As the evening stretches on, the noise in the cavern shifts. Voices soften. Most of the women drift to their sleeping alcoves. The line of women at the stew pot dwindles as bowls are filled and carried away. Pam finishes her braid and goes to help Alex at the sick alcove. Erika packs away the last of the dried gourd,announces a “much-needed pee,” and disappears toward the back tunnels.
Little by little, I’m left alone at the fire.
Alone, in a sea of Drakav.
And I can still feel only one of them.
Scritch.
The stone runs along the blade again. The repetitive sound sinks into my nerves, like fine grit under an eyelid, an irritation I can’t rub away.
Scritch.
I wipe down the flat stone we use for preparing food, hands moving automatically, mind buzzing. The cavern has grown quieter than I like. The space between each sound feels too big.
I should walk away. Take my bowl and my rag and go to my assigned sleeping mat. Lie down. Close my eyes. Pretend I don’t know exactly where he is without looking.
Scritch.
But my patience, thinned out all day by the headache and the heat and the too-bright orange stew and the heavy weight of eyes on me finally snaps.
I turn.
Slowly.
He’s where I knew he’d be. Still half in shadow, still separate. The firelight has sunk low, just enough to catch the curve of his horns, the angle of his jaw, the glint of his weapon.
As if sensing my movement, he pauses. The stone stills halfway down the blade.
Those crimson eyes meet mine.
He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink or look away or pretend he was checking the fire all along. There’s no sheepishness in him, none of Haroth’s eager, boyish hope. Stabby simply regards me, his attention as steady and unblinking as the desert stars.
It feels, absurdly, like he’s been waiting for me to look.
Or like he’s daring me not to.
My heart gives an annoying little jump against my ribs. I lift my chin to pin it back into place.
I’m hot, tired, feverish. I’ve spent all day babying stew that was hardly fit to eat, and all night being low-level observed by a giant alien with a knife. I am not, under any circumstances, going to be the quiet, accommodating entertainment in this scene.
I cross my arms over my chest. Plant my feet.
His gaze dips briefly, taking in the angle of my shoulders, the line of my arms, then comes back to my face. These Drakav might not understand all of our words yet, but they understand posture. Challenge. Boundary.
“Problem, Stabby?” I ask.
Chapter 2
STAH-BEE
SARVEN
Stah-bee.
The sound leaves her mouth like a thrown stone. Sharp. Direct. A challenge.
I do not answer.
