“I… made this… for you.”
That is easier. But it requires something to offer. Not just meat. Not just any shiny stone.
She deserves something made just for her. Sized for her fingers. Balanced for her wrist, like my blade is balanced for mine. Not something found in the dust, but something carved. Shaped.
A gift born from skill, not luck.
I settle back into my place along the wall, blade across my knees. The sharpening stone in my claw. I draw it along the edge of the bone slowly.
Scritch.
The sound matches the beat of my dra-kir. Steady. Relaxed.
Guard duty, yes. I will keep my watch. I will listen for danger. I will be the shadow between my clan and whatever moves in the dunes.
But I will also move closer. Carefully. The way a hunter approaches skittish prey.
I will make her an offering. I will practice my mouth. I will find ways to be near her that don’t involve lurking in corners like a sand-shadow.
Soon, my skin will glow, and the bond will form, and she will be mine in truth.
But first, I have work to do.
Chapter 3
PEER-REVIEWED GLUTES
MIKAELA
Iam brave. I am resilient. I am a survivor of an alien abduction and a crash landing.
But I am apparently not brave enough to win a staring contest with a seven-foot golden alien.
It’s been half a day since I crossed my arms and asked, “Problem, Stabby?” And honestly? I still don’t know if he answered. He didn’t blink. He didn’t move. He just looked at me with those glowing red eyes until the air between us felt heavy enough to suffocate me.
Eventually, I was the one who had to break eye contact, pretending I’m focused on cleaning while my heart was hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.
So, round one goes to the alien.
And round two isn’t looking great, either.
I decided to retreat to neutral territory. Or at least, territory where he can’t stare at me quite so openly.
The sick bay is quieter than the main cavern, tucked into a side chamber where the air stays cooler. Someone draped panelsof woven fiber across the entrance to dim the light and muffle sound. It creates a cocoon of semi-privacy that the feverish women desperately need.
Lucy is the worst off today. She lies on her sleeping mat with a damp cloth across her forehead, skin pale and clammy. Her breathing is shallow, rapid. Alex kneels beside her. Her fingers find the pulse at Lucy’s throat, counting the rhythm.
“How is she?” I ask quietly, settling onto the floor near the sleeping mats with my repair supplies.
“Same as yesterday.” Alex’s mouth is a tight line. “The fever peaks and valleys. We just have to wait it out and keep her hydrated.”
Mira, our other medical expert, moves between the rows of sick women, adjusting positions and murmuring reassurances. She’s good at this.
I wish I could do more to help, but my skills are limited to cooking and general moral support. What does a former science teacher with a mean roundhouse kick have to offer a bunch of stranded, feverish females? Not much. So instead, I’m here with Erika and Jacqui, stuffing the lumpy sleeping mats with softer fiber so the sick women have a little comfort.
Tina sits in the corner with her ever-present notebook. There are diagrams on the page this time. Diagrams that look a lot like the golden males that are our hosts.
“Hand me that needle?” Erika asks, gesturing to the collection of bone tools spread out between us.
