Ah-fek-shun-ate.
“Softness,” Tharn adds in the mindspace, his hand dropping to rest on his mate’s waist, claws curving around her as if he cannot help it. “Care. Approval.”
Approval?
My chest tightens and then expands. Like the steady swell of breath after a clean kill.
My female has named me.
She threw it like a challenge, but she gave it to me. She has seen my skill, my blade, my worth, and turned it into a sound she can wield.
Stah-bee.
I repeat it in the private space of my thoughts. The sound is short. Quick. It feels like a title. Not one given by a dra-dam or a clan, but by something smaller and infinitely more dangerous.
She has named me.
I am ready to answer.
I glance down without meaning to, at my bare chest. The golden skin there is the same as always. No sudden flare of light. No uncontrolled bursting of glow that would mark the dust itself rising to bless a bond.
Me and my brothers, we wait our turns. We pretend we are patient.
Meanwhile, my skin remains obedient. No flashes. No eruptions beyond my control.
The dust has not chosen me yet.
I exhale slowly and incline my head to Tharn and Jah-kee in thanks, careful to keep my mind smooth, then return to my place along the wall of the main cavern.
Guard duty, I remind myself. The dra-dam asked this of me, and I will not fail him.
Mih-kay-lah has returned from the storage alcove. She cleans now. She crouches near the worn stone that serves as her work station, wrestling the heavy stone bowl onto its side to scrub it with sand.
I watch her hands.
They are a constant impossibility. So small. No claws. Just soft, dark-brown skin stretched over delicate bones. They look as if a hard breath could bruise them.
And yet, she makes the stubborn, rough stone obey. She presses and scrubs until the grit shifts. Until the surface smooths.
I want to take the rough stone away and give her something soft to hold.
Like me.
My groin tightens at the thought. A phantom pressure pushes against the smooth seal of my skin, followed by the familiar heat that has stalked me since the day I first saw her in the dust.
I adjust my stance against the wall, shifting my weight. My brows pull tight. This has been happening often. Too often. Every time those dark eyes cut toward me and then away. I do not even know what it means.
She leans further over the pot, bracing herself with one arm. I track the line of her cheekbone, the dark lash against her skin, the stubborn pout of her lips. The dust has never created a creature this perfect. Even covered in firestone dust, scowling at a dirty pot, she shines brighter than Ain.
My member throbs painfully harder now, aching to reshape. Heat spreads from my loins outward, a molten line racing under my skin.
“You are staring again.” Haroth’s projection is amused. He has approached on silent feet, his presence brushing against my mind just before he settles against the wall beside me. “It makes the females nervous.”
“I observe,” I answer.
“You obsess.” He settles against the wall next to me, following my gaze to where Mih-kay-lah works. “You should bring her something. Prove your worth.”
I imagine laying a fresh kill at Mih-kay-lah’s feet. Glossy hide, steaming wounds, rich in blood. But I have seen my brothers try this. It does not impress the females.
