No soft curves or hazel-green eyes or questions that filled every moment of silence.
Draanth.
He grabbed the fence post he’d been meaning to replace and carried it to the north pasture. Physical labor helped. Always had. When his mother died, he’d rebuilt half the ranch. When his father followed her, he’d cleared three new fields. Work kept the mind occupied and the body too exhausted to dwell on things that couldn’t be changed.
Should work now.
Except his mind kept circling back to the transport ride. To her… sitting beside him, barely reaching his shoulder even seated. To the way she’d filled the silence with question after question until he’d wanted to roar at her to just be quiet.
What kind of animals do you raise?
Are they dangerous?
How long to get there?
Do you go into town often?
On and on. Like silence was something to be avoided instead of valued.
Exhausting.
He drove the post into the ground. The impact vibrated up his arms.
But worse than the talking, worse than the constant chatter that grated against his need for peace, was the moment she’d stood in front of him on the landing pad.
So small.
He’d known human females were smaller than Latharian females had been. Everyone knew that. But knowing it and seeing it were different things. She’d had to tilt her head all the way back to look at him. And those eyes, huge and expressive, locked onto his with hope.
Which he’d crushed within minutes.
His hands tightened on the post. Good. Better she understood from the start that this arrangement was temporary. That he didn’t want her here. That six weeks would pass and she’d leave and his life would return to normal.
Except his body hadn’t gotten that message.
The protective instinct had hit him as she’d crossed the landing pad toward him and the wind had nearly knocked her over. Every muscle in his body had tensed with the urge to shield her. To step in front of her and block the harsh gusts that she clearly wasn’t equipped to handle.
And right alongside that protective surge had come arousal so sharp it stole his breath.
He drove the post deeper, jaw clenched hard enough to ache.
She was beautiful. Devastatingly beautiful. Soft curves that the standard-issue tunic couldn’t hide, auburn hair that caught the light, and a face that would make most males look twice. But it was the size difference that had really undone him. How delicate she’d seemed standing there. How fragile.
He could span her waist with his hands.
The thought came unbidden and unwelcome. Undeniable. His hands were bigger than a human’s would be…scarred and calloused from years of physical labor and before that, his service as a warrior. Rough hands that could break stone or snap bone. And she was so small he could wrap his fingers around her waist and probably touch them together.
The image made heat coil low in his gut.
He was massive. Six-ten and built like the mountains that surrounded his ranch. Shoulders broad enough to block doorways, arms thick with muscle earned through constant physical work. Everything about him was rough edges and hard planes and strength that could hurt without meaning to.
She barely came up to his chest.
One wrong move, too much pressure, too tight a grip, and he could break something delicate.
That awareness should have killed the attraction. Should have made him careful and distant and unmoved.
Instead it fed both the need to protect and the need to possess.
