Chapter 11 #3
"No!" The word tore from my throat, raw and desperate. My fingers twisted into her mane. "Please, I—"
The elder pivoted, her face unreadable in the deepening shadows.
"The kuda will be honored. We do not harm sacred beasts."
"Sacred?" I blinked at her, uncomprehending.
"Kuda are revered among our people," she said, and something in her voice gentled. "She will receive the finest grasses, pure water, warm shelter. You have my word."
I wavered, looking down at Starfield. The thought of losing her—my last anchor to anything familiar—made my ribs feel too tight, my lungs too small.
But Nansar needed me more.
"Okay," I breathed, dismounting. My legs nearly gave out when my feet found solid ground.
Hours in the saddle, hours of terror—it all crashed down at once, leaving me hollow and trembling.
I pressed my forehead against Starfield's warm neck, inhaling her familiar scent. "Be good. I'll come check on you soon."
She nickered softly, a sound of understanding, and let the warriors lead her toward a covered shelter at the village's edge. I watched until darkness swallowed her, then turned to find the elder waiting patiently.
She gestured toward a dwelling that crouched low against the earth, and the warriors carrying Nansar ducked through the doorway. I followed, my pulse hammering in my ears.
The interior stopped me short. I'd expected something primitive, cold—but warmth enveloped me like an embrace.
Firelight danced across walls of packed earth, painting everything in amber and shadow.
A table and chairs sat against one wall, the wood polished smooth by countless hands.
Opposite, a bed frame of lashed branches held a mountain of furs that looked impossibly soft, the pelts ranging from silver to deepest black.
In the center, a stone-lined fire pit crackled and popped, driving back the night's creeping chill.
The warriors moved with unexpected gentleness as they lowered Nansar onto the bed. Despite their earlier roughness, they laid him down gently, arranging his limbs with care. His head lolled sideways, and the sight of him so defenseless sent a spike of fear through my chest.
"Rest," the elder said, her voice losing its sharp edge. Almost kind now. "I will send food and healing supplies. Your mate will need tending through the night."
"Thank you." The words came out broken. "Thank you so much."
She held my gaze, those obsidian eyes catching the firelight in patterns that seemed to shift and breathe. Then she inclined her head—a gesture of respect that surprised me—and swept out, her warriors trailing behind like shadows. The hide-covered door fell shut with a whisper.
Silence crashed over me. Just me, Nansar, and the fire's steady crackle.
My legs carried me to the bed before my mind caught up. I sank onto the furs beside him, their softness a shock against my battered body. My hands shook as I found his wrist, pressed trembling fingers to his pulse point.
Steady. Strong. Thank God.
I flattened my palm against his chest next, felt the reassuring rise and fall beneath my hand. Regular breathing. No rattling. No wheezing.
My medical knowledge was laughable—just mandatory Navy first aid, enough to stop bleeding or perform CPR in a pinch. But I knew enough to recognize stability when I felt it. His vitals were good. He was holding on.
My hand drifted upward of its own accord, fingertips grazing his cheek.
The touch sent something warm and frightening through my chest. Unconscious like this, he looked different.
Younger. The hard warrior's mask had melted away, leaving behind features that were almost peaceful.
Beautiful, even. I'd always known he was attractive in that dangerous, otherworldly way, but now I could really see it—the elegant sweep of his jaw, the sharp architecture of his cheekbones, those dark lashes resting against skin like moonlight.
Even his horns seemed to belong, transforming him into something out of myth.
I traced the line of his jaw with my thumb, my throat going tight.
He'd protected me. From the very beginning, through every danger, every threat—he'd been my shield without hesitation. And now here he lay, bleeding and broken because of it.
"My turn," I whispered, threading my fingers through his. Holding on like he was the only solid thing in a spinning world. "My turn to protect you."
A soft knock shattered the silence. My hand flew to my pocket, an useless instinct. The small blade wouldn't do much against warriors who could snap me like kindling.
"Enter," I called, voice scraped raw.
Two Welati females glided through the doorway with that same impossible grace, younger than the elder but no less striking. Their skin held that same luminous quality, like they'd swallowed starlight. Their eyes were fathomless pools that made me feel simultaneously seen and insignificant.
The first carried a wooden tray heavy with food—strips of roasted meat glistening with fat, root vegetables still steaming, flatbread that smelled of herbs and earth.
My stomach twisted violently, reminding me I'd forgotten such mundane things as eating.
When was the last time? This morning? Yesterday?
The second female bore a different offering. A ceramic bowl trailing wisps of fragrant steam, neatly folded cloth, and a small clay jar filled with something green and pungent that screamed medicine.
"The elder sends provisions." The first one's voice was like water over stones—smooth, musical. She set the food on the low table near the bed. "You must eat. Maintain your strength."
The second approached more cautiously, her gaze flickering to Nansar's motionless form with what might have been concern.
"For his wound." She gestured to the green salve.
"It will aid healing. Ward off infection.
" She placed her tray beside the food, then indicated a bundle of fabric tucked under her arm.
"Clean clothing. Simple, but it will keep you warm. "
"Thank you." The words scraped out of me, inadequate and small. "Both of you."
The first female paused at the threshold, her hand resting on the doorframe. When she turned back, something had softened in her expression—a small smile that transformed her alien features into something almost familiar. "Rest now. You are safe here."
Safe. With the Welati. I was sure there was an oxymoron in there somewhere.
Then they were gone, the door whispering shut, leaving me alone with Nansar and the fire's crackling voice.
I knelt beside the bed, my knees hitting the floor hard. The bowl of water sent up delicate spirals of steam, and I dipped one of the cloths into it, wringing it out with trembling hands.
