Page 17 of Rok’s Captive (Barbarians of the Dust #1)

THE DESERT GIVES. THE DESERT TAKES. I KEEP

ROK

I wake to a weight against my side and the scent of her in my nose.

Sweet. Strange. Unfamiliar and yet, somehow, more familiar to me than my own breath.

For a moment, I do not move, letting my senses catalog my surroundings. The cool stone beneath me. The faint rustling of the fire bloom plants that grow in the cracks of the stone.

And her. Jus-teen. Curled against me like a young hunter during his first stormy season, seeking warmth.

She stayed.

The realization settles into me slowly, like dust after the winds. She could have left when I collapsed. Could have fled into the dust. She had no obligation to remain at my side.

Yet here she is. Her small, strange body pressed against mine, her breath soft and even in sleep.

I test my strength, flexing my arm, and wince at the sharp pain that lances through me. The shadowmaws took their toll. More than they should have. But I am alive, and so is she, and that is what matters.

The shadowmaws. They should not have been hunting in the open dust while Ain still shone. They are creatures of darkness, of shadow, emerging from their dens only when Ain sleeps and the three moons rise. To find them stalking the dust while there is light…

It is not right. It is not the way of things.

If I had known they were skulking about the open sands, I would not have taken the female that way. Would have risked the Ridge of Shrieking Winds as she wished, despite the dangers there. Better the known peril than the unexpected ambush.

Instead, I almost lost her. This female, first of her kind, sent by Ain herself. Mine that I found. Mine to protect. Mine to keep safe.

I stretch carefully, assessing the damage. The worst of the wounds have already begun to heal, my body doing what it has always done—mending itself, erasing weakness, returning to strength. I have not been unconscious for long. Ain has yet to reach her zenith in the sky. It is still early in the sol, which is good. We have time and many solmarks of light.

My gaze drifts back to her sleeping form. So small. So fragile. Her hide-coverings are torn and stained with my blood, yet even in sleep, there is something fierce about her. Something unyielding.

I reach out, carefully brushing a strand of her strange head-fur from her face. It is softer than anything I have ever touched, softer even than the belly fur of a newborn sand pup. The color of it reminds me of fire blooms in their fullest glory, when they burst open under the light of all three moons.

She stirs slightly at my touch, but does not wake. Her skin is cool now. The dangerous fire that had threatened to consume her has not returned. Perhaps the poison in her was only temporary.

Speaking of poison.

My gaze falls to the strange waterskin lying empty on the stone nearby. Not a waterskin. The shape is all wrong. It is more like a pouch. Her water pouch. Filled with poison water. She had tried to give me her poison—her water. I stare at the pouch, turning the fact over in my head.

In the dust, there is no greater gift, no deeper sign of care, than to offer one’s water to another. It is life itself, precious beyond measure, never to be wasted or given lightly. Even among kin, among clan, water is shared only in the direst need, only to save a life that would otherwise be lost.

She gave me hers freely, desperately, despite her own need. Despite knowing, surely, that she had no way to replace it.

Her poison burned in my throat, seared my lungs, but her intent was clear: this female did not want me to perish. Just as I had told her—or tried to tell her, through the barrier between our minds—that I would not let her perish when she fell into the sand serpent’s tunnel.

The memory of that moment—of seeing her disappear beneath the sand, swallowed by the dust as if she had never been—strikes me anew with a fear so profound it feels like physical pain. It was more than fear for her safety, more than concern for a creature under my protection. It was as if I was about to lose an essential part of myself I hadn’t known existed until that moment.

As if, should she die, some part of me would perish with her.

The feeling is unfamiliar, unsettling. I am a hunter, a protector. I have guarded my tribe, my brothers, my territory. I have fought for them, bled for them, would die for them if needed. But this…this is different. Deeper.

Somehow, so much deeper. I can feel it. Feel it in my very bones. But explain it, I cannot.

It reminds me of the ancient stories, the legends told around the warming stones when the cold season comes and the dust storms are too fierce to hunt. Tales of how the first Drakav came to Xiraxis, of how Ain chose our people to guard her daughters, to protect them from the dangers of the dust.

I need to return to the clan. By now, Kol will have noticed my absence. As clan leader, my older brother is not one to let even a minor deviation from routine go unquestioned. They will likely send a hunting party to search for me soon, if they have not already.

I should go back. Kol and the other older brothers would know more about the ancient legends of the daughters of Ain. They would better understand what is happening here, where Jus-teen has come from, why I feel this way toward her. This strange, overwhelming sense of…possession. Of connection I cannot explain.

A connection that grows stronger with each passing moment, like now, as I find myself reluctant to untangle from her grasp despite knowing I should rise, should gather the fire bloom plants to speed my healing and to refresh her when she wakes.

