Chapter 7
Telok’s grip on the spear tightened as he watched Lacey depart. His hearts pounded, each beat sending a wave of restless, tingling heat through his body.
He willed her to slow down, to look back. She did neither. Her red hair bounced and swayed with her hurried steps, and the distance between them grew.
A wild urge seized him, like a thousand threads in his chest twining together into a tangled mass that pulled on every fiber of his being at once.
Chase her.
Claim her.
His leg muscles tensed, eager to obey the call of instinct, and that heat gathered at his core. Yet despite all his body and soul roaring for him to act, he held himself in place, watching Lacey until she was out of sight. Even then, he could not pry his gaze from the spot where he’d last seen her.
He needed to go after her, needed to have her, but he could not. All he could do was let her go… And continue his fruitless attempts to convince himself that this was better for both of them. Continue pretending he could easily bear this ache.
Kir’ani vi’jatai.
My little thorn.
“What have you done this time?” Rekosh asked.
“Nothing,” Telok replied.
Rekosh chittered. “When it comes to you and Lacey, it is never nothing.”
Finally tearing his eyes away from the empty air Lacey had formerly occupied, Telok looked at his friend. The tall, spindly weaver stood with his head tilted to the side, his lower arms folded across his chest, and a knowing gleam in his red eyes.
Telok drew in a slow, deep breath and held it until his chest burned. Lacey’s scent lingered in his awareness. But that was to be expected, was it not? She was a spirit bound to his hearts, haunting him everywhere he went. There was no escape.
And some part of him thrilled in this torment.
“You are right, Rekosh. It is not nothing. It is…” Raising a hand, Telok beckoned the weaver closer.
Rekosh leaned in.
“None of your concern,” Telok snapped, emphasizing each word with a clack of his mandible fangs. He turned back into his den, letting the curtain fall into place, and strode toward the worktable.
Tools and materials lay atop it—a knife and a small axe for shaping wood, several stones and antlers for shaping the blackrock, lengths of thick silk thread and strips of leather for binding, partially honed spearheads and a few scattered trinkets.
After two days of work, he’d not completed a single weapon.
His thoughts had been…scattered, like fallen leaves left at the mercy of fickle winds.
Silk rustled behind him as Rekosh entered.
“So, you truly mean to hide away in here for another day?” Rekosh asked.
With great care, Telok laid the spear Lacey had given him atop the table. “I am not hiding. I am working.”
Rekosh chittered again, moving closer. “As I recall, that does not count as a valid reason. Not according to you and Urkot when last we were in Takarahl.”
“You were hiding.” Telok ran his hands over the spear, learning the feel of its shaped wood. “I am working.”
Stepping beside Telok, Rekosh hummed. “Strange sort of work.”
“It does not involve needle, thread, or loom, so of course it is strange to you.” Telok’s hand found the decorative braid. He couldn’t stop himself from stroking it with his thumb.
Rekosh reached out to touch the weapon. Fire flared in Telok, and he yanked the spear away before the weaver’s hand could make contact, a low growl vibrating in his chest.
A smug trill escaped Rekosh as he nudged Telok’s foreleg with his own. “So it is a gift from Lacey?”
Telok huffed and turned away to resume his examination of the weapon.
“Is that why you have been so powtee these last few days?” Rekosh asked. “The spears?”
“I am not powtee.” Telok traced the edge of the blackrock spearhead with a finger, pausing at the tip to glance at his friend. “What is powtee?”
Rekosh’s mandibles rose in a smile. “It is the human word for Telok.”
Telok hefted the spear into his hands. “Do not move. I must test the point.”
Throwing his hands up, Rekosh skittered aside. “It looks sharp enough to me.”
Telok cocked his head. “And powtee?”
“It means sulky, grouchy, grumpy.” Rekosh said the last three words in English, gesturing at Telok. “You.”
Chittering, Telok shook his head. “I am not powtee, Rekosh.”
Not anymore.
Instead, he was…what?
His eyes again found their way back to the spear.
