Page 26 of Rok’s Captive (Barbarians of the Dust #1)

THIS SOFT CREATURE IS MINE

ROK

I am burning from the inside out.

The fire that began when she touched me, when I tasted her essence, has spread through every part of me until I am nothing but flame. My body has become alien to me—shifting, changing, reforming itself according to some ancient pattern I can’t begin to comprehend.

I collapse to the stone floor as waves of sensation crash over me. Pain, yes, but more than pain—awareness, heightened to a point that borders on agony. I can feel every current of air against my skin, hear the rapid beating of Jus-teen’s dra-kir , smell the fear and concern radiating from her like a dust cloud.

And beneath it all, something else. Something new. Something becoming.

“Rok, talk to me.” Her voice cuts through the storm raging within me.

I try to respond, try to push thoughts toward her, but my mind seems incapable. My vision blurs, darkens, then expands beyond anything I have ever experienced. I can see everything —the dust in the air, the subtle patterns in the stone, the aura of warmth surrounding her body.

When her fingers brush my shoulder, the contact sends a jolt through me that is both torture and relief. Her touch soothes the fire even as it feeds it? It’s a contradiction that makes no sense. But it feels utterly right.

I lift my head, struggling to focus on her face through the chaos of sensations. Her eyes widen as she looks at me, her lips parting in shock, and I realize something has changed—something fundamental.

I look down at my arms, at my chest, and freeze.

My skin…has transformed. Darkness flows beneath the surface, not the absence of light but something deeper, richer—like the dark sky above the dust plains. And within that darkness, stars. Countless stars, swirling and shifting like the great dance of the celestial bodies we use to track paths through the dust.

What is happening to me ?

Justine’s hand reaches toward me again, tentative but determined, and when her fingers make contact with my skin, the stars beneath the surface surge toward her touch, clustering beneath the point of connection like they are drawn to her.

“What’s happening to you?” she whispers. “What can I do?”

I want to tell her to run. To flee. That I am dangerous in this state, unpredictable, a threat even to myself. But I cannot speak, cannot form the words, and even if I could, I know the truth—I need her. Need her presence, her touch, her essence to survive whatever transformation is consuming me.

The fire surges again and I cry out, a raw, animalistic sound that echoes through the chamber. Jus-teen flinches, her beautiful, water-like eyes going wide, but she doesn’t back away. Doesn’t retreat.

Instead, she moves closer.

“I’m here,” she says, her voice low but steady, resolved. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Time becomes fluid, elastic.

Moments stretch into what feels like solmarks, each beat of my dra-kir dragging out endlessly as the fire rages beneath my skin. Then, just as suddenly, time compresses, everything blurring together in flashes of sensation. Pain. Heat. Her voice.

Solmarks pass. Sols. The light, then the dark. Light, then dark. Cycles. I am dimly aware of my Jus-teen moving around me.

She brings water from the pool, the cool liquid soothing my burning skin as she drapes something damp across my forehead. Her touch lingers, and I feel the faint tremor in her hands.

She’s afraid.

And yet she stays.

Her voice washes over me, vocalizations soft and insistent, lost in the roaring that fills my ears.

“…never seen anything like this…”

“…please be okay…”

“…don’t you dare die on me, Rok. I mean it.”

Her words are a balm, even when I cannot make sense of them.

But then, something shifts.

At first, it’s faint. Barely noticeable through the haze of pain and heat.

A whisper.

Not her voice—not the one I hear with my ears—but something deeper, softer, resonating within my mind. Thoughts in the mindspace. Thoughts that are not mine. Images that transform into words. Understanding.

“What if he’s dying?”

The thought is fleeting, like a ripple across the still water, and for a moment, I think I’ve imagined it. But then another comes, clearer this time.

“ What if I did this to him? ”

It’s Jus-teen.

I can hear her.

In the mindspace.

I can hear her directly.

The barrier between our minds has thinned, becoming so fragile it’s nearly transparent. For a moment, I am distracted from the pain.

Her thoughts come in fragments, disjointed yet vivid, each one cutting through the chaos like a blade.

“ I need to…him to cool down. His skin…burning up .”

“ Stupid Xyma water. Stupid Xyma themselves .”

“ What am I going to do if…doesn’t recover, huh? What the fuck are…going to do, Justine? ”

Humor rises inside me. Her thoughts are just as many as her vocalizations. A constant stream of commentary.

