I force the thoughts out into the mindspace.
“My female,” I send, and even that feels too bold. “The female I wish to claim… she does not respond.”
Understanding stirs between them, and Rok makes a low sound in his chest.
“You bring her meat?” Tharn asks first, practical as always.
“Every sol,” I answer.
Rok cocks his head. “And she accepts?”
“I leave it near her sleeping mat.” I hesitate. “It is gone when I return.”
Tharn grunts, satisfied. “She does not refuse your provision. This is a clear sign.”
“But…” I hesitate again. This next admission is harder. It feels like stepping onto open ground with no cover. “My glow has not ignited.”
The frustration I have been holding tight bleeds out, darkening the pulse of my thoughts. “My glow remains under my control.”
Rok and Tharn exchange a glance, something passing between them too soft to catch fully in the mindspace.
“The glow ignites when it ignites,” Rok projects carefully. “You cannot force the claiming.You can only be… seen. As you truly are.”
“Show her your worth,” Tharn agrees. “Make her see you different.”
“How?” I lean in despite myself. “I have already tried Haroth’s methods. Standing near. Blinking.”
The amusement that sparks from both of them is impossible to ignore.
“Females like ‘thoughtfulness.’” Rok shapes the human word carefully. “Jus-teen explained it as…noticing small things.Things others miss.”
Tharn rumbles in agreement.
I process this information. Small things. Things others miss. This, at least, is something I understand. Hunters must notice everything.
I incline my head to both of them in thanks, and head back toward the main cavern. My ears swivel, tracking sounds throughout the cave system. The sound of stone work as Haroth carves another “gift”. The soft murmur of female voices from behind their sleeping partition.
And there, steady and familiar even beneath all of it: Mih-kay-lah’s breathing.
Distant, yet to my ears, it sounds close.
She is behind the hanging coverings now, where the females sleep. Through the gap, I catch a glimpse of her. She sits on her sleeping mat, one knee bent, arms lifted as she works with herhair. She gathers the woven strands with both hands and pulls them back, wrapping a strip of fiber to bind them.
As she moves, the collar of her scale-tunic slides, revealing a stretch of warm brown skin along her throat. The small notch there pulses softly with the beat of her dra-kir.
I drag my gaze away with effort. I cannot push past the partition the way the females do.
So, I focus on other things. I practice.
Silently. In my mind. Words I’ve been learning for her.
“Heh-low, Mih-kay-lah,” I shape silently. The sounds feel thick. Slow. Wrong in my throat.
“Your… coo-keen… is good.”
“You… are bee-yoo-tee-ful.”
My mind stalls on the last word. Too many sounds in a row.
