Chapter 2
Plumak landed on the thick, braided lip of the entrance hole with a soft thud that barely swayed the massive structure.
He ducked his feathered head, stepped through the round opening, and set me down on my feet.
I let go of his neck like his fur had caught fire, stumbling a half - step backward until my canvas backpack bumped against the curved inner wall.
My knees still wobbled from the flight, and the damp cotton between my legs clung to my skin as a humiliating reminder of what eighty seconds pressed against his chest had done to me.
Crossing my arms tight over my ribs to hide my rigid nipples, I forced myself to look around.
I had never been inside a personal residential nest before.
The only elevated structure I had ever set foot in was the Central Nest - a cavernous communal hall wedged into the main fork of the ancient oak where the clan gathered for feasts and council meetings.
Since my mother’s sudden rise to local royalty made me the Warlord’s official stepdaughter, clan protocol required my presence at those noisy dinners.
On day three, when two grinning gryphon guards offered to carry me up for some ridiculous banquet - whatever the hell that celebration was about - I pitched a fit loud enough to scare the birds out of the lower bushes.
I refused to dangle in the claws of some random winged creep twice a week, and the alternative - blushing like an idiot in Plumak’s arms every time the Warlord called a family meal - was even worse.
I had stood in the mud with my arms crossed until my new stepfather ordered his builders to rig a rope - and - plank ladder down the side of the central trunk for me and Brenda.
Climbing seventy feet of slick, swaying wooden rungs in the drizzle made my calves cramp and left splinters in my palms, yet I took that miserable ladder every single time.
Anything beat being manhandled by monsters or letting my stepbrother feel my heart hammering against his ribs.
I had spent six weeks mapping out my daily routine just to stay out of his sight, only for him to shadow me through the ferns like a burr stuck to my boot.
And now, thanks to the stupid monsoon, I was trapped with him inside a giant hanging basket for weeks.
Letting my gaze travel up the sweeping walls, I had to admit the interior didn't match the primitive birdcage I had pictured.
From the outside, the nest looked like a colossal, rough - woven gourd dangling from a branch as thick as a highway overpass.
Inside, the space was wider than my old studio apartment in Austin.
Generations of tightly braided branches, stripped willow bark, and dried marsh reeds formed a seamless, curving dome that blocked every trace of the chilly wind.
The floor beneath my muddy boots held firm and silent, packed solid with cured river clay and covered in overlapping layers of thick, tawny pelts and woven rush mats.
High overhead, near the narrow neck where the teardrop anchored to the bough, small gaps in the weave let fresh air circulate while keeping the heavy rain outside.
My eyes snagged on the far curve of the wall, and my eyebrows shot up.
Built right into the woven side of the nest sat a recessed basin crafted from flat gray river stones, sealed together with thick, fire - baked mud.
A chimney pipe made of hollowed, clay - lined hardwood ran from the top of the stone hood straight out through an opening in the upper weave.
Inside the hearth, a stack of dry birch logs crackled with bright orange flames, radiating a steady, dry heat that licked across my damp pants and made my frozen toes tingle.
How a bunch of tree - dwelling predators engineered a working fireplace inside a hanging wooden basket without burning the forest down was beyond me, though I wasn't about to complain.
For the first time in a month and a half, the air in my lungs wasn't thick with cold mist. It smelled of toasted cedar, warm fur, and dried autumn leaves.
I let my shoulders drop an inch, taking a step toward the hearth to warm my stiff fingers.
As I passed a crooked wooden shelf woven into the wall beside the fire, a tiny flash of silver caught the amber light.
I stopped dead in my tracks. Sitting on a bed of soft dried moss, polished until it gleamed, was my butterfly hair clip.
The one with the missing rhinestone on the left wing that had vanished from my bedside log two weeks ago.
My stomach gave a strange lurch. Slowly, I leaned closer to the shelf.
Right next to the clip sat my shiny aluminum spoon from the Sector Seven bunker.