Blood had crusted dark around the gash on his temple, matting his hair into stiff peaks. I worked with aching slowness, dabbing at the dried blood until it softened and surrendered. The wound beneath was angry, swollen, the edges inflamed—but the bleeding had stopped. Small mercies.
Nansar moaned softly as I cleaned the injury, his head turning slightly toward my touch like a flower seeking sun. The sound punched straight through my chest.
"I know," I whispered, my voice fracturing. "I'm sorry. Almost done."
When the wound was clean, I opened the clay jar. The salve inside was thick and verdant, smelling of herbs I couldn't name—something sharp and medicinal, but not unpleasant. I scooped some onto my fingers and applied it as gently as I could, spreading it over the gash in a thin, careful layer.
Nansar's breathing remained steady, deep. Still unconscious, but alive. Still here.
I sat back on my heels, studying his face in the firelight. The strong line of his jaw. The way his dark lashes cast shadows on his pale cheeks. Even injured, even unconscious, he looked formidable. Beautiful in a way that made my heart twist with something I wasn't ready to name.
My stomach growled—loud, insistent, embarrassingly human.
I finally turned to the food tray. The meat was still warm, seasoned with something that tasted like sage and black pepper.
I ate mechanically, barely registering the flavors, but forcing myself to chew and swallow.
Fuel. That's all this was. The flatbread was dense and filling, the vegetables soft and earthy.
When I finished, I looked down at myself and grimaced. The Alliance jumpsuit was a disaster—ripped at the shoulder and knee, stained with blood and dirt and probably things I didn't want to identify. I could smell myself, a mix of sweat and fear and exhaustion that wasn't pleasant in the least.
The bowl still held water, cloudy now from cleaning Nansar's wound, but enough. I glanced at him—unconscious, breathing steadily—then moved to the far corner of the cottage for what little privacy I could manufacture.
I peeled off the jumpsuit, the ruined fabric clinging stubbornly to my skin before finally surrendering. The cold air hit me immediately, raising goosebumps along my arms and legs like braille. My underwear had somehow survived the ordeal, though they'd definitely seen better days.
Using a clean corner of the cloth, I dipped it in the remaining water and began washing myself.
The water had gone cold, but I didn't care.
I scrubbed at my arms, my neck, under my arms, doing my best to erase the grime and the memories it carried.
It wasn't a proper shower—God, what I wouldn't give for hot water and soap—but it was something.
It made me feel a fraction more human, a degree more in control.
When I was done, I reached for the clothing the Welati female had brought.
Simple homespun cloth in pale blue, soft from years of wear and washing.
I pulled it over my head, working my arms through the sleeves, then tied the fastenings at the sides.
The dress fell just below my knees, loose and comfortable, nothing like the tactical gear I'd lived in for so long.
But it was clean. And it was warm. And right now, that was everything.
The cut on my arm from where I’d removed the tracker was healing, but still tender. I allowed myself a small scoop of the green gel, hoping the antiseptic properties would hinder any type of infection.
Outside, voices drifted through the walls—low murmurs that I couldn't quite parse. Close, maybe just beyond the cottage. Discussing us? Debating what to do with the strangers who'd stumbled into their territory?
I strained to hear, but the words remained frustratingly indistinct, just a murmur of sound that rose and fell like distant music.
The fire had burned down while I ate, the flames lower now, sulking. I felt the cold creeping in through the gaps in the walls, insidious and patient. Night had fallen completely, and with it came the mountain chill that bit through even the cottage's warmth.
I moved to the woodpile stacked near the hearth and selected a few logs, tossing them onto the fire. Sparks flew upward like tiny stars, and the flames caught, crackling back to life with renewed hunger.
For a moment, I just stood there, watching the fire dance, feeling the exhaustion settle into my bones like lead. Every muscle ached. My mind felt foggy, overwhelmed, like I was thinking through cotton.
I used to be someone who could handle anything.
Naval intelligence. FBI. I'd been trained by the best, had worked cases that would have shattered lesser agents.
I'd been strong, capable, the woman who walked into dangerous situations with her head high and her instincts razor-sharp.
My body had been a weapon when I needed it to be—disciplined, reliable, mine to command.
Declan Hewes had stolen that from me.
He'd turned my own body into enemy territory, flooded my system with drugs until I couldn't trust my own reactions, my own desires.
Until I'd become something I didn't recognize—desperate, needy, spiraling out of control.
He'd made me a prisoner in my own skin, and even though I'd escaped the cell, I could still feel the bars.
Even now, knowing the drug was out of my system, knowing intellectually that I was free of it, I didn't trust myself. Every instinct felt suspect. Every decision felt like it might be compromised somehow, tainted by what Declan had done to me.
Was I really thinking clearly? Or was I still broken in ways I couldn't see, couldn't measure?
I stared down at my hands, turning them over in the firelight. These hands had fired weapons, had defended myself and others, had been steady and sure. Now they trembled slightly, and I couldn't tell if it was from exhaustion or something deeper, something that might never heal.
The woman I'd been felt like a stranger now. Someone I used to know, someone I'd lost along the way.
But Nansar needed me. And that was something I could hold onto, something real and immediate that cut through all the doubt and fear.
I returned to the bed and carefully lay down beside him, pressing close to his side, pulling the furs over us both. His body was warm, solid, real. I draped my arm across his chest possessively, protectively, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breathing beneath my palm like a promise.
"My turn to keep you warm," I murmured against his shoulder.
Outside, the Welati continued their quiet conversation. The fire crackled and popped, sending shadows dancing across the walls like spirits. And slowly, finally, I let my eyes close, keeping my hand over Nansar's heart like I could keep him safe through sheer force of will.