Page 212 of Mates for the Raskarrans #1-6

I look across into the bedroom opposite.

Nelsah stands there, the beautiful grown female that she never got the chance to be.

She inclines her head to me, fist clenched over her heartspace.

When I blink, she is gone, and I know somehow that this is the last I shall ever see of her.

I send out prayers of thanks to Lina for sending Nelsah to me the two times I have needed her most, and then I move.

The bodies in the corridor are piled so high I have to bound over them. There will come a time when I will have to reckon with myself for this day and these deeds I do, but for now I march on, bursting into the room at the end of the tunnel, a roar ripping from my throat.

“Basran!”

The males left in the room freeze. Jortan remains, looking panicked as he looks from me to Basran and back again.

Jestaw has my Sam held behind him, shielding her from the chaos.

Sansla and his hunters remain, too cunning and clever to fall for my traps and tricks.

I look to that male now, trying to judge where his headspace sits on this situation.

If he will put another blade to my Sam’s neck.

His eyes narrow at me, flicking to my Sam. But there is calculation in his gaze, and I wonder if he is trying to get the measure of me, my chances against Basran. I doubt he has loyalty to his tribe chief. Males like Sansla are survivors above all else.

“I thought you long since dead, Dazzik.”

As one, we all turn to face Basran. He is a picture of calm as he folds his arms and faces me, but I doubt anyone here is fooled by such a show.

Basran is rarely far from the edge of his temper.

Before I was outcast, he was growing less and less afraid to lean into that.

I doubt the seasons since have mellowed him.

“I thought you were a brother and a friend, Basran,” I say, mimicking his calm. “I guess we both have the capability to surprise each other.”

Basran scoffs, then starts walking towards me.

Before he banished me, marked my face as outcast, I stood little chance against him.

He was taller than all others in our tribe, broader across the shoulder.

His strength unrivalled, even his speed considerable, despite his size.

Now, he is still strong, still broad across the shoulders, but he has the gut of an elder - one who spends his days resting and has grown soft around the middle.

It is well earned for elders - they have done their part in keeping the tribe happy and healthy in their youth.

Elders are meant to sit about the fire and do nothing more strenuous than laugh and reminisce and entertain younglings with stories.

A male in his prime should be on patrols or hunts, or building or healing.

He should have no time to sit about a fire and grow out of his leathers.

But it is worse than just that, I realise. He has grown soft while his tribe hardens, hungers.

“I suppose it is the female you have come for?” Basran tries to lace his words with disdain, as if his males had not stolen her across the forest to win his favour.

“I am come for her, yes. Give her to me, and I will leave. No more blood need be spilled this day.”

But I ready myself. Shift my weight so I am close to a warrior’s stance. Enough that I can be braced to fight him in a moment.

Basran barks a laugh. “And what gives you cause to lay claim on her? When it is my males who have found her under these trees. My males who have brought her back to me for her safety.”

I bite back a snarl. Do not correct him that they have stolen her from males who already held her safe. There is no one in the room that does not already know this, and if they are comfortable with it, then pointing it out to them will not change their thinking.

“Lina,” I say, instead speaking to the very heart of all raskarrans. The wisdom of our goddess and the blessing of mates. “Lina chose this female for me. She placed us in dreams together. I name Sam my linasha.”

A flurry of whispers sounds around the room. It is hard to judge the tone of so many hushed voices, but I have shocked them at least, I think. Reminded them, I hope, of our ways. The right ways to be a raskarran. The right ways to behave towards a female.

“Lina is dead,” Basran roars, snapping all attention back to him, and his browbeaten tribe back to silence. “Lina is dead, and if she were not, why would she bless you, Dazzik? You who are a killer of females. Killer of the very last one remaining to our tribe.”

His words throw me back to that night, the knife in my hand. Nelsah’s sharp and hollow face, her voice as she begged me.

You must do this for me, Dazzik. You must.

You cannot ask this of me, Nelsah. How could you ask this of one who cares for you as I do?

I ask this of you because you care. Because you are the only one who cares enough.

Such a vision would have brought me to my knees even a few sunsets ago, but it is replaced now by another. Nelsah hale and whole, pressing her fist to her heartspace as she bid me a last farewell.

“The blame for Nelsah’s death was never mine to bear,” I say to him. “It was my hand that spilled her blood, but it was yours that put the knife in mine. She begged me to end her life, that she would not have to endure the things you had planned.”

“A convenient story,” Basran hisses. “But you have no proof of the truth of it. Nor do you have any proof that this female is yours to claim. Why should we take you at your word, outcast? Those scars on your face tell us all that your word is worth nothing.”

“He speaks her name.”

Another voice, cutting through the growing tension. Everyone turns to the source of it. Jestaw, still shielding my mate, still holding her safe.

“He speaks her name,” Jestaw repeats. “She is Sam, and he knows this. She has been with Walset, and then with us. How else would he know her name if she had not given it to him in dreams?”

This time it is less a whisper, more a roar of noise. I glance round at the other males in the room, see the looks of surprise and uncertainty on their faces. I spy Garvel, poor sweet Garvel who was always so easily lead. It is to my advantage now, for he looks on Basran with horror.

I look for Sansla in the crowd. He is the one I feel is most like to put a blade in my back if I drop my guard. I find him watching the room also, taking note of the change in mood, a grim set to his features.

Basran is taking note, also, rage spilling out of him, setting the very air abuzz around him. I see a few of his males cower, but I will not.

“If you will not allow me to take her, then I will cut you down as I did the rest,” I say, then raise my blade in challenge.