“He just projected to the entire cavern to ask what ‘milk’ is.” Jacqui rubs her forehead. “And why a female would threaten to defecate in it because she hurt her hand.”
I stare at her, heat rushing to my cheeks. I just cursed about milk. But it was a common, utterly meaningless Spanish oath.
“Justine is over by the far wall,” Jacqui continues, her voice weary but lined with genuine affection. “She is trying to explain the concept of human lactation to them. They are taking it very seriously.”
I close my eyes. “Oh, no.”
“Yes,” Jacqui says, a small smile touching her lips. “Haroth wishes to know if he must squeeze you to help you produce it. And Zan is aggressively arguing that it must be a lie, because creatures as small and fragile as us could not possibly generate such a valuable resource.”
I go still. The acidic water drips from my fingertips.
“Please,” I plead softly, opening my eyes to look at her. “Tell Haroth that if he comes near me, I will hit him with a wet filter. And tell Zan that no one is getting a demonstration.”
Jacqui sighs. “I will not translate that. It is entirely too loud in my head already. The sheer intensity of their arguing is giving me a migraine.”
She turns away, seeking the quieter shadows near the far tunnel. I watch her go, a pang of something tight and lonely aching in my chest. Jacqui is mated. She belongs here, anchored to this world by the protective presence of her warrior. I am just a stranded human, scrubbing algae until my hands bleed, trying to keep my people alive.
I turn back to the water, scrubbing harder, ignoring the sting in my hands. The water isn’t going to filter itself. That’s when a sudden, suffocating weight drops over the cavern.
It happens so fast the air itself feels heavy to breathe. The noise of scraping bone and shuffling feet vanishes instantly. I look up.
Every warrior near the fire has stopped moving. All of them are looking at me.
Beside the far wall, Justine stiffens. Her hands grip the stone fiercely.
I wipe the algae residue off onto a discarded dry weave. “Justine?” I ask quietly. “What happened?”
Justine looks directly at my hands. “Rok just projected to Kol. He informed Kol that the females are struggling to clean the sharp weaves.”
My heart gives an involuntary, frantic flutter at the sound of the dra-dam’s name. I ruthlessly suppress it. “And?”
“And Kol demanded to know if your hands are bleeding,” Justine says softly. The cavern remains terrifyingly silent. “Rok confirmed that they are.”
“I am fine,” I say quickly, tucking my scraped hands tight against my stomach.
“You are bleeding,” Justine corrects, her voice gentle but firm. “And Kol just informed the entire clan that the warriors will scrub the filtration weaves from now on. He added that if anyone allows you to bleed on one again, he will personally snap their wrists.”
“That is ridiculous,” I breathe, my heart hammering a rapid rhythm against my ribs. “I do not need them to do this for me. I am capable of doing it myself.”
I turn back to the pool, reaching for the handles of the dripping basket.
That is when a shadow falls across the stone right over me. I look up.
Zan towers above me. His amber eyes are wide, the dark centers blown out. He looks down at my hands, his face completely unreadable, and then he reaches out to grip the handle of my basket.
“No,” I say, my voice trembling slightly.
He reaches again.
“No, Zan,” I say, putting my own hands firmly over his. “Kah!”
From her place by the wall, Justine speaks again. “Zan is projecting,” she says, her voice strained. “He says Kol commanded him to take the basket because human females have bones like brittle stone. He is terrified of failing the dra-dam. Please, Erika. Let him take it.”
“I can carry my own basket,” I say fiercely.
It is not just pride. Giving him the basket means giving up my usefulness. It means standing idle while these massive creatures manage our entire survival.
I grip the wet fibers and pull the basket closer to my chest. It is incredibly heavy, the wet weave adding significant weight, but I do not care.