I hold them close to my dra-kir as the darkness takes me.

For solmarks more, the fire rages.

Time passes. Jus-teen remains by my side, sometimes speaking, sometimes silent, but always touching me in some way—a hand on my arm, fingers brushing my face, her shoulder pressed against mine. Each contact soothes the fire within me, brings me closer to some equilibrium I cannot name.

When exhaustion finally claims her, she curls up beside me, her body a warm, steady presence against my side, her head resting on my shoulder. Her breathing deepens, evens out, and I know when she succumbs to rest.

I watch her, marveling at the trust this small, fragile being places in me. Even after witnessing my transformation, even knowing what I am capable of, she rests beside me without fear.

The thought fills me with a protectiveness so fierce it borders on violence. I would tear apart anything that threatened her, would face down the rival clan and shadowmaws and the dust itself to keep her safe.

Perhaps it’s the thought. For, without warning, the fire within me surges again—different this time, focused, concentrated in a way it wasn’t before. The heat pools in my gut, then lower, in the pouch that houses my member, and panic flares alongside it.

No. Not this. Not now.

But my body responds to some call I cannot resist, some transformation that has been building since I first tasted her essence. No…since I first touched her. My member, normally sleeping within its protective pouch, begins to swell, to change, to push outward.

The pain is excruciating—not like the burn of the transformation, but sharper, more localized. I bite back a cry, not wanting to wake Justine, but the agony of it tears through me like a dust-stalker’s claw.

It feels as though my member is being reshaped, remolded—which is impossible. The sensation is wrong, terrifying. But it is true.

My claws dig into the stone as I brace against the pain, a surprised grunt going through me as I see myself emerge. It breaks free of the protective pouch, the pouch itself reshaping as it escapes, fully extended for the first time in my life. I stare down at it in shock and confusion.

This is…not what I expected.

My stem…it has changed—transformed as completely as the rest of me. It is larger, thicker, the dark skin shot through with the same starlight that flows beneath the rest of my skin. The shape is different too—no longer the simple rod I emerged from the Giving Stone with, but something more complex, curved slightly, with a broad head and ridges along the underside.

And beneath it, where there was once only smooth skin, hang two heavy sacs, tight and full, their purpose a mystery to me.

My breath comes in harsh pants as I try to make sense of what I’m seeing, of what I’m feeling. The fire has localized here, concentrated in these new appendages, and the sensation is…intense. Not pain, not pleasure, but something in between, something that makes my claws flex against the stone and a growl rumble in my throat.

The movement, the sound, is enough to wake Jus-teen. She stirs against me, her eyes fluttering open, still heavy with sleep. For a moment, she seems disoriented, confused by the starlight emanating from my skin. Then her gaze drops to my lap, to the transformed member jutting proudly from between my thighs, and her eyes widen, all traces of sleep vanishing in an instant.

“Oh,” she whispers, the sound barely audible even to my enhanced hearing. “Well, that’s…made an appearance.”

Her face flushes a deep red, but there is no fire there. It is…blood. I can sense it…though I do not know how. Blood rushing to the surface of her skin in a way that fascinates me. She looks away quickly, then back, as if she can’t help herself, then away again, a nervous laugh escaping her.

“I, um…that’s…wow.”

There’s something in her voice, something that comes through in her thoughts. Embarrassment, certainly, but also…interest? Fascination? I don’t understand the complexity of her reaction, but I can smell the change in her scent, the subtle shift that makes my fangs ache.

The realization sends another pulse of heat through my new stem, making it twitch. Visibly. Jus-teen’s eyes widen further.

“ Oh my God ,” Justine projects into the mindspace.

She calls to Ain. I would have asked her more about this if the stars beneath my skin didn’t suddenly begin to fade.

One by one, they extinguish themselves like dying lights. The darkness that had consumed me recedes, retreating into some unseen place, leaving my skin bare—normal. That rich amber-gold. Like it was before.

I even test my glow. Brightening, then dimming myself. It follows my commands.

The fire is gone.

The transformation is complete, and yet…I am not the same.

I glance down at myself, at the new appendages between my legs, still throbbing with heat. My stem still juts forward.

I close my hand around it, trying to ease the ache there, but the touch only intensifies it. A low, rumbling groan escapes me before I can stop it, the sound reverberating through the chamber.

Jus-teen, who had been gazing at me with those wide, cautious eyes, flushes bright red. Her gaze flickers downward—toward the source of the sound—and her face somehow turns an even deeper shade of crimson. She quickly averts her eyes, looking anywhere but at me.

