Chapter 13
- Riley -
I hear them before I see them.
Voices carry differently out here, skimming across the frozen ground instead of getting swallowed the way sound does in the jungle. There is a rhythm to it. There’s laughter, sharp calls, the scrape of something heavy dragged over ice. When it all stops, it means something unusual is happening.
I step out of the cave. The cold hits immediately, biting through the fur wrapped around me, but I barely register it. My eyes are already searching the line of figures cresting the rise beyond the huts and tents.
I spot him instantly, and it isn’t hard. Nator’ax walks at the front, broad shoulders wrapped in thick furs, sword strapped outside it. There is blood on him, dark against the pale hides, but I don’t think it’s his. He moves like nothing touched him, like nothing even came close.
Relief hits first, fast, and overwhelming. He’s alive.
And he looks powerful, as if he belongs here, as if he’s the chief. It’s partly that he’s bigger than the Gar men in the hunting party, but also the way he carries himself, and the way the others walk behind him. Something happened on this hunting trip, something good.
It does something very specific to me. He looks like he could take on anything this planet throws at him and win.
I swallow, my fingers tightening in the fur at my chest.
This is how it must have been, back on Earth’s own Stone Age world, when your man returned from hunting a mammoth and hadn’t been killed or injured. Because it speaks to something primal in me, something that makes my midsection melt a bit.
The hunters come closer, and the details sharpen. The thing they are dragging behind them is enormous. It’s some kind of dinosaur, all thick hide and heavy limbs, its bulk stretched across a crude sled made of spears and bone.
A few of the men are talking over each other as they come closer, and the men of the tribe come to meet them.
“He made it fall,” one of them says, gesturing toward Nator’ax.
“Never seen anything like it,” another adds. “It charged, and then… down. Just like that.”
“We did not lose a single man,” a third says, almost like he cannot quite believe it. “Not a single injury.”
My gaze flicks between them and Nator’ax. They are clearly praising him. And they are not the only ones. Men and boys are gathering to welcome them. The energy is different from anything I have seen since we arrived. It’s much lighter and more cheerful.
Hope flares in my chest, sudden and dangerous. This is good, because if they respect him, and if they start to think that they need him, then maybe… I cut the thought off before it can fully form, but it doesn’t go away. It lingers, bright, and fragile. Maybe we aren’t as doomed as I thought.
Nator’ax’s head turns, and his eyes find me again. Everything else fades for a second.
There is something in his expression that shifts when he sees me, a little smile, a contraction around the eyes and the mouth, as if he’s saying, “It worked.” And he says it only to me.
My breath catches, and I start toward him without thinking. I am aware of people watching, of the way some of the men glance between us, but I cannot bring myself to care. Not right now.
He stops a few steps away from me. Up close, the details speak of great deeds: the blood on his hands, drying along his fingers; the faint rise and fall of his chest under the furs; the smell of cold air, leather, and something metallic.
“You came back,” I say. It comes out steadier than I expected.
“That was the plan,” he replies. “We all came back, and that’s how it should always be.” He’s clearly saying it for the benefit of those around us, still aware of his purpose in going on the hunt. His voice is calm, but there is something under it, something that feels like it is meant just for me.
For a second, I think he is going to pull me in. My body is already bracing for it, leaning into the idea before it even happens.
But then I realize it would be out of character for what Nator’ax is doing. This isn’t over; we’re not done. He has to remain calm and steady, a man of the tribe, not the only man with a woman to hug.
Instead, his hand brushes mine. It’s a brief touch, almost accidental, but not quite. And it’s enough. Heat flashes up my arm, sudden and intense, going down my body. Hmm.
Behind him, one of the hunters grins broadly.
“You should have seen your tribesman,” he says to me, clearly not bothered by addressing me directly. “The beast charged, and he stood there like he wanted it to try. Then he moved, and it fell like it had no legs at all.”
Another man, older, nods in agreement. “It was a good hunt. A clean hunt.”
My eyes flick back to Nator’ax. “You did that?”
He shrugs, but there is a hint of satisfaction in the movement. “Sometimes the old ways are the best. Sometimes we can try something new.”