Though it had its imperfections—a touch unbalanced, crooked by a thread’s width—the care that had been put into making it was undeniable.
The wood grain of the shaft was just intact enough to allow for a sure grip.
The threads securing the head to the haft were wound tight and even.
The spearhead was well-shaped, thin enough to bear an edge but not enough so to make it overly brittle.
It was in the style he preferred, the length he preferred, adorned in the manner he preferred.
Lacey had not merely gifted him a spear, she’d shaped it just for him, using her own two hands.
Hands that had been left red and sore due to her efforts.
Telok had received gifts before, but none had been so thoughtful, so meaningful. She’d endured suffering to make this for him, and she had given particular attention to the details. Lacey had made this spear with her whole heart and given it to Telok.
How could this ever be considered an ordinary gift?
Rekosh hummed thoughtfully.
Telok felt the weaver’s eyes upon him, but he didn’t look away from the spear as he carried it to the entryway. He stood it on the rack beside the opening and stepped back.
It looked like it belonged there. And for a fleeting moment, no longer than the silence between heartbeats, he envisioned a shorter, lighter spear beside it, one with a tiny braid of black, white, and green adorning it, fitting the den just as naturally. A spear for Lacey.
“Have you ever considered that simply speaking to her honestly could end this strife?” Rekosh asked.
“Have you ever considered that speaking less would grant peace to everyone around you?”
But the truth of Rekosh’s words reverberated through Telok, hollowing a cold, dreadful space in his chest.
“I have spoken with Lacey many times,” Telok found himself saying, “and I have never given her untruth.”
Rekosh just hummed again, a hint of disbelief in his tone.
When Telok turned to face him, Rekosh once more had his lower arms crossed, and one of his upper hands was toying with the end of his braided hair, which hung in front of his shoulder. His attention was fixed on Telok.
There was something unsettling about that stare. It bore no ill will, but Rekosh’s eyes were sharp and penetrating, and Telok had often had the sense that Rekosh could see things others couldn’t. That he could see things others thought they’d hidden away.
It made Telok feel…exposed.
Is this how the humans feel without their clothing?
“Do not look at me that way,” Telok said with a huff.
Though Rekosh did not avert his gaze, the piercing glint in his eyes dulled, becoming almost sorrowful. “Truly, Telok, you need not hide.”
“I am a hunter. I must often hide.”
Shaking his head, Rekosh sighed. “I know you understand my meaning. Not everything is a hunt.”
Telok spread his arms, displaying his scarred hide. “The hunt is all I know.”
Rekosh’s posture sagged. “I do not believe that is true. And if it is…it need not be.”
Telok strode to his friend and bumped forelegs. “Do not worry over me. I am well enough.”
Liar.
He was lost, restless, confused, at war with himself. Kaldarak felt as much like a cage as it did a home. So much emotion swirled inside him, so much turmoil, and he could not let it out. Could not succumb to it.
He could not allow himself to take what he wanted, no matter how easy it would’ve been to do so.
“Well enough,” Rekosh repeated with a grunt. “Sometimes I wonder if words hold different meanings for you than for the rest of us.”
“Perhaps.” That would explain why Telok always seemed to choose the wrong ones when he spoke to Lacey.
Flicking his long braid behind his back, Rekosh glanced around the den. His gaze lingered first on the lone spear by the entrance, and then on the worktable. “You are joining Garahk’s hunt tomorrow, are you not?”
“I am.”
“Should you wish to borrow a spear, you need but ask.” Rekosh looked back at Telok. “I am sure that between myself, Ketahn, and Urkot, there must be one to match what you prefer.”
“You are all remaining behind again?”
The weaver nodded.
Though that answer didn’t surprise Telok, the realization that accompanied it caught him off guard.
All his friends had claimed mates and were making their own families.
He’d never imagined it possible, had never wanted it for himself, hadn’t even considered it.
He’d already lost so many of those he cared about.
How could he bear the pain of losing anyone else, especially a mate and broodlings of his own?
