I go to fetch a scrap of meat from the kitchen and offer it to her on my open palm. She looks at the meat, looks at me, growls low in her chest, jumps out of the hollow she was comfortably lying in before I dared to disturb her, and disappears into the desert.
I sigh. It’s hot today, unbearably so. The merciless sun dried my dress where I spilled water and soap on it, but now the fabric is sticking to my back with sweat. I go inside before I get heatstroke and drink a full glass of water at the kitchen counter.
The house is quiet. It feels too big, too empty. I go looking for Darina and don’t find her in her room, nor in mine. I find her in the library, leaning against the shelves with a book open in her hands. Her eyebrows are raised, and her lips parted in an expression of shock. That takes me aback.
“You have to see this,” she says. “It’s in English.”
“Are you sure? We checked.”
“I went shelf by shelf this time. It was hidden behind a row of thick books. Look at the title.”
She turns the cover toward me.A Practical Guide to the Mating Rituals of the Scorpii, Written for Human Brides.
We look at each other, and then we’re both on the loveseat with the book between us, shoulder to shoulder, reading.
The language is plain and simple, no emotion behind it. It explains the clicking first: a sound the male makes in his throat when his body has recognized his mate. Apparently, it’s involuntary and impossible to fake. It explains that when the time comes, the female runs, and it’s not a custom the couple can skip, because the run is part of how the bond is finalized. The male gives her a head start, then hunts her by scent, sound, and by the heat of her body. Where he catches her, he claims her.
I read the wordclaimsthree times before I can move on to the next line.
Beside me, Darina has gone red to her ears. She stands up.
“I should start dinner,” she says, not looking at me.
She’s out of the library before I can answer, and I don’t call her back.
I keep reading.
The guide describes the hunt step by step, and I find it hard to keep calm while reading it. Heat gathers low in my belly. I press my knees together, then my thighs, and rub them against each other. The pressure eases the ache and makes it worse too. I’m wet. I can feel it, the same slick warmth that shocked me when I cornered Osric the day before. I remember the sound he made deep in his throat, the clicking that caused me to shudder, melt, and soak my panties.
Now I know what it means. It’s a mating call. I heard it, up close, aimed at me, and it made me wet. Remembering it makes me wet now.
I should be frightened. I am. My hands hold the book too hard, and my mouth has gone dry. But under the fright, there’s a curiosity that scares me more than anything, because it’s aimed at Osric. He’s handsome. Every time my thoughts wander to him, I have to admit it. He’s built strong, he moves quietly, andeven his tail and stinger fascinate me to the point where I have to look away because it’s such an intimate part of his anatomy, even if it’s on display.
He apologized for touching my hand at the silk stall. He told me I could leave whenever I wanted, and he meant it. Dangerous and kind at the same time… I don’t know what to do with a man like that. I never wanted a man at all. But he is… He’s simply different.
I close the book and slide it back onto the shelf where it was hidden. I walk out of the library and decide to pretend like I never read it. Pretending is easier than dealing with the onslaught of feelings it’s caused.
Darina and I eat dinner later, talk about random things, nothing at all, really, and neither of us says a word about the library or the guide. I go up to bed early.
In the dark, on my back, I can’t stop thinking about the hunt: the head start, the run under the night sky, with my breath loud in my own ears and him somewhere behind me, tracking me by scent and heat, unhurried, because he knows I can’t outrun him. I think about what it would be like to be caught. By him.
I hear him clicking in my memory, low and rhythmic, and an ache starts low in my belly and slides down, down… My hand follows it, brushing over my ribs, across my waist, then lower. When I reach my pelvis, I catch myself and yank my hand back.
My face goes hot. I shove my hand under my pillow and keep it there. I’ve never touched myself. I wouldn’t even know how. I was raised better than this, and I’m furious that I have to admonish myself under his roof, with my thighs pressed together.
I huff, turn over onto my other side, and shut my eyes.
Sleep doesn’t come, though, because I can’t stop imagining the chase. The fear of it, the adrenaline, the anticipation of him catching me, pressing me into the dirt and landing on top of me.
I let out a frustrated groan and press my burning face into the pillow.
Chapter Twelve
Osric
There are only a few dark drops left at the bottom of the vial. I turn it against the light from the window, and the tincture slides along the glass, thin and nearly gone. It stopped cooling me the way it should. My body burns from the inside out, my blood feels too thick for my veins, and my throat aches from holding back the clicking.
I haven’t eaten in two days. It isn’t neglect, it’s the only strategy I have left. Hunger keeps me weak, and weak is safer. If I feed, rest, and let my body rebuild its strength, the rut will surge hard enough to break through what’s left of my control. So, I drink water, ration the drops, and I stay behind a bolted door.