These are not sensations I have known before. Not urges I have felt. Even in the hunting season, when the call of blood grows strong, I have never felt this…fixation. This need to keep one specific being safe above all others.

I need to understand. Need to know why my people worshipped the daughters of Ain. Need to know why I feel this urgent, overwhelming drive to worship her. Not with words or offerings, as we worship Ain herself, but with protection, with care, with my very life, if needed.

What I did in the dust—facing a pack of shadowmaws alone—is not something even the most foolhardy hunter would attempt. I knew they would follow wherever I fled, knew they would hunt her down, and the thought of her in one of their jaws…

I couldn’t allow it. Had to face them. Had to end them.

She shifts against me again, a small sound escaping her throat, and I know she is close to waking. As carefully as I can, I disentangle myself from her and rise to my feet.

The movement sends fresh pain through my wounds, but I grit my teeth against it. I do not want to rouse her. She needs rest. Despite being a daughter of Ain, she is clearly not adapted to the harsh conditions of the dust. While carrying her, I noticed how she tucked her face against my chest, how she tried to shield her eyes from Ain’s glare.

I understand now that the hides she wears—the strange coverings I initially thought might be trophies from her kills—are not decorative. They are protective, meant to shield her delicate skin from Ain’s light and heat. And I made her lose one of them. The one that shone in the light. The one she seems to need the most.

So I will protect her now. Will find a way to keep her safe from Ain’s heat until we can return to the clan, where the deep caverns offer cool respite even in the hottest part of the sol cycle.

“Rok?”

Her voice, still thick with sleep, draws my attention back to her. She’s sitting up, rubbing at her eyes, her gaze darting around the cave before settling on me.

“You’re awake,” she says, the relief in her voice unmistakable even if her words are beyond my understanding.

Then her eyes widen. I almost reach for her, fearing they will pop out of her skull. She scrambles to her feet so quickly she nearly stumbles, rushing toward me with such urgent concern that something warm unfurls in my chest. Her hands hover over my wounds, not quite touching, but close enough that I can feel the heat of her skin.

“What are you doing standing? You shouldn’t be up!” Her voice rises with worry, her hands gesturing for me to sit. “You were practically dead a few hours ago. Please, sit down. Rest. Tell me what you need, and I’ll—” She stops abruptly, pressing her lips together and shaking her head. “God, I’m an idiot. You can’t tell me anything, can you?”

Her meaning is clear in every line of her body—the creased brow, the gentle hands that want to help but don’t know how, the frustrated care in her eyes. She’s concerned. For me.

Her gaze shifts to the small patches of orange, the fire blooms growing from the cracks in the stone.

“Are these plants medicinal?” she asks, miming something with her hands, rubbing them together as if grinding something. “Herbal remedies? Is that how you healed so fast?”

I watch her gestures, tilting my head slightly. Her meaning eludes me, though I can tell she’s asking about something. Her attention keeps darting between me and the fire blooms. She points to her wounds, then to mine, then to the plants. Is she asking if they hurt me? If they’re dangerous?

I move to the nearest fire bloom, a small but healthy specimen growing from a deep crack in the stone. The plant’s thick, fleshy leaves are a deep blue-orange, tapering to sharp points tipped with tiny spines that glow faintly in the dim light of the cave. Its roots reach deep, seeking the hidden water that flows beneath this part of the dust, kept secret from all but those who know where to look.

Carefully, I pluck several of the largest leaves, making sure to leave the roots and the smaller growth intact so the plant can regenerate. The fire blooms are resilient, adapted to survive in the harsh conditions of the dust, but they are not inexhaustible. A hunter must always ensure the continuation of what sustains him.

“Are you going to crush that?” Jus-teen asks, making a grinding motion with her hands again. “Like you did with the other plant before?”

I understand her meaning, but that is not what fire blooms are for. At least, not immediately.

Instead, I pop one of the leaves into my mouth and begin to chew, feeling the familiar, bitter juice coat my tongue. The taste is harsh, astringent, but the healing properties are worth the discomfort.

Jus-teen stares at me, her eyes widening again as I take another leaf and do the same. The juice of the fire bloom will speed my healing from within, will cleanse the shadowmaw venom from my blood, and will restore the strength I lost in the battle.

When I’ve chewed several leaves, I offer one to her, extending my hand toward her mouth. She hesitates, her gaze darting between the leaf and my face, uncertainty clear in her expression.

“You want me to eat that?” she asks, pointing to the leaf and then to her mouth. “Is it safe for humans? I mean…for me? Will it make me sick?” She looks at the leaf again. “Fuck, how are you even supposed to know that?”

I continue to hold the leaf out to her, waiting patiently. I cannot explain in vocalizations she would understand, but the fire bloom will help her as well, will renew her, will provide some of the moisture her kind seems to need so desperately.

