Page 37 of Stars in Umbra (The Sable Riders #8)

When The Storms Quieten

MOLAN

M o sat beneath the soft light of the kitchen eaves, his hands still damp from washing garden soil from his fingers.

A few hours earlier, Hanna co-opted him to pick sweet potatoes for their dinner, and he obliged, unable to resist her subtle smile and gentle ask.

Outside, the sky turned a deep violet, in a wild coloration that only followed a crisp autumn afternoon.

A fire crackled near the back porch, the scent of burning eucalyptus curling in through the half-open windows.

His body was still sore from his recent ordeal and the resulting operation, but the ache now felt almost welcome, a reminder that he was alive.

Hanna stood at the kitchen island in a flour-streaked apron, her voice lilting with a good humor.

‘Our little patch of land’s always run on sweat and hope,’ she said, her hands moving as she spoke, chopping and stirring.

‘We grow everything we can organically. Reth takes care of the horses. I manage the produce, vegetables, herbs, and eggs. We have citrus and stone fruit when they’re in season, and we keep a dairy cow for the milk and cheese.

The sourdough we make with local wheat is from the old co-op mill down the valley, which still grinds by millstone. ’

Mo listened, absorbing the cadence of her voice, which was soft and soothing.

It was more than just words; it was a way of being, a way of choosing to live with the earth. ‘Ma, don’t talk his ear off,’ Rina chided.

‘I like to hear it,’ Mo countered with a lopsided smile.

‘Then let me tell you about Rina as a child,’ Hanna laughed.

Ignoring her daughter’s protests, Hanna shared how Rina once buried her father’s boots because she didn’t want him leaving for a military post; how she convinced the neighbor’s alpacas to follow her home with a trail of carrots; how she used to fall asleep in the kitchen hammock with a book open over her chest.

Mo had never seen Rina laugh with such freedom, chuckling hard at her mother’s retelling.

The sound filled the room, a melody more beautiful than any song.

Dinner was a feast.

Slices of blistered, smoky pizza emerged from the outdoor brick oven, layered with goat’s cheese, roast garlic, and a drizzle of chili oil.

There were golden wedges of roasted sweet potato dusted with dukkah.

Also on offer were bowls of minted peas and buttery broad beans, as well as a warm salad of lentils and grilled onions.

Alongside were sourdough loaves and fresh butter.

A bottle of Reth’s cellar-aged Shiraz breathed between them, poured generously into rustic glasses.

In the corner, the old cast-iron stove pulsed gentle heat into the room, its lids rattling as more deliciousness slow-cooked inside.

The kitchen filled with the aroma of thyme, pepper, and earth.

Hanna and Reth fussed over the couple all evening, their simple kindness a balm to Mo’s battered soul.

They ladled seconds, topped up their wine, and offered blankets and house socks with such openhearted generosity that at times, Mo’s breath caught.

He felt a familiar knot of unworthiness tighten in his gut.

He didn’t deserve the warmth of this table, the tinkle of laughter between mother and daughter, or the grounding touch of Rina’s hand in his.

She held his hand the entire time, her thumb brushing the back of his knuckles.

Every so often, she glanced at him when his exhales hitched or his eyes darted too fast toward the windows.

He was still half-wild inside, some part of him waiting for rail guns or restraint cuffs, expecting his proverbial justice to drop.

But she stilled him.

How strange, he thought.

Weeks ago, she was the restless one.

Her voice trembling, her shoulders coiled with tension as she rejected the idea of their relationship.

Now she was his peace.

After a dessert of stewed apples and custard, Rina rose and tugged him to his feet, her hand never leaving his. ‘Come,’ she murmured. ‘You need sleep.’

She showed him to a guest bedroom with plush cotton sheets and timber floorboards worn smooth by the footsteps of decades.

A carved dresser held fresh towels.

An old woven rug lay at the foot of the bed.

She placed a folded pair of her brother’s pajamas on the chair, clean and soft. ‘I’ll be in my room,’ she whispered, touching his arm. ‘Good night, honey.’

He nodded but didn’t speak.

She left, closing the door behind her with a muted click.

Mo stood still for a beat, wanting to call her back.

Still, he had to respect her wishes; perhaps privacy was essential to her, and sex under her parents’ roof a no-no.

With a sigh, he undressed with care, bathed, then changed into a set of pajamas scented with cedar and lavender.

He lay down, but sleep hovered out of reach.

Then, the door creaked open.

She slipped in, barefoot, wearing a simple lace nightgown, her hair loose around her shoulders.