Beside the spoon lay my spare shoelaces, three smooth plastic buttons that had popped off my flannel shirt, and my half - empty tube of cherry chapstick.
A cold suspicion prickled at the back of my neck.
I spun around, scanning the rest of the round room with fresh eyes.
In the curve opposite the hearth, a massive circular sleeping pit took up nearly a third of the floor, piled knee - deep with dark furs and plump leather cushions.
Tucked right into the center of that plush depression, arranged in a neat, deliberate circle like the lining of a crown, were my missing possessions.
My gray sweatshirt formed the top arc. My faded blue bandana sat smoothed out over a bearskin pillow.
My left wool sock, my missing green tank top, two hair ties, and the corner of my old micro - fleece towel were woven directly into the furs, creating a soft, colorful hollow that smelled unmistakably of my soap and smoke from my campfire.
The entire nest was practically upholstered with my wardrobe.
Blood roared in my ears, drowning out the crackle of the birch logs.
I whipped my head toward the entrance, where Plumak was busy shaking the rain off his massive copper wings before folding them neatly against his back.
"What the hell is all this?!" I barked, flinging an arm toward the sleeping pit.
Plumak turned his head, his round golden eyes following my pointing finger to the pile of my clothes, then back to my flushed face.
Not a single feather on his skull twitched with guilt.
He gave a slow, unbothered shrug of his broad shoulders, hooking his clawed thumbs close to the dangerously low waistband of his leather shorts.
"I brought them here," he said, his tone as calm as if he were commenting on the weather.
My jaw dropped. "You brought them?!" My voice climbed an octave, bouncing off the curved reed walls. "You didn't bring them, you feathered maniac, you stole them! I spent three days tearing my hut apart looking for that sweatshirt! I walked around with one cold foot because of you!"
"You left them unattended in the mud," he rumbled, tilting his head with avian logic. "They were getting damp."
Something inside my chest snapped. Six weeks of soggy socks, miserable cold, terrifying portal drops, my drunken mother’s betrayal, and the constant, maddening pressure of this monster haunting my every breath boiled over at once.
I dropped my backpack onto the mats and marched straight across the room.
I didn't care about my ten - foot safety rule anymore.
Stopping inches from his furred legs, I craned my neck back to glare up into his harsh, half - eagle face and jabbed my index finger hard into the center of his broad, muscular chest. "You have lost your mind!
" I shouted, poking his solid pectoral again with every word.
Underneath the short tawny fur, it felt like jabbing a brick wall.
"I am sick of this! You have driven me crazy since the second I landed in this forest!
You hover over my roof, you spy on me from the branches, you ruined seventeen perfectly good escape attempts, and now I find out you've been sneaking into my hut like a common thief to hoard my dirty laundry!
I can't even look at your stupid beak anymore! Why won't you just leave me alone?!"
My finger stayed pressed against his sternum, my chest heaving as I waited for him to snap back or make up some excuse about his father’s orders.
Plumak stood towering over me in the warm firelight, the tuft of his tail still against his ankles, his golden eyes locked onto mine with an intensity that made the air between us turn thick as syrup. "Because you are my mate," he said.
The words hit me harder than the fall through the portal.
My hand dropped from his chest as if I had touched a hot stove.
Every drop of anger vanished from my veins, replaced by a cold, dizzying shock that made the woven walls spin.
I stared up at the fierce curve of his beak, the stiff rust feathers framing his sharp cheekbones, and the massive slabs of muscle rising and falling with his breath.
"What?" The syllable scraped past my dry throat in a broken whisper. I shook my head, backing up half a pace as panic clawed at my ribs. "No. No way. You're my stepbrother!"
Plumak gave another slow shrug, dismissing human law with a roll of his massive shoulders.
"Our parents' bond has nothing to do with our blood, Kelsy.
You can deny it all you want with your mouth, but I know what you feel whenever I come near you.
I know what happens to you when I carry you in my arms."
My stomach plummeted. "Nothing happens to me!" I lied, my voice cracking on the last word.