“And sometimes the tribe needs a stranger to show how things can be done,” the scarred man says dryly, stepping forward. His gaze lands on me, assessing, but not as openly unsettling as some of the others. “Warrior Nator’ax changed this hunt for the better. We will use that method again, I think.”
“Then that’s good,” I say, forcing a small smile. “That means you’ll want him around.” The words slip out before I can stop them.
There is a brief pause. The scarred man’s expression doesn’t change much, but he looks away. “It’s a rare man who can lead a hunt and come back with a whole dondar and nobody injured.”
Good. They’re starting to see him as indispensable.
“Come,” the scarred man says to the others. “We’ll prepare the meat for storage.”
The group begins to break apart, attention shifting to the massive carcass and the work that needs to be done. For a moment, the noise and movement swell around us, and we are almost lost in it.
Nator’ax leans closer. “How was the village while I was gone?”
“Peaceful and quiet.” Then, because it feels important, because I need him to understand, I add, “But I didn’t like the way some of them looked at me.”
His jaw tightens. “I have noticed. I hope it won’t continue.” There is something in his voice that sends another, entirely different kind of heat through me. Something protective, and yet dangerous.
Maybe it should scare me, but it doesn’t. If anything, it makes everything worse in the best possible way.
“I am glad you went on the hunt,” I say, even though part of me wants to say the opposite. “This helped.”
“It may buy us time,” he agrees. “Or more. We shall see.”
Right now, with him standing here, alive and solid and very, very real, I can almost pretend that time might be enough.
“Then we use it,” I say. His eyes hold mine for a second longer than necessary.
“Oh, we’ll use it,” he says with a spark in his eyes. “We’ll use it very well.”
Someone calls his name. He straightens, stepping back into the role he’s been playing since he left this morning. He’s the capable outsider, the valuable hunter, the man they are starting to respect, the man they should start to find vital to their tribe.
I watch him go, my gaze following the movement of his shoulders, the way the furs shift with each step, and the easy strength in everything he does.
My body reacts again, immediate and undeniable.
This is ridiculous. We are in a freezing village surrounded by people who might decide to kill us at any moment, and all I can think about is dragging him back into that cave and—
Okay, no. Let’s calm down here. I’ve known him for four days.
Actually, yes. Exactly that. Because I may have four days left to live.
And I would love to put some actual living into those days.
On that beach, in the dead saucer, that wasn’t living.
That was just existing. And barely even that.
The life in the Borok tribe… well, it wasn’t bad, not compared to the beach.
But it wasn’t how I wanted my life to play out, as a spectator to the lives of others.
I press my lips together, trying not to smile at myself, which feels completely insane under the circumstances. But the feeling doesn’t go away.
If anything, it grows stronger as the afternoon stretches on, as I watch him work alongside the others, as I hear his name spoken with something that almost sounds like approval and inclusion.
Hope and desire twist together in a way that feels dangerous and addictive. Maybe this is working. Maybe we can survive this.
And if we can, then… my gaze drifts back to him again, and my pulse quickens. Then who knows what might happen.
The work of cutting and carrying the meat goes on until the light starts to fade, and I try to stay out of the way, watching how the tribesmen move, how they divide everything, and how nothing gets wasted.
The air fills with the smell of blood and raw flesh, sharp and metallic, mixing with the cold that never leaves.
It should make me sick, but instead it feels like proof that they know how to survive out here.
My attention keeps drifting back to him anyway. Nator’ax moves among them like he belongs. The others watch him now in a way they didn’t before. They listen when he speaks, and a few of them adjust what they’re doing based on what he says, which is subtle but impossible to miss once I notice it.
Every time someone looks at him with something that resembles respect, something inside me tightens and then eases again, like I’ve been holding my breath. I keep telling myself that this is good, that it means we’re doing something right, that maybe we’re not completely out of options.
By the time the meat is set to dry and the worst of the work is done, the temperature drops even further, and fires are lit in careful spots out of the wind.
Men gather in small groups to eat and talk, and the energy still feels different, lighter than anything I’ve seen since we got here, as if the whole village is running on the success of the hunt.