Chapter 11 #2
His glow flickers. A quick, nervous pulse of light along his collarbones that completely betrays him. He’s unsure.
Sarven, the hunter who catches women falling off cliffs and fights rockslides, looks nervous.
He takes a breath.
Then, very carefully, he uncurls his fingers.
It’s…a spoon.
It’s a small, delicate spoon carved from pale white bone.
One end has been hollowed out with painstaking care into a shallow, perfect oval cup. The handle is slender, tapered specifically to fit a grip much smaller than his own.
It looks like he took the concept of the giant communal ladle and shrank it down, refining the shape until it wasn’t just a stirring stick.
I blink, thinking the fever is making me hallucinate.
It’s a scoop. A personal-sized ladle.
And it’s beautiful.
My breath catches with a hitch that hurts my chest.
“Heh-low, Mih-kay-lah.” He shapes the English greeting with immense care, as if he has practiced it in his head a thousand times. “Your… coo-keen… is good. You… are bee-yoo… bee-yoo-tee…” He frowns, forcing his tongue around the syllables. “Bee-yoo-tee-ful.”
His throat works for a moment.
“I… made this… for you.”
I stare at the object in his massive palm.
The memory hits me.
Sitting in the sick bay with Erika and Jacqui, watching him huddled over a piece of bone. Erika had joked he was making hollow-point death spikes. I had argued that his posture was wrong for weapons. That it was precision work.
I was right.
But he must have been planning this long before that. He must have been watching me wrestle with the giant communal ladle, sweating and cursing as I tried to serve stew with a tool meant for a giant.
He wasn’t making a weapon.
He was making this.
“You made this?” I whisper. My voice is thick. “For me?”
He dips his chin once in a quick, almost shy nod. “Yesss.”
I reach out. My fingers are still shaking, but I take the spoon from his palm.
It’s warm from his skin. It’s smooth as glass.
And the balance… God, the balance is perfect. It settles into my grip as if it belongs there.
“Sarven,” I say, and I have to stop because there is a lump in my throat the size of the gourd.
I’ve been given gifts before. Jewelry. Flowers. The usual stuff.
But this?
“It’s beautiful,” I manage. “Thank you.”
His glow flares brighter, a wash of gold that lights up the tunnel. He looks pleased. Ridiculously, endearingly pleased.
“Use,” he urges, pointing to the open gourd.
I sniff hard, willing the tears back, and dip the spoon into the fruit.
The small bone spoon slices easily into the flesh. I scoop out a perfect mouthful. I don’t have to touch the food. My dirty hands stay on the handle, far away from what I’m eating.
He solved the problem before I even knew I had it.
I take a bite.
The gourd flesh is cool, sweet, and hydrating. It tastes like the best thing I’ve ever eaten.
“It works perfectly,” I tell him, taking another scoop. “It’s amazing.”
He watches me eat. He doesn’t look away. His gaze follows the spoon from the gourd to my lips, tracking the movement of my throat when I swallow.
We share the gourd in silence. I eat with the spoon; he uses his claws.
When the shell is scraped clean, I feel a little human again. The sugar has hit my bloodstream, and the worst of the shakes have subsided.
I wipe the spoon carefully on a clean-ish patch on the inside of my tunic, polishing it until it shines, then I reach over, wrapping it in a scrap of cloth from my basket, and tuck it away.
I treat it like it’s made of diamond. Because honestly? In this situation, it’s worth more than diamonds.
“You know,” I say, breaking the silence. My voice is stronger now. “Where I come from… giving a woman her own cutlery is a big deal.”
He tilts his head, ears perking. “Cut-lehr-ee?”
“Spoons. Knives. Tools for eating.” I offer him a small, tired smile. “A guy noticing you need a tool and making it for you? That’s basically a proposal.”
He processes this. I can see the gears turning behind those crimson eyes.
He doesn’t understand the word ‘proposal,’ I don’t think.
He shifts, moving closer until his knee bumps mine. He doesn’t pull back.
He reaches out, and with one large, careful finger, he brushes a smudge of dust from my cheek. His touch is searing hot, branding me even through the fever.
“Fuh-rend,” he says softly, testing the word again.
Then he shakes his head.
“Noh,” he corrects himself.
He leans in, his gaze dropping to my mouth, then back up to my eyes. The intensity returns, blazing and undeniable.
“Tor-vakh,” he rumbles.
And then, in Drakavian, a word the translator doesn’t need to touch because the meaning is etched into the stone of his voice:
“Mine.”
The air leaves the tunnel.
My heart does a traitorous, frantic rhythm against my ribs.
I should argue. I should tell him he can’t just own people.
But looking at him, at the intensity in his gaze, the glow under his skin, the way he carved a spoon for me because my hands were too small for his world, I can’t find the energy to fight it.
More terrifyingly, I don’t want to.
I swallow hard, my voice barely a breath.
“Okay,” I whisper. “Tor-vakh.”
He blinks. He looks stunned, as if he expected me to fight him. As if he expected the sai-ens teacher to argue with logic.
Then, a slow, devastating smile spreads across his face. A baring of teeth that makes him look breathtaking.
“Good,” he purrs.
He stands up, offering me a hand.
I blink at it.
I have a spoon.
And looking at the strong golden arm outstretched toward me, I realize something terrifying.
I think I might be in trouble.
Because I’m starting to think I might want to keep the alien who made it.