He solved the problem before I even knew I had it.
I take a bite.
The gourd flesh is cool, sweet, and hydrating. It tastes like the best thing I’ve ever eaten.
“It works perfectly,” I tell him, taking another scoop. “It’s amazing.”
He watches me eat. He doesn’t look away. His gaze follows the spoon from the gourd to my lips, tracking the movement of my throat when I swallow.
We share the gourd in silence. I eat with the spoon; he uses his claws.
When the shell is scraped clean, I feel a little human again. The sugar has hit my bloodstream, and the worst of the shakes have subsided.
I wipe the spoon carefully on a clean-ish patch on the inside of my tunic, polishing it until it shines, then I reach over, wrapping it in a scrap of cloth from my basket, and tuck it away.
I treat it like it’s made of diamond. Because honestly? In this situation, it’s worth more than diamonds.
“You know,” I say, breaking the silence. My voice is stronger now. “Where I come from… giving a woman her own cutlery is a big deal.”
He tilts his head, ears perking. “Cut-lehr-ee?”
“Spoons. Knives. Tools for eating.” I offer him a small, tired smile. “A guy noticing you need a tool and making it for you? That’s basically a proposal.”
He processes this. I can see the gears turning behind those crimson eyes.
He doesn’t understand the word ‘proposal,’ I don’t think.
He shifts, moving closer until his knee bumps mine. He doesn’t pull back.
He reaches out, and with one large, careful finger, he brushes a smudge of dust from my cheek. His touch is searing hot, branding me even through the fever.
“Fuh-rend,” he says softly, testing the word again.
Then he shakes his head.
“Noh,” he corrects himself.
He leans in, his gaze dropping to my mouth, then back up to my eyes. The intensity returns, blazing and undeniable.
“Tor-vakh,” he rumbles.
And then, in Drakavian, a word the translator doesn’t need to touch because the meaning is etched into the stone of his voice:
“Mine.”
The air leaves the tunnel.
My heart does a traitorous, frantic rhythm against my ribs.
I should argue. I should tell him he can’t just own people.
But looking at him, at the intensity in his gaze, the glow under his skin, the way he carved a spoon for me because my hands were too small for his world, I can’t find the energy to fight it.
More terrifyingly, I don’t want to.
I swallow hard, my voice barely a breath.
“Okay,” I whisper. “Tor-vakh.”