“Well,” she says, her voice unsteady, “I guess you’re better?”

Her gaze darts back to my stem, then away again just as quickly. When I clench it tighter, she takes a step backward, holding her hands up as if in surrender. “I’m just…gonna give you some privacy.”

She turns and moves to the other side of the chamber, her back to me, but I can still feel her presence like a flame in the dark.

I should stop.

I should release myself. Force my new stem away. Do something to regain control. But I can’t. For one, I no longer have a pouch to put it away.

My claw remains fisted around it, twitching as I watch her. The sight of her—her bare arms, her hair falling loose around her shoulders, the curve of her hips even beneath her strange coverings—fuels the fire in me.

I don’t understand these sensations, this hunger. All I know is that I cannot shift her from my mind. Cannot shift the memory of her wet slit, soft and glistening, the taste of her essence still haunting me.

She turns slightly, glancing back at me over her shoulder. Her eyes widen as she realizes I’m still watching her—still holding myself.

“Um…” She clears her throat, her voice rising with nervous energy. “Is there…any chance you can, uh, put that back?” She gestures vaguely toward my crotch, her cheeks blazing.

The question confuses me at first, but her thoughts—completely unfiltered—reach me, projecting an image of my pouch from before. The image is faint, fuzzy, but clear enough for me to understand her meaning.

It makes me laugh.

The sound is low and rough, rumbling from deep within my chest, and her eyes snap to mine, startled.

She blinks, her brows furrowing, and I watch as realization dawns. “Oh my God,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper. “You’re laughing at me.”

I rise to my feet, towering over her, and her gaze drops instinctively.

Her breath catches as her eyes land on my stem once more, jutting forward like a weapon, and her face flames red again. She quickly looks away, but not before I catch the way her pupils dilate, the subtle quickening of her breath. Not before I catch the thought .

Dust.

An image of my stem sliding through her wet slit.

The image is so sudden, so startling, I almost fall to my knees. Another pulse of heat goes through me, making my stem twitch hard . Is that how we are to join? I’d never considered using my stem in such a way with my brothers. But then again, I’ve never had these urges before. Not until her.

And now that I know this new purpose…what she needs…

Oh, the thought.

A grunt escapes my throat as I fist my new stem harder.

“Rok,” she says, her voice sharp, but there’s a tremor in it that betrays her. She makes a sound in her throat, forcing her gaze back to my face. “Focus, okay? Can you…can you put it away or not?”

I shake my head the way she does. “No,” I say simply. One of her words. Awkward but clear.

Her hands fly into the air. “Of course not. Suddenly grow a big fat raging cock after scaring me to death that you’re dying, and then tell me that weapon of pussy destruction cannot be disarmed.”

Pussy?

What is a pussy?

The images are coming too fast. I can hardly make sense of what these vocalizations mean. But then there’s the image of her slit again, warm and wet and dripping. Sheathed over my stem.

I groan.

Her pussy. Yes.

She plants her hands on her hips, glaring at me. “Okay, fine. I’ll fix this. Just…stay there.”

She turns in a slow circle, scanning the chamber, her expression thoughtful. I tilt my head, curious despite the need coursing through me and culminating in my rigid shaft.

“Right,” she mutters to herself, as if coming to a decision. “I know what to do.”

Before I can ask—or think—what she means, she reaches for her leg coverings.

She strips them off in one quick motion, leaving her legs bare, and I feel my body react instantly.

The sight of her exposed skin, the smooth curves of her thighs, the way the light catches on her soft flesh—it’s almost too much.

My stem…my cock —as she called it—hardens further, the ache intensifying, and I let out a low growl, unable to suppress the sound.

She doesn’t notice.

Or if she does, she ignores it.

Instead, she picks up a jagged-edged stone and uses it to tear the hide of her coverings into two flat panels. Soon, she’s only wearing half of it, her legs deliciously bare.

“These might…” She pauses, glancing at me nervously. “These might help.”

She approaches slowly, the makeshift hide in hand, her gaze determinedly fixed on my face.

When she reaches me, her hands tremble slightly as she presses the fabric against my lap, tying it in place with quick, efficient movements.

Her nearness is electric.

Her touch is even more so.

I can feel the heat of her hands through the thin fabric, can smell the faint, intoxicating scent of her skin.

