pipe dream, but right now I’d settle for it to stop snowing.
The world looks like one big gray and white blur, and the wind is picking up.
My face feels hot and wind-burned under the cloak, and I’m sure it’s just going to get worse as we continue on.
Nothing to do about it but suck it up, I suppose.
“Is it almost time to stop?” I call out.
I’m exhausted, and all I’ve done is ride all day.
“Not quite yet,” Pashov calls over his shoulder. “If you are yet tired, sleep longer. We have another valley to cross soon.”
Which means more walking along the ridge instead of in the valley itself.
Eek. The thought makes me anxious as hell, but there’s nothing I can do.
The sa-khui know the safest route of travel and are familiar with these lands.
If it’s safer walking along a cliff instead of in a valley, I’ll take their word for it.
And it’s not like I plan on ever making this journey again.
I just have to stick it out. I bury my head back under the blankets and hope I can fall asleep.
Seems like I must be pretty tired, because I do fall asleep. Right away.
When I wake up later, it’s bitterly cold and dark. Pacy isn’t crying, and I’m still exhausted despite riding around all day like a queen on her chariot. I sit up on the sled, peering around in the darkness. “Pashov?”
“I am here,” he says, and footsteps crunch in the snow before a warm hand touches mine. “Your tent is ready.”
“Where is the bonfire? Where is Pacy?” My breasts feel heavy with milk, and I resist the urge to put a hand on them as I yawn. “God, why am I so tired?”
“It is a taxing journey,” he says, and his hand goes under my thighs, his arm around my back, and then I’m being lifted into the air as if I weigh nothing.
“Pacy is asleep. My mother fed him a mash while you slept, though he will probably be hungry in a short time. And there is no bonfire tonight. The weather is too bad.”
“Oh.” I huddle closer to his chest, because it’s petrifyingly freezing out here in the wind. “That sucks. I’m freezing.”
“I will stay with you tonight,” Pashov says in a low voice, and I feel his body bob and move as we duck into the tent.
“You don’t have to,” I begin to protest, but it’s not much warmer in here. The furs are spread on the snow, and as he sets me down, I begin shivering all over again.
“Yes, I do,” he says. He picks Pacy up out of his basket and hands him to me.
I take my baby, but he’s fast asleep, his body a heavy, solid weight. He doesn’t wake up even when being shifted, so he must not be hungry. I lie down and settle him next to me.
A moment later the tent flap closes and the wind becomes muffled.
I can hear nothing but the sound of my own breathing.
Pashov shifts in the darkness, and I feel his big body move onto the furs next to me.
Not too close, but close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating from his skin.
“Are you hungry?” he murmurs. “I have some rations—”
“Not hungry. Just tired.”
“Then sleep. Everything is taken care of.”
I lie down. In the darkness, I can feel the blankets shift. Pashov’s body brushes against my arm, and I realize he’s lying down on the other side of Pacy. It’s almost like we’re a family again, and I’m hit with a bolt of such intense longing.
Please get your memory back soon, Pashov, I pray silently.
The wind picks up in the middle of the night, the walls of the tent shaking. The temperature drops again, and even with Pashov’s big body providing heat, it’s still chilly. Pacy wakes up to feed, but then goes back to sleep, completely unaffected by the wintry storms.
Me? I feel like a popsicle. And I’m drawn impossibly to all that heat. I tuck Pacy into his basket at the head of the bed, and slide a little closer to Pashov under the covers.
His arms go around me, and he pulls me against him.
I’m enveloped in warmth, and his skin is touching mine, and it feels so good that I want to cry.
My eyes well up, but I work on composing myself.
The last thing I want to do is freak him out.
It takes several minutes before my eyes stop pricking and the knot in my throat recedes enough that I can relax. I’ve missed my mate so much.
Here I keep thinking I’m being strong, and all it takes is a brush of his skin against mine to make me collapse again.
I rest my head in the crook of his arm, and my hand goes to his chest. He’s shirtless.
I shouldn’t be surprised. Even the worst of the weather seems to roll right off of the sa-khui and their velvety blue skin.
I should pick my hand up and keep it to myself.
I tell myself this, but I can’t quite seem to lift my fingers.
He’s so warm, and familiar, and I’m hit by a wave of arousal.
Oh boy.
It’s been weeks since Pashov and I last had sex.
Weeks since I’ve felt the touch of my mate.
My body’s craving him, hungry for his touch.
For affection. For love. For connection.
And so, even though I know I shouldn’t, I trace my fingertips lightly over his stomach muscles.
One of my favorite things to do when we’re in bed is just to touch him.
To feel the differences between his skin and mine.
To explore every hard muscle with my fingers and get to know every intimate inch of him.
Even when I was a jillion months pregnant with Pacy and completely uninterested in sex because I was so uncomfortable, we’d lie in bed for hours and just touch.
His fingers would move over my skin, caressing me, and I would explore him with my hands, and we’d talk.
We’ve always been a handsy couple. That hasn’t changed since the day we met.
After the first time we had sex, Pashov grabbed my ass and jiggled it with one big hand.
“No tail,” he’d said, as if both awed and surprised by this fact.
And I had laughed, because it seemed such a ridiculous thing to say. Of course humans don’t have a tail.
That little ritual has continued for us. He always grabs my butt and jokes about my lack of a tail. He says it’s because he likes to make me laugh. It’s just a silly, corny moment between mates, but god, I have missed it so stinking much.
For now, though, I’ll take the touching.
“Is this okay?” I ask as I trace my fingers along his ribs. I can feel them a bit more prominently than I could in the past, but I know that’s because he was sick. He’s better now, and other than the horn, there are only small changes left behind.
In response, his hand covers mine. His thumb strokes over the back of my hand, and it’s such an easy, affectionate gesture that I’m lost. This is my mate, isn’t it? That’s how Pashov always comforts me, with caresses. Touches. Simply grounding me with a caress of his hand.
In that moment, I really, really want sex. My khui fires up in my chest, thrumming. I can feel the need spreading all through my body. This isn’t resonance, this is just me responding to my mate, his nearness, my need.
So I stroke my hand over his chest, gliding over one of his nipples to see how he’ll react. He immediately pulls me tighter against him, nuzzling at my hair. My mate. My love. “Touch me?”
He groans low in his throat, the sound nearly muffled by the howling wind, and then he’s pushing me onto my back, tearing at my leathers. Yes! I want this! I undo the tie at the front of my tunic, letting it fall completely open.
His hands are immediately on my breasts, caressing my skin and rubbing over my nipple.