She reaches toward it cautiously, then pulls her hand back with a small sound when one of the tiny spines pricks her fingertip. A bead of red appears—so different from my own blood—and she puts the finger to her mouth.

I freeze, suddenly aware of my oversight. Her skin is so much softer than mine, more vulnerable to the fire bloom’s defenses. How could I have missed something so obvious? The thought of causing her pain, even accidentally, sends an uncomfortable ripple through my chest.

Quickly, I withdraw the leaf and use my claws to carefully strip away the spines from its edges, working meticulously until it’s completely safe for her. Only then do I offer it again, holding it flat on my palm to show her it won’t harm her now.

She studies my actions, a strange look in her eyes. Finally, she takes the leaf, her fingers brushing against mine in a touch that sends an unexpected jolt through my skin. She examines it for a moment, turning it over in her hands, before cautiously placing it in her mouth. She does a single chew.

“Ugh. That is awful .” She glares at me as if I’ve personally offended her. “Are you sure this won’t kill me?”

I do not need mindspeak to know she is pouting at the leaf.

I huff a soft breath, amusement curling in my chest. She is strange. So very strange.

And yet, I do not think I could let her go.

I do not think I want to.

To my surprise, she puts the leaf in her mouth again. I watch her reaction, my eyes traveling over her face as she begins to chew. The juice from the plant turns her mouth a deep, rich brown, almost red—a concerning color against her pale skin, but one I know is temporary. She chews slowly, her brow furrowed, before swallowing with a slight grimace.

“That’s…bitter,” she says, making a face. “But not terrible. Kind of like really strong, unsweetened tea. Is it medicine? Food? Both?”

I tilt my head. She does not seem irritated by it. The fire bloom is sustenance in times of need, medicine for the wounded, a source of moisture when water cannot be found. It is one of the dust’s few gifts, one of the treasures known only to the Drakav and a few other dust-dwelling creatures.

With the remaining leaves, I begin to prepare poultices for my wounds. I crush them between my palms, releasing more of the bitter juice, then press the resulting paste directly onto the deepest gashes—the one across my ribs, another on my upper arm, and several smaller but still significant wounds on my legs and torso.

The paste stings on contact, a burning sensation that quickly gives way to numbness as the fire bloom’s properties begin to work. The bleeding, already slowed by my body’s natural healing, stops completely. Soon, the edges of the wounds will draw together, the skin knitting itself closed with the fire blooms’ help.

I continue methodically treating each wound, even the minor scrapes and scratches, not wanting to waste any of the healing properties of the precious plant. There are a few injuries in other places as well—a nasty gash on my inner thigh, dangerously close to more vulnerable areas, where one of the shadowmaws managed to rake me with its claw before I tore its head from its body.

As I tend to this particular wound, I become aware of Jus-teen’s gaze, fixed on a point between my legs. When her eyes lift to meet mine, her face suddenly blooms with color, a deep, rich red spreading across her cheeks and down her neck.

For a moment, I’m alarmed. Is it the fire starting beneath her skin again? That cursed burning that nearly consumed her before? I drop the remains of the fire bloom and lunge toward her, pressing her back into the cool sand of the cave floor, my face close to hers as I inhale deeply, trying to detect the scent of this dust-cursed sickness.

She sputters in surprise, her hands coming up to push against my chest, but her efforts are weak, uncoordinated.

“What are you doing?” she gasps, her voice higher than usual. “Rok, what?—”

But I’m focused on my task, sniffing at her face, her neck, trying to determine if the fire has returned to consume her from within. Her skin isn’t unnaturally hot, though, not like before. And the scent is different—still her unique, sweet smell, but with an undertone of something new. Something I haven’t detected from her before.

I pause, confused, and look down at her. She’s gone completely still beneath me, her eyes wide and fixed on mine, her breathing rapid but not labored. There’s a strange look in those eyes, something I haven’t seen before—a mixture of what looks like fear, but isn’t quite fear, and something else entirely. Something that makes the glow beneath my skin suddenly pulse to life with no input from me at all.

A rumble vibrates low in my chest as I try to understand what is happening, why she’s reacting this way. My eyes travel over her more carefully now, noticing for the first time the small cuts and scrapes across her body—not bleeding, but evident on her soft skin, nonetheless. Harm from when she fell in the dust serpent’s tunnel.

I remain positioned over her, keeping her between my thighs as I crouch above her. Her eyes follow my movements as I reach for another fire bloom leaf, crushing it between my palms until the healing paste forms.

I try to send mind-speech to her again, projecting the concepts of healing and protection as clearly as I can. Nothing. No recognition in her eyes, no response. After so many attempts, I am certain now—she cannot hear the thoughts I send.

I must resort to using my tongue, an organ I have used more times since meeting her than I have ever used in my life. It feels like a hunter trying to kill a dust stalker with a muted blade—clumsy, inefficient, painful for the hunter.

