“Making the flat-meat.” His projection is clipped. Frustrated. “With the pee. And the roh-nee.”
I blink. “The what?”
He gestures sharply at the ingredients laid out beside him on a flat stone. Ground gourd flesh. Strips of raw sandfin. Rendered fat in a hollowed shell. And a pile of thin, circular slices from that root I’ve never seen in the cavern stores before.
“Kiveh root,” he says, following my gaze. “For strength. It is spiced. I sliced it to match the circles from your dream.”
My dream?
I stare at the kiveh root circles. Then at the gourd disc. Then at the rendered fat.
“Kol.” My voice comes out strangled. “Is this... are you makingpizza?”
He does not answer. His jaw tightens and he looks away from me, which is something I have never seen him do. If I didn’t know better, I’d say the intimidating warlord of the Drakav clan isembarrassed.
“The flat-meat with the pee and the roh-nee,” he repeats stiffly, as if saying it louder will somehow make the whole thing less ridiculous. “You wanted it. I saw it in your sleep. You were... sad.”
My throat closes up.
I look at the hot grease scorching his claws. I look at the pile of raw sandfin and the charred, misshapen slices of root laid out meticulously on the stone.
A tight, burning ache builds so fast behind my eyes I have to blink hard to clear it. I drop straight to my knees right next to him. I reach out and pick up the slimy, ruined circle of cooked gourd. It burns the tips of my fingers, and smells like fish and charred fat.
I take a bite.
It is unquestionably the worst thing I have ever tasted in my entire life. The gourd is gritty. The fat coats the roof of my mouth like candle wax. The kiveh root is so bitter it makes my eyes water.
I chew. I swallow. I take another bite.
“You do not have to consume it,” he projects, and every single muscle in his body goes rigid, braced for my verdict.
“Shut up. I’m eating your pizza.” I take another bite. My eyes are watering. “It’s perfect.”
“It is not. The fat did not melt correctly. The circles are uneven. I will improve it.”
“Kol.” I grab his thick wrist with my greasy hand. “It’sperfect.”
His chest expands, his dra-kir thumping hard. He leans forward, pressing his forehead against mine, his thumbs tracing the line of my jaw.
And right then, sitting by a smoky fire in the depths of a desert planet, the exhaustion and panic I’ve carried since the crash finally leaves my body.
We’re not getting rescued.
I don’t think I even care anymore.
I look at my hands resting against his arm. Calloused. Cracked at the knuckles. Stained with grease and cave dust. These aren’t the hands of a girl from Chicago anymore.
If a ship landed outside right now, engines hot, door open, a straight shot back to Earth with running water and actual pizza and beds that aren’t made of animal skin, I would not get on it. I would stand right here in this cave full of feral aliens and watch it leave.
Becausehe’shere.
That’s the entire reason. Not because I’m brave. Not because I’ve accepted my role as an alien First Lady. Just because the terrifying alien sitting in front of me just tried to make me pizza out of sandfin meat because he saw me dreaming about it. Because his heartbeat is the only sound that makes the anxiety in my skull stop. Because when he looks at me with those golden eyes, I don’t feel like a survivor anymore.
I trace the hard curve of his jaw.
“Ready for what comes next?” I project directly into his mind.
“Back to back,” he projects back. “Always.”
