“Of course. I’ll take him hunting with me.”
I see the little flicker of distress in her eyes, followed by a resigned nod. Yep—Pallas’s only chance is to learn to fend for himself. Once the weather clears, we’ll go after lemmings together. He won’t catch any—too young—but watching is the first step.
After his meal, Pallas curls up and sleeps on the lounge sofa.
***
Two days of snowstorm later, the weather finally clears. About time. I need to stretch my legs—and hunt.
My lovely companion’s still asleep, worn out from the intense activities we’ve enjoyed these past two days. She’s lying on her stomach, one hand under her pillow, long dark hair splayed out around her like a halo. I let her rest…
Pallas follows me everywhere. He sees me as his surrogate parent—though he turns to Neela for his cuddle quota.
For what I’m planning, I keep only my pants on. I scoop up the kitten and head outside. I set him down about a hundred yards away, once I hear a familiar rustle in the snow. Prey, also eager to stretch their legs after the storm.
We slip quietly through the forest. He watches my every move, trying to copy me. His curiosity and excitement are palpable.
I stop near a moss-covered hole and show him how to blend in—nearly invisible. He mimics me clumsily but tries hard. We wait. Breathe. A rodent scurries out. I leap. One bite to the neck—done.
The others won’t come out now—they’ve heard. But the hole thirty feet away? Still full of opportunity.
I lead him there and let him take over. Pallas nods, eyes glowing with anticipation. He crouches behind a bush, tiny paws trembling. Then—bam! He charges, snow flying. The lemming darts away, zigzagging. Pallas chases. I follow at a distance, ready to step in.
The lemming turns—sees me—hesitates. Just long enough for my little guy to pounce and catch him by the scruff. I growl my approval.
He doesn’t finish the kill, just plays with it. It’s normal—play is part of the hunting process. It helps him learn control and burns off adrenaline. He’s doing great. His weaning will go smoothly.
Before we head back, I skin the prey and give him a few strips of raw meat. He chews happily. I do the same, just to show him—even though I vastly prefer my food cooked.
We find Neela ready to go. I wrap her in my arms and give her a searing kiss. She kisses me back with equal fire—pure male satisfaction achieved. I inhale the scent behind her ear… Perfect. She smells like me now. No doubt.
“Ahem!” she coughs, pulling away. “Good morning, Prax.”
“Good morning, beautiful. Sleep well?” I murmur, brushing her lips with another kiss.
“Not really, if you recall,” she retorts with a playful glare.
She can glare all she wants. If she thinks that’ll get me to slow down—she’s dreaming. She can handle it. I know she can. I flash her a wicked wink full of naughty promises.
“Pallas with you?”
“Of course! The little rascal did great this morning. Got his protein dose. I’ll let you handle the rest. We’re almost ready to leave.”
“Perfect. By the way, now that the storm’s passed, comms seem better. I heard people chatting on Channel 59—Arabia Terra’s, not Cydonia’s.”
“And what were those fine citizens saying?”
“Oh, nothing important. Mostly just talking about the snowstorm.”
“Makes sense. No reason folks from Cydonia would be able to reach across territories—not with your primitive tech. Let’s check it out.”
Back in the kitchen, Neela restarts the pitiful comm device. Static. Then a few irrelevant announcements.
“You can shut that off. We’ve wasted enough time here. Let’s move.”
“Technically, it should be called the CATC—Colony Arabia Terra’s Communication—but yeah, you’re right. Let’s go!”
20-Neela
