Page 9 of Hunted By Khor (Alien Mate Hunt #1)

S he threw the rock harder than necessary. Not to wound. To make a point. Vek disappeared into the canyon maze, but like most young hunters, he circles back. Can't quite abandon the hunt even when rejected.

I drop from my perch on the canyon wall. The impact sends vibrations through stone, announcing my presence properly. No more hiding. No more watching from shadows.

Vek emerges from behind his boulder, scales shifting to aggressive yellows. Threat display. As if he could threaten anything with those soft, unscarred scales.

“She refused you.” Not a question.

“She's not thinking clearly. Your pheromones have contaminated her judgment.”

“She threw a rock at your skull. Seems like clear thinking to me.”

Mara watches us, those dark human eyes tracking our movements. She's learning to read our body language. The way Vek's spines half-extend but don't commit. The way I keep my spines flat, relaxed. Only the desperate need threat displays.

“The storm's coming,” Vek says. “She needs shelter.”

“Yes.”

“You're just going to let her suffer?”

“I'm going to let her choose.” I move closer to Mara, but not close enough to touch. Not yet. “That's what you don't understand, young hunter. Force creates resentment. Choice creates bonds.”

“Choice.” He laughs, the sound like breaking shells. “What choice does she have when her body only responds to you?”

“The choice to throw rocks at you, apparently.”

His scales flare brighter. Anger now, not just threat. Good. Angry hunters make mistakes.

“The ancient codes say an unclaimed female can choose any male who offers protection.”

“The codes also say a female's rejection must be honored. She rejected you. With violence. The matter is settled.”

“She hasn't accepted your bond. That makes her available.”

“That makes her deciding.”

Thunder crashes overhead. The storm is building fast. These canyons will flood within the hour once rain starts. We all know it. The question is who breaks first.

“Challenge,” Vek says suddenly.

I wasn't expecting that. Neither was Mara, based on her sharp intake of breath.

“You're challenging me for hunting rights?”

“The codes allow it. Single combat. Winner claims the female.”

“The female is right here,” Mara says, voice cutting. “And she already made her choice.”

“You haven't taken his bite. Until you do, any male can challenge for you.”

She picks up another rock. This one larger. “Want to test that theory?”

I laugh. Can't help it. The sound rumbles through the canyon like distant landslide.

“You challenge me for a female who wants to cave in your skull?”

“She's affected by your scent. Without it, she'd see me clearly.”

“Boy,” I say, and watch his scales darken at the insult, “she sees you perfectly. Young. Untested. Soft. Everything she doesn't want.”

“I'm offering comfort. Safety. Gentle claiming.”

“And she threw a rock at it.” I step between him and Mara. Not protective. Possessive. There's a difference. “Go home, Vek. Find a female who wants what you're offering.”

“Fight me.”

“No.”

“Coward.”

Now Mara laughs. The sound is sharp, almost hysterical. “Did you just call the male with forty scars a coward? The one who hunted crater-dwelling salamanders at fifteen? Who survived the great burning when half the territory turned to glass? That male?”

How does she know about the burning? I haven't told her. But somehow she knows. The same way her body knew to respond to me at the portal. Recognition goes deeper than scent.

“Fight me,” Vek repeats, but his conviction wavers.

“I don't fight children.”

His spines fully extend. Full threat now. He's going to do something stupid.

He lunges.

I sidestep, using his momentum to send him into the canyon wall. He hits hard, scales scraping stone. Green blood wells from a dozen small cuts.

“That's your one free attempt,” I tell him. “Try again and I'll remove scales.”

He pushes himself up, breathing hard. Youth makes him resilient but not smart. He lunges again.

This time I don't dodge. I catch him by the throat, lift him off the ground. His feet kick uselessly. His claws scratch at my arm but can't penetrate my scales. Too soft. Too weak.

“You want to know why she chose me?” I hold him at eye level. “Because I'm not gentle. Not safe. Not easy. And neither is she.”

I drop him. He lands hard, gasping.

“Leave. Now. Don't return to this territory until after the claiming season.”

He staggers to his feet, one hand on his throat. Looks at Mara one last time.

“You're choosing wrong.”