He propped himself up on one elbow, and his lips quirked.

Fokk , she was stunning.

Her expression was soft, but he caught a glint in her eye, a raw desire that hit him in the gut. ‘I thought you might need some company,’ she murmured.

Mo didn’t answer with words.

He extended an arm, his calloused fingers curling into an invitation.

She moved toward him with a natural ease, settling her back against his torso, snuggling into his chest, her breath steady against his skin.

She made slight mewling sounds of content, and he breathed in her unique scent.

Fokkin ’ heaven.

‘I’ve got a question.’

He stirred at her soft murmur. ‘Hmmm.’

‘Is Mo your full name?’

He chuckled. ‘It’s an abbreviation of Molan, a shorter form of Molaniades. Which, according to my mother, means ‘servant of the storm’. My complete appellation, however, is Molaniades Arkinolnd Mithandri Iqal.’

‘Quite the mouthful, but I like Molan. It’s lyrical, beautiful, like you are.’

He buried his face in the warmth of her nape. ‘Woman,’ he whispered, his voice raw. ‘Was your heart sent on a mission to heal me?’

She didn’t answer with words either.

She turned in his arms, her body molding against his, and her lips found his with a wild passion that took his breath.

His hands traced the soft curve of her back, the delicate line of her spine, as if mapping the constellations of a new world.

Her fingers threaded through his hair, tugging him closer, and a ragged moan escaped her lips as their bodies met.

A delicious heat pooled in his gut, a slow burn that ignited everything in its path.

Her skin, scented with vanilla and tropical fruits, was like silk against his calloused palms.

She whispered his name in an intimate invocation, and the sound reverberated in his bones.

Every touch was a promise, each caress a word in a language they were beginning to learn.

Their love that night was unhurried, earnest, and an act of reverence.

She traced the lines on his chest like she was reading a sacred script, and he gripped her like the world might disappear if he let go.

He lifted her gown and found no barrier to his sensual exploration.

‘Bare for me, mi kaya ?’

‘So wet for you.’

Moments later, he lost his pajama bottoms and slid into her, slicking into her from behind, lost in bliss.

She moaned and he growled as he cupped her breast and tweaked her nipple, rocking her until they both imploded in feverish ecstasy.

Afterwards, he cradled her close, as she lay deep in sleep.

In his heart of hearts, he hoped that this journey, this mission, would help him reclaim his past and prove he’s worthy of Rina.

For years, he had been battling his insecurities about his humble origins that were now being turned on their head, knowing he was the son of a god.

Now his singular obsession wasn’t just about claiming this woman; it was about rewriting his identity to escape the shame of existing as a ‘nobody.’

Somehow, lying in Rina’s arms helped assuage his worries, and for the first time since he fell from the sky, Mo slept without a care in the world.

RINA

Rina woke with a slow, rising discomfort deep in her belly.

A cloying nausea began to twist in her stomach before her eyes had even opened.

She lay still for a moment, blinking up at the ceiling, acutely aware of the steady, warm weight of Mo’s arm draped over her waist.

With care, she eased herself from his embrace, inching backward, attempting not to disturb his rest.

He murmured an incoherent phrase in his sleep but didn’t stir.

His brow was smooth for once, his mouth slack, his lashes brushing the bruised curve of his cheekbone.

He looked so impossibly peaceful that it made her chest ache.

She slipped from the bed and padded barefoot to her room, pressing the door shut behind her before racing into her bathroom.

The retching came fast and dry, violent and unforgiving.

Her knees hit the tile, and her hands gripped the cold porcelain edge of the sink as her body betrayed her.

But it wasn’t the nausea alone that alarmed her.

It was the unmistakable hum beneath her skin, her finely tuned alert system, developed after years of military service and battlefield instinct.

It told her when danger was near or when something was irrevocably off.

She washed her face, trembling, and opened the cabinet above the basin. Behind a box of old dressings and a faded bottle of disinfectant was a pregnancy test.

A dusty, forgotten specimen from another life.

Her fingers hesitated only for a second.

She checked the expiration date and exhaled in relief.

It was still viable.

With a sigh, she tore the seal and perched on the toilet seat.

She did what needed to be done, her arms braced over her thighs, her breath short and rapid as minutes crawled by.

Then the test kit pinged, and she picked it up with trembling hands.

The double pink line was strong and unmistakably positive.

She stared at it, her inhale catching, panic rising like floodwater.

Fokkinhellshit .

How had she gotten pregnant?

She’d had protection, she thought in a wild tear, rubbing the device lodged under the skin of her arm.