Chapter 8
IS IT HOT IN THIS DESERT OR IS IT JUST HIM?
ERIKA
Idon’t know what I was expecting from the absolute nightmare that was finding my own sleeping alcove barricaded with bone and sharpened rock last night.
An attack. A warning. A very clear message that I was officially on the menu for the local wildlife.
What I am not expecting, when I finally squeeze out of the narrow gap this morning, is a rock.
I’m standing near the central fire pit, purposely ignoring the fact that my hands are shaking a little, holding a small, perfectly round, smooth black stone up to the flickering orange light.
It fits perfectly into the center of my palm, retaining the ambient warmth of the cave air. Deeply chiseled into the flat center is a single symbol.
“So,” I say, keeping my voice as neutral as I possibly can while I stare at the carving. “It’s a territorial marker.”
Justine stands across from me, her arms crossed over her chest.
“Okaaaaay,” she drags the word out. “Let’s walk through this together. A terrifying alien king builds an impenetrable bone fortress across your bedroom door—”
“It was a barricade,” I correct her immediately. “It had spikes, Justine. Jagged death-spikes. It took me ten minutes to squeeze out of there this morning without impaling a kidney.”
“A premium, deadly bone fortress,” she amends patiently. “Built directly over the incredibly soft furs he relocated from his own private area just for you.”
“The stone was cold.”
“Right. So he rebuilt your sleeping space,” Jacqui says, leaning against the cavern wall next to Justine. “He constructed a maximum-security panic room that only you can fit through, and left a perfectly smooth, hand-carved stone next to your bed. Do the math.”
I drop my hand to my side, curling my fingers tightly around the warm stone. The hard edges of the carved symbol press deeply into my skin.
“It’s a thank you gift,” I say stubbornly. “For the water filter work. A spiked bone cage and a rock.”
Justine reaches out and taps the top of my closed fist.
“Ask him what the symbol means,” Justine says quietly. “Or just accept it. Half the women here have a betting pool on how long it takes him to snap. My money is on sundown.”
My fingers clench so tightly around the black stone that the jagged edges threaten to cut my palm. My stomach does a frantic flip at the thought.
I turn on my heel and walk rapidly toward the water basins without saying another word.
I don’t ask Kol what the symbol means. I don’t ask Sorn. I definitely don’t ask Zan, who has explicitly been looking at me like I am a particularly annoying insect ever since I stood at their war council yesterday.
I corner Mikaela.
She is sitting quietly by the second water channel, sorting through the remaining bio-bandages we stripped from the crash. Sarven stands exactly three feet behind her, an immovable wall of bronze skin and claws. He watches the main cavern entrance with unblinking focus.
I hold the black stone out in the flat of my palm, making sure not to drop it.
“Mikaela,” I say, my voice pitching up in complete panic. “Please tell me what this means.”
Mikaela pauses her sorting. Her eyes dart from the stone, to me, and then immediately up to the high ledge across the cavern.
I follow her gaze. Kol is watching a hunting party return, but the hot line of his stare snaps directly to my location the exact second we look at him.
The fine hair on my arms stands up.
Sarven leans down, his face brushing the top of Mikaela’s head. I can tell he is projecting something into her mind, his jaw locked tight.
Mikaela’s face goes slack. She looks at the smooth black rock in my palm and swallows.
“Where did you get that?” she asks, her voice dropping to a harsh whisper.
“It was next to the bone spikes currently barricading my bed.” I cross my arms to keep from fidgeting. “It’s not a paperweight.”
“It’s tor-vakh,” Mikaela says. Her fingers hover over it, but she distinctly does not touch the stone.
“Huh?”
Mikaela takes a deep, stuttering breath.
She traces the jagged symbol in the air with her finger.
“There is no direct English equivalent. It means... mutual protector oath. It’s the absolute highest form of trust in the clan structure.
It says: I guard your back. You guard mine. I choose you as my equal in the dust.”
My stomach plummets. I am a junior IT project manager from Chicago who cries when the WiFi goes down. Why am I holding an alien blood-vow rock?
“That’s... not a marriage proposal,” I say. My voice sounds thin. Hollow. “Right?”
“It’s bigger than that,” Mikaela says, looking at me with horrifying sincerity. “Proposals can be declined. Tor-vakh is earned. You do not offer it unless the other person has already proven they are capable of holding your life.”
