No one needs to know I’ve been dreaming about a certain hunter with crimson eyes and a scar that goes down the side of his face. About the way he moves through the caves like he’s part of the darkness. About careful, clawed hands and the quiet way he watches me as if I’m the only thing in the cave.
Absolutely not sharing that.
“Speaking of dreams,” Pam says, her smile returning, brighter now. “There’s a Drakav that’s been looking over here.”
I narrow my eyes. “And what does that have to do with dreams?” But her grin widens, and I know exactly where this is heading. I point the thick end of the ladle at her. “Don’t.”
“I just thought you should know.” She tilts her head, all innocent. “He seems very interested in what you’re doing.”
“They’re all interested in what we’re doing.” I set the ladle aside, flexing my fingers. “We’re like live theater they can’t figure out.”
But I know who she means.
In the shadowed section of the cavern, where the firelight doesn’t quite reach and the air feels cooler, there is one male who isn’t hovering close like the others. No eager puppy energy. No sidelong glances as they pretend to sharpen spears or refill waterskins.
They call him Sarven, but I’ve dubbed him something else.
Stabby McGoldy.
He sits half in darkness, long legs bent, broad back resting against the cave wall. A long blade of bone is braced across his thighs as he draws a smoothed stone along its edge with focused, unhurried motions.
Scritch.
The sound slides through the low murmur of conversation and crackle of fire. A soft rasp, rhythmic and steady.
Those red eyes, though, aren’t on the blade.
They’re onme.
Not with the bright, hopeful intensity of Haroth when he’s picked out a particularly sparkly “wedding rock.” Not with the shy curiosity some of the other males have when they watch us brush our hair or lace our sneakers.
Sarven’s gaze is something else entirely.
Focused. Measuring. Quietly fierce.
Of all the women in the cavern, I’ve never seen him watch anyone the way he watches me.
It makes something inside me go tight and restless. My breath stutters. My pulse skips in ways I do not care for.
I force myself to look away, but my eyes keep drifting back.
Because speaking as a former science teacher, purely from an anatomical standpoint, Stabby is built like someone designed the perfect predator and then gave it abs.
Broad shoulders that taper to a narrow waist. Arms corded with muscles that shift under golden skin whenever he moves. And those hands. Large, long-fingered, surprisingly elegant for someone who spends his time sharpening stabbing things.
And that dark scar that runs down over his right brow, past the corner of his eye. It makes his face look harsher when his jaw tightens, that thin line pulling taut with the movement.
Stop staring, Mikaela.
I snatch the heavy bone handle up again and wrench my gaze back to the pot, pretending the stew is solely responsible for the slow throb behind my eyes.
Think about the planet sickness, I tell myself. The fever. The headache. The way the air feels thick some evenings. Do not think about the alien in the corner who looks like he could tear a boulder in half and yet hasn’t moved an inch all night.
I can still see him, though. In my peripheral vision. The way his arm glides as he draws the stone along the blade. The shift of muscle in his shoulders. Occasionally, the last dregs of daylight filtering in catch on his skin, turning it almost molten.
Why couldn’t they have patchy fur? Huh? Or weeping sores. Or a third arm dangling uselessly from their chest cavities. No, they had to be tall, broad, and attractive in a way that my brain recognizes as dangerous, and yet completely, utterly alien.
Heat crawls up my neck. I pretend it’s just the proximity to the fire.