Her fingers brush against me accidentally—light, fleeting—and it takes everything in me not to groan aloud.

“Okay,” she says, stepping back to admire her handiwork. “That should—” She stops abruptly, her gaze flickering downward, and her face reddens again.

The fabric is tented obscenely, the outline of my cock clearly visible. Cock. A much better word than stem. I like it. I shall call it my cock from now on and teach my brothers, too.

My gaze shifts to hers when I get an image that almost brings me to the ground. An image of Jus-teen on her knees beneath me. Her mouth over the new bulbous head of my cock.

It is enough to make my claws dig into my palms.

But these aren’t my thoughts in the mindspace. They’re hers .

“Yeah, that’s…not really helping,” she mutters, dragging a hand down her face.

I chuckle again, the sound low and rumbling, and she glares at me.

“Don’t laugh,” she says, pointing a finger at me. “This is your fault.”

Her words are sharp, but there’s no real anger in them. If anything, there’s a flicker of amusement in her tone, and for a moment, the tension between us eases.

Then she sighs, gesturing toward the floor. “Do you need to…rest or something? Recover?”

I get images of my own form resting on the stone. Of her resting beside me.

Jus-teen blinks at me before she mimes lying down, her movements exaggerated, and I realize she still doesn’t know I am getting imprints of her thoughts. She is not doing it on purpose then.

And I…do not want to tell her. Not yet.

Something tells me that if I do, all these delicious images she’s sending my way will stop.

So, instead, I lower my head and press my forehead to hers, letting the soft, trembling warmth of her skin connect with mine.

The moment our foreheads touch, it’s as if the ground beneath me shifts.

A jolt of energy surges through me and I hear her gasp, feel the slight tremor in her body as it passes through her, too.

Her hands fly to my arms, clutching at me for balance as her knees buckle slightly. A soft, breathless moan escapes her lips, and the sound strikes me like lightning, sinking deep into my chest.

“ No rest ,” I project, my thoughts flowing into hers like dust melding with dust. My voice in her mind is steady, but the words carry the weight of my urgency, the fire that still burns within me. “ No time . We have already delayed too long .”

Her breath hitches again, her trembling growing more pronounced as my thoughts wrap around hers. I can feel the heat of her emotions—confusion, fear, curiosity—all interwoven with something else. Something warmer.

“Rok…” she whispers, the sound of my name soft but filled with trust.

My name in her mouth does things to me. Makes my claws curl. Makes my cock twitch and throb. And the thoughts bleeding from her mind—dust.

She sees me all wrong.

I know what I am. Scar tissue and survival. Claws made for gutting prey, not…whatever soft things she imagines when I touch her. But her mind keeps throwing these broken reflections at me:

—My battle-worn hands gentle on her hips

—My fangs (which have ripped out throats) making her shiver when I bite

—Some golden-eyed being she’s built from dust and hope

Worst part? I want to be that for her.

The realization tastes like blood in my mouth. I’ve spent cycles proving I’m the sharpest blade in the clan, and now this soft-skinned female has me aching to sheathe myself in her fantasies.

Her breath hitches when I step closer. I can smell her pulse jump—hear the wet catch in her throat. She thinks I don’t notice how her thighs press together when I loom over her. Like she’s trying to drown in my shadow.

And then, under all that, a burning need. A fire growing. A sensation that rises and culminates in a single spot between her thighs.

She cuts herself off, but I’ve already felt it. That fire. The pull between us that neither of us can deny.

The stars beneath my skin pulse faintly, responding to her, but they don’t return. My transformation is complete, I suppose. This is not the chaos from before. This is something new.

Is this mind sickness?

I should walk away. Should let her see the real me—the one who left her people to rot in that valley. But then her fingers brush my chest, and the lie does not manifest to thought.

I pull back slightly, just enough to meet her gaze. Her pupils are blown wide, her cheeks flushed a deep red, and her lips are parted slightly, as if she’s struggling to catch her breath.

She doesn’t move away.

She doesn’t pull back.

I can sense her every breath. Every beat of her dra-kir. As if Xiraxis has formed around her and she is the world in its entirety.

The fire within me still burns, but it’s no longer a chaotic blaze. It’s a controlled heat now, simmering just beneath the surface, focused and ready.

And at the center of it all is her.

The small, fragile being who has placed her trust in me despite everything.

I will not fail her.

I put my forehead to hers. “ I will take you to your clan. But first we must go to mine .”