Sarven tilts his head. His golden eyes fix directly on me.
“Sarven says a dra-dam has never offered a tor-vakh stone before,” Mikaela translates quietly. “To anyone. Ever.”
I stare at the small black stone. Across the vast room, the glowing heat of Kol’s unblinking stare burns directly into the back of my neck.
Mutual protector. My equal. I guard your back.
Oh my god. He thinks I’m incredibly competent. He thinks I’m his terrifying, equal partner in the dust because I read a map yesterday. I am barely surviving. Everything is confusing and terrifying and I am pretty sure I am going to die here.
Every rational instinct I possess is screaming at me to push the rock away, politely decline the alien blood-vow, and run away as fast as my trembling legs can carry me before I end up backed into a dark corner by a glowing warlord.
But my body ignores my brain. My right hand closes around the stone like a starving animal, and shoves it into the front pocket of my pants.
I should, but I don’t return it. I don’t acknowledge it to anyone either.
But for the rest of the day, as I haul water, as I sort the rations, as I bandage scraped knuckles, I keep my hand shoved deep into my pocket.
My thumb rubs relentlessly over the sharp, carved edges of the symbol until my skin is raw.
By late afternoon, the sick bay is quiet. Ain’s heat makes the air in the cavern stale and difficult to breathe.
I am leaning against the cool stone archway of the healing alcove, staring blankly at dwindling supplies in the first aid kit and actively trying not to panic about the logistics of keeping twenty women alive, when Tina sits up.
It’s the first time her back has left the sleeping mat since the funeral. Her face is pale, drawn tight with the physical toll of the planet sickness. Her thin wrists look like they could snap under the weight of her own arms. But her eyes are clear. The fever is broken.
She pulls the hide blanket weakly up to her chin, shivering slightly in the draft.
Haroth is standing exactly three feet away.
Like all Drakav he is terrifying. He is easily the width of a small refrigerator, his skin a beautiful, deep copper-amber, etched with raised hunting scars. And he is currently attempting to look inconspicuously busy sorting a pile of dried firebloom leaves on a totally unnecessary stone ledge.
He is doing a terrible job.
He drops a handful of leaves onto the floor because his golden eyes are helplessly locked on Tina.
“Hovering,” Alex says dryly, not looking up from where she is wrapping a clean bandage over a scraped knee near the back wall. “It’s like living with a fully armed shadow that has severe separation anxiety.”
Tina doesn’t look away from the alien warrior.
Haroth realizes she is watching him and he freezes. His broad shoulders lock. He snaps his gaze instantly back to the ledge, staring at the crushed leaves as if they contain the vital secrets of the universe, pretending he wasn’t just staring at her with the devoted intensity of a starving dog.
Tina smiles. It is a small, weak, soft thing.
She reaches out a trembling hand, picks up a broken firebloom leaf from the edge of her bed, and holds it out toward him.
Haroth looks at the leaf. He looks at her hand.
He crosses the three feet of space in a single, fluid motion.
He doesn’t just take the leaf. His callused hand envelops her tiny fingers, holding them gently, reverently, for three long seconds.
He doesn’t say a word. Neither does she.
They don’t have the mindspace yet. They don’t even speak a single word of the same language.
I watch them from the archway. The air in my lungs feels suddenly, painfully tight.
Without realizing it, my right hand slides deep into my pocket. My thumb finds the smooth, warm curve of the black stone, pressing hard into the jagged carving until it physically hurts.
I don’t even see him coming.
Two hours before sundown, I am trying to roll bandages and trying not to think about the terrifying blood-vow rock currently burning a hole in my pocket, when a towering shadow eclipses the dim cavern light.
Before I can even blink, a callused hand simply closes over my shoulder. The furnace heat of him bleeds right through my thin shirt as he turns me around. Using the unstoppable momentum of his frame, he herds me away from the sick bay and directly down into the lower armory.
My heart attempts to beat directly out of my throat.
I am certain he is dragging me into the dark to strip me out of my clothes and press me against a cavern wall.
My brain is screaming at me to retain some shred of human dignity, but my body ignores the logic.
My pulse is hammering so hard my vision spots.
A sudden panicked thought hits me about whether he even possesses the correct mating anatomy yet, and exactly how my frail human bones will survive the sheer size of it if he does.
But my blood is running so hot with frantic anticipation that I don’t even care.