“Safe,” he rumbles.
“Even when I do stupid things for science?”
He probably won’t get what I just said. But then the corner of his mouth quirks up. It’s a small movement, barely there, but it transforms his face from scary alien predator to something… else. Something that makes my heart do a stupid little flip.
“Safe even when… stupid sai-ens,” he rumbles, the translator picking up his words and depositing them in my ear.
I let out a breathless laugh that turns into a cough. “Good to know.”
We sit there for a while, just breathing. The tunnel is still a bit humid here, the heat from whatever’s warming the mountain seeping through the floor. It should be uncomfortable, but with the chills racking my body, the ambient warmth feels like a blanket.
My stomach chooses that moment to let out a growl so loud it echoes off the stone walls.
I flinch, wrapping my arms tighter around my middle. “Sorry. Ignore that.”
Sarven’s brows draw together. He looks at my stomach, then at my face.
“Eat?” he asks.
“I’m fine,” I lie. “I’m not hungry.”
I am, in fact, starving. I haven’t eaten since we left the clan caves, and I’ve burned about ten thousand calories just tryingto survive. But the thought of eating with these dirty hands, of putting anything into my mouth when I smell like rot… it makes my throat close up.
Sarven ignores my lie completely. He stands up, his shadow falling over me.
“I smelled…green,” he murmurs. “That is why we stopped here.”
He walks a few paces down the tunnel to a section where the ceiling is fractured. High above, a jagged crack lets in a faint, distinct draft of fresh surface air.
Crowded into that crack is a tangle of thick, pale roots that have burrowed down from the desert above, seeking the cave’s moisture. Bulging from the tangle is a large, swollen tuber, protected by a thick rind.
I recognize it immediately.So that’s where the gourds come from.
Sarven reaches up, his claws scraping gently against the stone as he snaps the gourd free with a quick twist of his wrist.
He brings it back to our little circle, sitting down cross-legged this time. He turns the gourd in his hands, checking it, I suppose, for blemishes or red spots from the rot.
Finding none, he prepares to open it.
But then he pauses.
He looks at his own hands. Dark red smears of the slime still cling to his fingers.
He grunts, a low sound of displeasure.
Then, he closes his eyes for a second.
The glow under his skin flares hot—much hotter than before. It rushes down his arms, concentrating in his hands until they shine like molten gold. Heat radiates off him in a sudden, intense wave, hot enough to make me scoot back a few inches.
On his skin, the slime residue hisses. The dry heat of his internal fire is nothing like the damp rot of the cave. Itincinerates the moisture instantly, starving the bacteria. The red slime dries, turning from red to gray ash in seconds.
He shakes his hands once, and the dead dust flakes away, leaving his golden skin perfectly clean.
“Clean,” he says simply, the glow fading back to a safe, warm hum.
I stare at him, wide-eyed. “Did you just... thermally sterilize your hands?”
He tilts his head, not understanding the words, but understanding the shock. He blinks at me, as if turning his hands into an autoclave is the most normal thing in the world.
