Page 9

CHAPTER 9

A s they continued their tour of the keep, Malrik kept thinking about having Bella in his nest. His beast purred with satisfaction at the idea. The thought of her scent mingling with his, of having her curled against him in sleep, sent a wave of possessive pleasure through him. His rational side recognized this feeling as dangerous, but the beast didn’t care.

After they had explored most of the main rooms, he led her down a long corridor that opened into a different wing of the keep. This area felt unfamiliar to his beast, yet memory tugged at him—servants hurrying through these halls, the clatter of dishes, voices calling orders.

The kitchens were vast, designed to feed hundreds. Multiple hearths lined one wall, massive tables filled the center space, and rows of cabinets and storage areas stretched into shadowed corners. Everything lay under a thick blanket of dust.

She paused in the center of the main kitchen, running her finger through the dust that coated a large preparation table. She frowned, looking around at the abandoned space.

“What do you eat?” she asked, turning to face him.

The beast’s mind flashed immediately to the hunt—the thrill of the chase, the hot satisfaction of tearing into fresh prey, the copper taste of blood. His mouth watered at the thought.

But then another image surfaced, unbidden. A grand hall filled with light. Himself, seated at the head of a long table, dressed in formal Vultor attire. Servants parading before him with elaborate dishes, each more extravagant than the last. His own hand, waving them away with disdain.

“Not enough spice,” he heard himself say. “Take it away. All of it.”

The memory was so vivid, so unexpected, that he shook his head violently, trying to dislodge it. His beast snarled in confusion and distress. These periods of rational thought were becoming more frequent since the female had arrived, but they brought discomfort with them—as though his mind was being stretched in two directions at once.

He looked at her—small, fragile by Vultor standards, yet fearless as she explored his territory. The thought of her going hungry disturbed both sides of him. His beast wanted to hunt for her, to provide, to prove his worth as a mate. The rational part that was surfacing wanted… something else. Something more.

With a grunt, he moved to one wall where a row of machines was built in. He tapped one with a claw, then gestured for her to look.

Her eyes widened with excitement. “Is this what I think it is?” She stepped closer, running her hands over the sleek panel on the front. “A replicator! I haven’t seen one of these since I was a little girl in Port Cantor.”

The word struck a chord of recognition. Replicator. Yes.

“POTTS,” he managed to growl, the word feeling strange in his mouth.

“Personal Organic Taste and Texture Synthesizer,” she agreed, looking at him with surprise. “You remember what it’s called?”

He nodded once, pleased at her reaction.

She pressed a button, but nothing happened. “No power,” she murmured, then looked at him expectantly. “Is there a control room?”

He turned and led her through a small door at the back of the kitchen into a narrow service corridor. At the end was a room filled with control panels, screens, and monitoring equipment. Unlike the other rooms, this room showed no signs of destruction—only the inevitable dust of neglect.

She moved immediately to the main console, her fingers hovering over the controls. Every label, every readout was in the Vultor language.

“This might take me a while,” she muttered, already examining connections and tracing power lines with her eyes. “I can figure out the basic systems, but the language barrier will slow things down.”

He watched her, his beast growing impatient. She needed to eat. He needed to provide. The thought of her working for hours without food bothered him deeply.

“Hunt,” he growled abruptly, the word tearing from his throat.

Before she could respond, he turned and loped away, moving swiftly through the keep and out into the forest beyond. The beast took over completely as he ran, instinct guiding him through familiar hunting grounds.

The forest welcomed him with its symphony of scents and sounds. He moved silently despite his size, tracking the movements of small game. Within minutes, he had located a warren of cottmas.

As he stalked his prey, his thoughts remained unusually clear. Usually, hunting drove all conscious thought from his mind, leaving only predatory instinct. But now, images of Bella kept intruding—her smile when she recognized the replicator, the way her eyes lit up at the challenge of fixing it, the delicate curve of her neck as she bent over the control panel.

The distraction nearly cost him his quarry, but his reflexes were too fast. He caught two plump cottmas in quick succession, killing them cleanly with a swift bite.

