Page 59 of Mates for the Raskarrans #1-6

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Ellie

H e doesn’t visit my dreams that night either, and I wonder if it’s because we’re together now. Wonder if I’ll never again go to that strange place where we can both understand each other.

My mind goes back to yesterday, Anghar’s strange reaction after he gave me the clothes.

His sadness, which seemed at once deep and drowning, but also hopeful.

I read so much into his face and eyes, but I wish I could talk to him.

Wish I could ask him what he was thinking about in that moment, what had made him so sad.

I look down at the clothes I’m wearing - soft, light material, much better for the climate than my Mercenia issue jump suit.

The top is gentle against my skin, not scratching or irritating it.

The trousers are sturdy enough that I don’t feel vulnerable, but light enough that I’m not sweating.

I wonder who they used to belong to. Someone who meant something to Anghar?

Or do they just remind him of someone? He mentioned a sickness before. Perhaps he lost someone close to him.

I want to know what’s going on inside his head. Want to know more than we can communicate with the words more, food, rest, yes and no. It’s hard to believe that two days ago I would have given anything for the dreams to stop, and now I would give anything for them to start up again.

A gentle touch on my shoulder draws me back to the present moment.

Anghar, hair sleep-tousled. There’s something adorable about the way it sticks up at all angles and my body starts to warm.

He pushes himself into a sitting position, wincing a little as he does.

But I can tell he’s more mobile, in less pain than yesterday.

I slept next to him again last night. He’d been dozing on and off all afternoon, but I could tell he was hurting, his hand clutching at his side.

So I lay next to him and talked about nothing, stroking my fingers through his long, long hair until he relaxed into sleep.

Then I stayed beside him, curled up in his arms, sleeping deep and dreamless.

And though I’ve been awake a little while, I haven’t yet got round to leaving his side.

It’s just so nice to be next to him. To feel his body heat against mine.

“Food?” I say.

“Yes,” he replies with a breathtaking smile.

I hand him one of the ration bars and we eat together, drinking down more of the bitter berry juice.

After our breakfast, I check his wound over, looking for any sign of infection.

It’s healing well, and when Anghar prepares more of the berry goo, smoothing it on to the wound, he sucks in a breath, but doesn’t faint or go woozy like before.

When he swipes the goo away, the cut doesn’t look any different, but he nods in a satisfied sort of way.

I guess the healing happened underneath.

“More rest , ” he says, then holds up a single finger.

“One?” I say. “One more rest?”

“One,” he repeats, then looks round, grabbing a handful of the djenti berries. He picks out one. “One.” Then, holds up his other handful and shakes his head.

“One,” I say, pointing to the single berry. Then to the other handful. “Lots.”

“One,” Anghar says again. “One more rest.”

“Okay,” I say. “Yes.”

He grins and my heart flutters.

We spend the morning packing up Anghar’s bag.

Resupplying with food, packing fresh medical supplies, just in case.

There is another bag at the back of the cave that contains a set of animal furs.

Anghar makes me carry it round the cave, checking if it’s too heavy.

It’s not. I could pack more inside it, but Anghar won’t let me, insisting on shouldering the bulk of our supplies like he’s not the one who got stabbed in the gut the other day.

I don’t argue with him. The injury doesn’t seem to be bothering him much today, anyway.

For lunch, we have another hearty meal of whatever we can find in the baskets.

It seems to please Anghar when I eat plenty, and I have to admit, I’m feeling noticeably better for it.

Or maybe that’s just the bitter berry juice, or a combination of the two.

Whatever it is, I feel stronger, less fragile.

Closer to how I felt in the dreams. While I tidy up, trying to stack the baskets back how we found them, Anghar examines his weapons, cleaning the knives on a piece of cloth.

He also has a long piece of wood that he attaches a piece of string to one end, then the other, so the wood is curved round, the string stretched tight between its two ends.

I’ve never seen anything like it, and my curiosity must show on my face, for Anghar gets up, gestures for me to follow him outside.

He stands me a few metres away from a tree, then places the device in my hand.

He stands behind me, manoeuvring me into the right position - left arm outstretched, body sideways on to the tree I’m looking at.

My back is flush against his chest as he hands me a stick with feathers at one end and a sharp piece of flint at the other, raising my hand with his and resting the flint end of it against my fingers that grip the piece of wood.

My breath catches in my throat a little as his warmth suffuses me, no longer sickly and sweaty.

His scent, masculine and woodsy, fills my nose.

Deliciously enticing. But if my presence affects him as his does me, he doesn’t show it, just directing me in how to use the weapon.

The stick notches against the string, and Anghar demonstrates how to position my fingers either side of it and draw the string back taut, until it rests against my chin.

