Page 10 of Rok’s Captive (Barbarians of the Dust #1)

CONFUSED DOESN’T START TO EXPLAIN IT AT ALL

ROK

T he air in the cave is heavy.

It clings to my skin, thick as the heat waves that roll off the dunes in the dry season, but this heat does not belong to the dust. It belongs to her.

The creature lies before me, trembling, fragile form pressed to the stone. Her breathing is erratic—too fast, too shallow—and the fire burning beneath her skin has not abated. Despite the water I brought her, despite the cooling stones, she remains on the edge of collapse.

And I am on the edge of madness.

I crouch a distance from her now, not for my protection. For hers. My claws dig into the stone floor, trying to focus on the rhythmic scrape of their sharp points instead of the chaos flooding my senses. Her scent is everywhere , saturating the air, worming its way into my lungs until I can taste it on the back of my tongue. Sweet and sharp and maddening .

Every breath pulls her deeper into my lungs. My skin prickles, a slow … something …spreading beneath my flesh.

I do not understand what is happening to me.

This creature is not Drakav. I have known this from the moment I found her, wandering the dust like prey waiting to be taken. But now, as I stare at her, I know something else.

She is not from Xiraxis at all.

Her scent, her softness, the strange way her skin weeps water—none of it belongs to this world. She is…other.

And yet.

The curves of her body, the way her scent pulls at something deep inside me, the way my glow flares uncontrollably when I’m near her…

It is impossible.

The thought takes root in my mind, unbidden and unwelcome, but no matter how I try to bury it, it rises again, clawing its way up from the depths of memory.

The daughters of Ain.

A myth. A story passed down from times past. Of before the Drakav were hardened by the dust. Before we became the rulers of the sands.

The daughters were said to be soft, delicate creatures, unlike anything the Drakav had ever known. They were not male, like us. They were…

Female .

The word lodges in my mind like a sandfin’s quill.

These females were said to be precious. Sacred. Gifts from Ain herself, sent to guide the Drakav when the world was still young and full of life. We worshiped them, but they were fragile, unable to endure the harshness of Xiraxis, and one by one, they disappeared, until they were nothing more than echoes in the sands.

I bare my fangs, a growl rumbling low in my chest.

It cannot be. The daughters of Ain are a story. Females do not exist. They are not real.

And yet…

I look at her.

The rise and fall of her chest. The curve of her hips. The smoothness of her skin. I inhale deeply, the scent of her filling me again, and my claws curl against the stone.

Bare now, without those troublesome hides covering her scent, she smells like life. Like water. Like something I was never meant to touch.

The glow beneath my skin pulses erratically, my body betraying me with every moment I spend near her. My instincts are in chaos, torn between the urge to protect her, to keep her safe, and the darker, deeper urge to take her, to claim her, to make her mine.

I shake my head, as if the motion could dislodge the thoughts from my mind. This is madness.

And yet I cannot leave her.

The thought of her alone, vulnerable, defenseless against the shadowmaws, or worse, sends a surge of something primal through me.

I rise to my feet, pacing the length of the cave. The movement does little to calm me. My gaze keeps straying back to her, drawn to the sight of her trembling form.

She is still now, her eyes closed, her breathing shallow. The fire has taken hold of her completely. If I do nothing, it will burn her alive.

My claws flex at my sides.

With a frustrated snarl, I cross the cave and crouch beside her. Her skin is flushed, beads of water glistening on her brow and neck, and her scent is stronger now—richer, deeper, almost intoxicating.

I hesitate, my hand hovering above her face. The last time I touched her, I felt…

Too much.

But I have no choice. I press my palm to her brow. The moment my skin meets hers, a jolt rushes through me, a sensation so foreign, so violently alive , that I nearly recoil. My glow pulses like a struck gourd, answering her fire, responding to something in her blood, her bones. A thread pulls taut between us, unseen but unbreakable. The flood of sensation is immediate.

Heat. Softness. The strange, soft beat of her dra-kir beneath my hand.

She stirs at my touch, a weak sound escaping her lips, and my glow flares brighter, responding to her even as I fight to control it.

Her lips part, her voice barely a whisper. “Please…”

The word is small, fragile, and I do not understand it, but it strikes me like a blow.

Whatever we find in the dust, we keep. And I found her .

A daughter of Ain.

Here. On Xiraxis.

I do not know where she came from.

But I will not let her die.

So I lift her.

She is light, softer than anything I have ever held, her body molding against mine as if she belongs there. My glow flares as she settles against me, and something tightens deep in my chest, something raw and unknown.

Her skin is damp where it presses to mine. This water seeping must be how her kind cools themselves. But it is not enough.

I need to cool her.

I stride toward the cave entrance, stepping into the night air. Xiraxis is a world of extremes—blistering heat during the day, bone-deep cold at night. The moment the night air touches her skin, she shudders, her body reacting to the sudden change.

Her lips part again, her head tilting toward my chest, and I feel the ghost of her breath against my skin.

Something stirs in me. A deep, primal thing.

I do not know what she is. Not fully. Not yet.

But she is female.

The first. The only.

And she is mine to protect.

She shifts slightly in my hold, her fingers curling weakly against my chest, and I look down at her face. Something shifts deep within me. A force I cannot name surges through my being, pushing me toward her in a way that defies reason. It is as if the very core of me recognizes her—something ancient, something buried—and refuses to let go. I am not meant to have this. I am not meant to feel this. And yet… I do.

She is not Drakav. Not of Xiraxis. But she is here. And I found her.

The dust takes.

But it also gives.

And I will not let it take her back.