Carrying his prizes, he made his way back to the keep. The rational part of him was growing stronger, bringing with it uncomfortable questions. What was he doing, bringing this human female into his territory? Why did her presence calm his beast while simultaneously awakening his dormant Vultor self?

And most troubling—what would happen when she finished the repairs and wanted to leave?

The beast snarled at that thought, rejecting it completely. She would not leave. She was his.

His… what? Not quite mate, not yet. But something. Something important.

He found her still in the control room, kneeling on the floor with her head inside an access panel. Tools and components were scattered around her, and she was humming softly to herself. The sound stirred something in him—a memory of music in the grand hall, perhaps.

He dropped the cottma at her feet, a primal offering of sustenance.

She pulled her head out of the panel, face smudged with dust and grease, and looked down at the dead animals. Her expression shifted from surprise to dismay.

“Oh,” she said, sitting back on her heels. “That’s… thoughtful. But I have no idea how to prepare them. I get my meat from the butcher in the village.”

He stared at her, uncomprehending for a moment. Then understanding dawned. Of course. She was a human from a settlement. She wouldn’t know how to dress game.

His beast growled in frustration, but his rational side was emerging more strongly now. He picked up one of the cottmas and with practiced movements, gutted it cleanly. He removed the heart—the most nutritious part—and offered it to her on the tip of his claw.

She paled visibly and waved it away. “No, no thank you.”

Another growl rumbled through him, deeper this time. Why would she refuse his offering? The heart was the best part, the most honorable gift a hunter could present.

But then another memory surfaced—humans cooked their meat. Civilized Vultor did as well, though many preferred it raw when in beast form.

He turned and stalked back to the main kitchen, his movements jerky with frustration. Behind him, he heard Bella scrambling to follow.

In the kitchen, he cleared the hearth with a sweep of his arm and quickly built a fire from the dry wood stacked nearby. As the flames caught, he cleaned the cottmas thoroughly, working with surprising dexterity despite his claws. He found a metal spit among the cooking implements and mounted the cottmas on it, positioning them over the fire.

The fat began to sizzle, droplets falling into the fire with sharp hisses. The scent of cooking meat filled the kitchen, rich and savory, and he became aware of his own hunger. He hadn’t eaten since the previous day, too distracted by Bella’s presence in his territory to hunt for himself.

He sat back on his haunches, watching the meat brown. The fire’s warmth penetrated his fur, soothing. For a moment, the constant war between beast and man subsided into something like peace.

Time passed. He rotated the spit occasionally, ensuring the meat cooked evenly. When the skin had crisped to a golden brown and the juices ran clear, he deemed it ready. He was removing the cottmas from the spit when he caught her scent again.

Her expression had shifted from dismay to fascination.

When the cottmas were done, he removed them from the fire. He placed one on a dusty but intact plate he found in a cabinet and offered it to her.

She approached cautiously, then broke into a delighted smile. “Thank you,” she said, reaching out to take the plate. As she did, her fingers brushed against his hand.

The touch sent a shock of awareness through his entire body. It was like being struck by lightning—painful and exhilarating at once. His beast roared in his mind, but not in anger. In recognition. In need.

To his shock, he felt his claws retract slightly, his hand becoming more Vultor than beast for a brief moment.

Confused and alarmed by his body’s response, he started to turn away. But her hand settled on his arm, small and warm.

“Won’t you join me?” she asked, her voice soft. “It seems silly to eat alone when there’s plenty for both of us.”

The request struck him as oddly formal, triggering another memory. Himself, escorting a female to a table, pulling out her chair with courtly grace, the movements part of an elaborate social dance.

Without thinking, he guided her to the table. He pulled out a chair for her, the gesture automatic, born of muscle memory rather than conscious thought. He seated her carefully, then took his own place across from her.

The beast watched through his eyes, confused by these formal behaviors but willing to allow them as long as it meant staying close to her. His rational side felt a strange pride in remembering these courtesies, as though they connected him to something important he had lost.

As they ate in the firelit kitchen, Malrik found himself caught between two worlds—the primal existence of his beast and the civilized life he once knew. And for the first time since his transformation, he wasn’t sure which one he preferred.