Carefully, I begin applying the paste to a scrape on her arm. The moment my fingertips touch her skin, something unexpected happens. The glow beneath my skin erupts, pulsing brighter, and it’s not the only thing going haywire. It’s as if the nerves in my hands are shooting tingles from where I touch her straight through my frame, bypassing every defense I’ve built.

I have no choice but to pause for a moment. I cannot move.

“Rok?”

So soft, that vocalization. I have never felt my name so softly.

My gaze shifts to her.

She doesn’t move, just watches me with wide eyes, her mouth slightly open as I force myself to continue treating her wounds. That strange new scent grows stronger, filling the space around us, clouding my thoughts. I try to ignore it, focus on the task, but it calls to something…else within me.

A sensation builds at the apex of my thighs where my member rests. It has never responded before. Not like this. I stiffen, staring down at her, confused by my body’s reaction. Perhaps the shadowmaw’s venom has done more to me than I thought.

How can I protect this strange creature if I am compromised? At the very least, I must survive long enough to ensure her safety. I cannot allow the rival clan to find her—they would not be gentle with something so soft, so different.

I know then…that I must try to speak. To protect her properly, to figure out how she came to be wandering the dust alone, I must communicate with her.

I focus, trying to remember how to shape sounds with my mouth rather than thoughts with my mind. Trying to remember how to use a language only vocalized at death, when the Giving Stone opens to take you back within itself.

It has been so long. The muscles in my throat feel stiff, unwilling.

Finally, I manage to push air through vocal cords rarely used, forming sounds that feel alien on my tongue.

“You do not…burn,” I say, the words rough and grating, not even sure if she will understand. Her vocalizations are nothing like I have heard before. “The fire…from within…is gone. That is…good.”

If it’s even possible, Jus-teen stiffens beneath me, her eyes widening like polished flat stones.

For a pulsebeat, neither of us moves. Then slowly, her hands rise toward my face, hovering just a breath from my mouth, fingers trembling slightly. Her gaze searches mine, and my gaze shifts to her hand.

I wish…I wish she would put her touch upon my lips.

“Your language,” she whispers, “it’s beautiful.” Her eyes flick between mine, studying me with new intensity. “I wish I could understand you.”

Ain. She does not comprehend my words. Does she? I try again, preparing to force more sounds from my unused vocal cords, when suddenly I hear another voice—not Jus-teen’s, but similar in cadence, with a strange quality that sends a shiver down my spine.

“ARCHAIC LANGUAGE DETECTED. DRAKAVIAN. CALIbrATING.”

I leap backward with a snarl, dropping into a defensive crouch, my claws extending instinctively. My eyes dart around the cave, searching for the source of the disembodied voice. The glow beneath my skin suddenly dies and I sniff. All I can scent is her. Jus-teen.

Confused, my gaze shifts back to her. That’s when I notice the same hand that had reached toward me now reaches to her ear. To the stone she has lodged within it.

Jus-teen’s eyes widen. Her mouth falls open.

“You heard that?” she vocalizes.

I’d noticed it before but hadn’t given it much thought. Discovering her presence was shocking enough. Her wearing a stone inside her ear was the least strange thing about her. Now it glints unnaturally, and I realize the voice came from there. Some kind of magic? A trapped spirit? Is she possessed by something?

I bare my teeth, claws scraping against stone, ready to defend us against whatever unseen threat has revealed itself.

“Oh my God,” she breathes.

I wish I could understand, but I am no fool. She does not appear to be alarmed. Why ?

Because she knew of this intruder all along. How long has this spirit been watching us? Listening to us?

My nostrils flare. My spine curving as I get ready to pounce. I will rip it from her ear and smash it till it turns to dust. I cannot trust this female’s instincts when she has left such a thing so close to her skull.

This is an unknown. Danger.

Danger she was aware of.

The tribe. My clan. I cannot take her there. Not yet. Not until I understand what she is, and why Ain has sent her.

Seeing my stance, she rises slowly, arms stretched out toward me, palms pointing down. “Wait!” She’s standing now, approaching me like I would a creature of the dust that I do not want to startle. “It’s not dangerous—it’s helping us!”

Useless words.

Useless words mean nothing.

“Rok…Rok…It’s okay, it’s okay. It’s just my translator. It’s not dangerous.”

The stone in her ear speaks again. “CALIbrATION AT 10%.”

The sound seems to come from nowhere and everywhere at once.

I do not trust it. I do not trust anything that speaks words without a mouth, that hides inside her skull like a parasite.

This is…unnatural.

I stare at her outstretched hands, at the hope blazing in her eyes, at the stone that whispers with voices that should not exist. My muscles remain coiled, ready to strike. To protect. To destroy.