Suddenly, the device makes sense. I forget about the way Anghar’s body is practically wrapped around mine as he guides my arms into the correct positions, nudging me this way and that until my alignment satisfies him.

My focus is entirely on the weapon, as if it’s not something separate, just an extension of my limbs.

I can feel the tension in the string, the enormous power stored there, ready to launch the stick across the clearing, a deadly projectile.

All that strength contained within my fingers, the muscles in my arms holding the string back.

For the first time in my life, I can imagine what it must feel like to be the predator.

Not the kind of predator that picks off crawlers on the beach and comes just about on top in a fight with a big bird.

The sort of predator that stalks through the trees, striking before you even know they’re upon you.

The kind I’ve been afraid of the entire time we’ve been under these branches.

I get a little taste of what it must feel like to be the thing that others fear, and it’s intoxicating.

Anghar makes a gesture of snapping open his fingers.

I do the same, and the stick fires towards the tree, burying its flint head in it with a satisfying thunk.

A grin breaks out across my face, satisfaction filling my chest. I know Anghar did most of the work, but it was my strength that gave the weapon force enough to drive into the tree.

Using this weapon - it’s something I could be good at, I think.

Anghar gives me a look of almost smug delight. He holds up a container with a few more of the special sticks in.

“More?” he says.

The berry goo stings my fingers as Anghar applies it carefully to the places where the repeated drawing of the string has blistered and scraped my skin.

I grit my teeth, and a moment later, it passes, my fingers back to how they were this morning.

My arms feel limp and achy from the effort I’ve put into firing over and over again.

I rub my upper arms with my hands, trying to soothe them.

Anghar chuckles, handing me the canteen with more bitter berry water inside.

“Rest,” he says.

“Food,” I say, my belly rumbling a little. It’s amazing how much of an appetite I’ve worked up in the last few hours of learning how to use Anghar’s projectile weapon.

He laughs again, a rich, deep sound that vibrates inside me.

There’s nothing sneering or mocking about it.

It’s as if it pleases him - not that I’m hungry, but that it means he can feed me.

He goes to the baskets, hunting round for something.

He sets down several with the ration bars in them, passing over them in his hunt for something else.

Eventually, he brings back a basket full of slabs of something wrapped in large leaves, sitting down next to me with it in his lap.

His body is so much bigger than mine, he feels closer than he really is, his whole being taking up space in the cave and in my awareness.

All day he’s been touching me, guiding my arms, correcting my form as I’ve been practising with the weapon.

All day he’s had his body close to mine, and not once did he cross a line.

I think of how most of the assholes in the slaughterhouse would have taken any opportunity to brush up against me, shoot me a suggestive look, let me know what I was in for the moment there was an opportunity.

But Anghar is a better man than that. I think of all the times he could have pushed me. The hug, getting washed in the river, when he taught me to light the fire. He could have tried his luck on any of those occasions. But the only time he got close to doing anything he paused, asked.

More?

He unwraps one of the parcels, revealing a crumbly substance inside it. He picks up a small piece, popping it into his mouth. He chews, nodding, a satisfied look on his face, then holds the parcel out to me.

I take a piece, tasting it. Sweetness melts onto my tongue, the new food a little sticky.

It tastes a bit like bread, but coated in something sugary.

The only sweet treats I ever had back home were the biscuits the supervisors gave the slaughterhouse girls sometimes - the sweetness always tainted a little by the knowledge of what it took to get them.

Having a sweet treat offered freely makes it taste even better.

Anghar watches me eat with a smile. His hair is flopping in his face again, and I feel an urge to brush it back with my fingers.

He really is very handsome. His alien features don’t detract from that.

Handsome and gentle and patient and kind and so many other good things.

My heart beats ever faster in my chest, a fizzing, fluttery feeling starting in my stomach. A mix of anticipation, nerves, desire.

There’s no doubt left in my mind now. I want him. I want to belong to him. I want him to belong to me.

I lick my fingers clean. Anghar holds the basket out to me, but I brush it aside, instead shuffling closer to him. He gives me a questioning look, but his expression softens to something like wonder as I raise a hand, brush that ridiculous lock of hair out of his face.

“ Nhi Ellie,” he says, his voice rough. “Linasha.”

I press my forehead to his, slipping my arms around his neck. His hands trace up my sides, coming to rest at my hips. Even now he’s cautious, touching me so lightly, like he’s ready to release me the moment I say the word.

I smile. Sweet, sweet man. I really got lucky the day he landed in my dreams.

And I don’t care that he’s not the same species as me. Don’t care that the other girls might think it weird and wrong. I’m never getting off this planet. I’m going to make the best life I can for myself here.

With him.

I brush my fingers over his cheek.

Press my lips to his.