“Still my choice,” she says.

He leaves. This time for real. His scent fades as he heads for lower ground, away from the flood zone. Smart, finally.

Lightning flashes. The first drops of rain hit the canyon rim.

“We need shelter,” Mara says.

“Yes.”

“You have some, I assume.”

“I have a den. Prepared for storms.”

“And I have to earn it.”

“No.” That surprises her. “You've earned it. The question is whether you can reach it.”

I point to the crack in the canyon wall. From here it looks too narrow for anything larger than a snake. Optical illusion, but she doesn't know that.

“There?”

“The entrance. The path is treacherous. Especially once wet.”

She looks at her legs, still shaky from yesterday's pleasure. Tests her weight. Almost falls.

“I can't climb.”

“Then you'll crawl. Or accept being carried.”

“Those are my options? Crawl or surrender?”

“Everything is surrender eventually. The question is what you gain from it.”

More rain. Heavier now. In minutes it'll be a downpour.

She starts toward the entrance, each step deliberate. Her legs shake but hold. When the path requires climbing, she doesn't hesitate. Finds handholds. Pulls herself up despite muscles that must be screaming.

I follow close. Not helping but ready to catch her if she falls. She doesn't fall.

The rain becomes painful, driving horizontal. She makes a sound that might be pain or determination. Keeps climbing.

Ten feet from the entrance, her grip fails.

She starts to slide. I catch her waist, steady her. The contact sends lightning through both of us. Her body recognizes mine, presses back against me despite the danger.

“I can make it,” she gasps.

“I know.”

I release her. She climbs the last ten feet on pure will, dragging herself through the entrance just as the real storm hits.

I follow, turning sideways to fit through the narrow opening.

Inside, she collapses on the stone floor, gasping. Bleeding from scraped palms. Exhausted. But smiling.

“I made it.”

“You did.”

The storm howls outside. In here, the phosphorescent veins I've cultivated pulse with soft light. The thermal pool steams in the corner. Everything prepared for exactly this moment.

“How long have you been planning this?”

“Three years. Since my first failed hunt.”

She looks up at me. “Failed?”

“The female took one look at me and ran back through the portal. Didn't even last a day.”

“Why?”

“Too much predator. Not enough safety. Some females want gentle claiming. Soft words. Promises of protection.” I crouch beside her, still not touching. “I'm not built for gentle.”

“Good. Neither am I.”

Thunder shakes the cave. Outside, I can hear the water rising. The flood beginning.

“We need to seal the entrance.”

She tries to stand, fails. I help her up, and again the contact burns through us. She doesn't pull away.

Together we position the stone slab across the entrance. She can barely lift her end, but she tries. That matters more than strength.

Once sealed, the den becomes its own world. The storm muffled to distant rage.

“Now what?” she asks.

“Now you recover. Eat. Rest. Let the storm pass.”

“That's it? No more tests? No more making me beg?”

“You threw a rock at comfort to stay in my path. What more proof do I need?”

She laughs, exhausted. “When you put it like that...”

I show her to the thermal pool. The supplies. The sleeping area with furs piled thick. Everything prepared but nothing assumed.

“This is your home?”

“One of them. I have several dens throughout the territory.”

“Smart. Options for different seasons?”

“Options for different needs. This one is for storms.”

She strips off what's left of her suit without ceremony. No performance. Just practicality. Her body is marked with our time together. Bruises from my hands. Scratches from stone. The map of claiming without the final bond.

“I still need you,” she says simply. “Even after yesterday. Especially after yesterday. My body won't accept substitutes anymore.”

“I know.”

“But you're still going to make me wait.”

“No. I'm going to feed you. Tend your wounds. Then give you what we both need.”

“Just like that?”

“You chose me over easier paths. Threw violence at comfort. Crawled through storm to reach me.” I move closer. “What more waiting could prove what you've already shown?”

She shivers despite the warmth. “So we're done with games?”

“We're done with tests. What comes next isn't games. It's truth.”

The storm rages outside. Inside, we have time. Finally.

“Show me true, then,” she says.

And I will. But first, food. First, healing. First, the foundation for what we're about to become.

The storm will last eight hours.

More than enough time for truth.