“You made this?” she projects, the thought hushed, like she’s afraid if she pushes it too loud, everything will vanish.
“I hoped,” I answer, because that is the simple truth. I hoped my glow would erupt. I hoped she would be mine. I hoped she would let me bring her here.
She steps in.
Her shoulders drop a fraction, the line of her body loosening, as if she has finally set down a weight she has been carrying for sols.
“Sit,” I murmur, guiding her toward the mat.
She doesn’t argue.
She sinks into the furs, muscles trembling with the effort. She tips back on her hands and just…breathes, watching me from under heavy lashes.
I go to the small basin in the corner. Dip a piece of ripped covering I got from Jah-kee into the cool water. My claws are shaking, but not from fear.
From too much.
Too much relief. Too much want. Too much everything.
I bring the covering back and kneel between Mih-kay-lah’s feet.
She blinks down at me, her brow furrowing in the soft firestone light. She tries to pull her leg back, just a fraction.
“What are you doing?”
“Hush,” I soothe, tightening my grip on her ankle gently so she cannot retreat.
Her foot coverings are filthy, damp with tunnel water and cave grit. Her legs are streaked with stone dust, the faint sheen of dried blood where rock cut skin.
I start there.
I unlatch the first foot covering slowly, easing it off her foot. It is made of very strong hide that does not smell like any creature I have ever encountered. I set it down carefully because it is something from her water world. Er-th. Something precious. I turn my attention back to her small foot, and slide the damp strip over the top of her foot, across her ankle, up the length of her calf. Grit lifts away in gray streaks. The scrap leaves a cool trail behind, and I follow with my thumbs, digging slowly, carefully into tight muscle.
She hisses between her teeth, then melts, her knee dropping open a little.
“Hurt?” I send immediately, stilling.
“No,” she thinks back. “Good. Don’t stop.”
I don’t.
I move in slow passes: up the other leg, over the knobs of bone at her ankles, the bruises blooming on her shins. I massage the cramped arch of her foot until she makes a soft, involuntary sound that shoots straight to my member.
When I force my eyes to her face, her lashes are lying heavy against her cheeks. Her mouth is soft, parted slightly. She looks…so soft, like this. Fragile in a way that terrifies me.
She is alive because she is stubborn and clever and brave. But she is also alive because the mountain let her go.
The thought makes something vicious and violent uncurl in my gut.
I willnevertrust stone or water or anything outside my own claws to keep her safe again.
I wring out the strip in the water bowl, then move higher.
Her hands are next. I cradle one hand in both of mine and clean it slowly, rubbing the strip between each digit, tracing the little cuts at her knuckles with my thumb.
She stares at our hands, then up at my face.
“You’re very…gentle,” she blinks slowly.