But seeing his friends with their mates, seeing them happy, seeing Ketahn and Ivy with Akalahn and now both Ahmya and Callie carrying broodlings…
He resisted the urge to claw at his chest, knowing it could do nothing to diminish the vast, deep ache dominating it.
Telok strode past Rekosh, returning to the worktable. “I will have all I need tomorrow, but you have my thanks for offering.”
“Of course.”
Telok picked up two of the blackrock spearheads from the table, testing their weight on his open hands. Though a mere three segments separated him and his friend, that space felt as wide as all the land between Kaldarak and Takarahl.
Which left the chasm between Telok and Lacey as massive as the darkness between the stars that she and the other humans had crossed to get here.
He despised that distance, despised this strain…
But was it not confirmation that he was meant to stride alone?
That his place had never truly been either in Takarahl or Kaldarak?
“I…” He closed his hands around the spearheads.
He could barely feel the bites of their sharpened edges against his palms. Whatever words he’d meant to say tangled in his throat, becoming a mass too thick and jumbled to get out.
So he let them die, accepting their ghosts into his hearts—just another thing to haunt him.
“I am glad for you and Ahmya. For Urkot and Callie as well. Your broodlings will be healthy and strong.”
The news had been shared while he’d been searching for Lacey nine days ago, and he’d not found the opportunity to congratulate his friends in the time since.
“Thank you.” Rekosh’s steps were almost silent as he moved closer. “You have much to do, and your spirit is heavy. I will leave you to your work. We will talk more when you return to Kaldarak.”
Telok nodded. Heavy was as good a word as any to describe his mood, though conflicted seemed more accurate. Time in the Tangle would clear his mind. Real distance from Lacey would make it easier to…
To what? Sever the ties between them? The only way for that to succeed would be to sever his ties with everyone.
Rekosh settled a hand on Telok’s shoulder. “Long ago, a wise hunter taught me that forever lying in wait only gives fate a chance to leave you with an empty belly.”
Mandibles twitching, Telok turned his head to look at Rekosh. “I am the only hunter who taught you.”
“Exactly.” Rekosh’s hand squeezed firmly. “If the hunt is truly all you know, brother…hunt. Because whatever it is you have been doing instead is harming more than just yourself.”
Telok’s fists curled tighter, and now he did feel the pain, but it was nothing compared to the intensifying tightness in his chest.
Rekosh withdrew his hand and, making no sound but the rasp of moving cloth at the doorway, departed.
Hurting Lacey would keep her away, wouldn’t it? And wasn’t that what his aim had been? Wasn’t the distance his goal?
Her pain was like a blade plunged into his back, wielded by his own hand, but it was necessary. Necessary because…
Because Telok could not keep himself away.
How often had he caught himself seeking her out or watching her from afar? How many times had he lurked unseen in the shadows to observe as she interacted with others, as she worked, as she ate, as she slept, as she bathed?
A shudder wracked him, and his stem roused behind his slit. Desire blossomed in his core, spiraling outward to flood his body, hazing his mind with red.
Lacey’s soft, pale body should have held no appeal to him.
Everything about it was strange. Its size, its shape, its coloring, the way it moved.
The way her flesh gave at the merest touch.
Those bulbous chest mounds, tipped with berry-pink flesh.
Her flaring curves, the patch of red hair over her slit, her feet with their odd, dainty toes…
And yet he could scarcely look away from her. He could not gaze upon her without curiosity, without hunger. Even her scars, unlike any he’d seen, drew him in.
He longed to see her now, to fill his lungs with her scent, to touch her, to…taste her.
To make her his.
She is only a short stride away…
Snarling, he hammered his fists on the table, rattling everything atop it. Warm blood oozed between his fingers.
“I cannot have her,” he rasped.
Tomorrow’s journey would do him well. It would keep him away from her, grant him other matters to occupy his attention, and let these consuming fires within him cool and sputter out. He needed to spend time with her out of his reach, unable to indulge his impulses to see her.
Because if he took Lacey as his mate, if he claimed her and let himself get as close to her as he craved…he would not survive it when the Tangle inevitably reminded him that it was the beginning and end of all things.