Page 33

My gaze lands on the far wall, and my breath leaves me in a soft, stunned exhale.

“Jackpot.”

Dozens of baskets are stacked in neat rows, their woven sides slightly frayed and dulled from time and exposure, but they still look sturdy. From here, I can make out waterskins, thick furs that look worn but still usable, and bundles wrapped in cloth. Maybe food?

Relief crashes over me in a wave so sudden, it nearly knocks me off my feet. The thought of curling up on one of those soft furs makes my shoulders sag as the tension I hadn’t even realized I was holding begins to drain away. My body aches in places I didn’t even know could hurt.

I sway a little on my feet before I catch myself.

Vrok notices, of course. He always does.

His eyes narrow, scanning me in that observant way of his.

He doesn’t say anything, but he crouches beside the baskets and pulls out a waterskin before handing it to me without looking.

Before I can even take a sip, he’s untying one of the fur bundles and shaking it out, then laying it on the ground.

“Sit,” he says, voice low and firm.

I bristle at his command. Not because I don’t want to sit, but because I want to be stronger than this. I want to believe I can keep going.

“I’m fine,” I mumble. My grandma always said I was too stubborn for my own good. Guess she was right.

His eyes meet mine again, and there’s a softness in them that I’m still getting used to. Before I can argue further, he steps closer and grazes my arm with his fingers. His touch is feather-light, but a low pulse of heat settles in my chest.

“You’re tired,” he says, quieter this time. “Let me take care of you.”

It’s not a demand. Instead, it’s a plea, and that almost makes it worse.

I swallow hard, my throat suddenly dry, but finally I nod and lower myself onto the fur.

It’s scratchy and smells musty, but it’s thick and right now, that feels like a luxury. I sink into it, and something inside me unwinds. I hadn’t realized how much I’d been bracing myself. Against the terrain, the fear, the unknown.

Vrok lingers for a moment longer before turning back to the baskets. He starts sorting through them, but I don’t miss the occasional flick of his gaze in my direction. He’s watching me. A quiet warmth settles in my chest.

He won’t say it outright, but I know he cares about me and he’s making sure I’m okay.

I close my eyes and let my body rest for just a second. Tomorrow, we’ll keep moving. We’ll follow the trail until we find Lily. But for tonight, we’ll rest and recover.

When I open my eyes again, Vrok is crouched beside one of the baskets, pulling out a ration bag filled with dried meat.

Without a word, he tears off a strip and hands it to me.

The glow of the moss casts shifting shadows over his face, making the lines of his features seem sharper.

He looks like a statue carved out of stone.

But I know better. I’ve seen the softness in him. The softness he tries to hide from the world that he’s only just now starting to let me see.

I take the meat from him, my fingers brushing against his. The contact is fleeting, barely more than a spark, but it races through me.

We eat in silence with the only sound being the soft rustle of movement and the occasional drip of water from somewhere.

I chew slowly, expecting the familiar gamey toughness of dicro meat, but the flavors burst on my tongue.

It’s savory and rich, with a hint of something almost smoky. It’s actually good.

I hum in appreciation before I can stop myself.

“It’s not so bad when you’re starving, hmm?”

I roll my eyes but take another bite. “Still not a fan, but I’ll admit, this batch is better than what I’ve had before.”

“Treated properly, dicro meat is quite good. Most of you humans just haven’t had it prepared the right way,” he says.

I arch a brow in question. “And you’re an expert, now?”

He leans back against the cave wall, stretching his long legs out in front of him, and I realize this is the most relaxed I’ve ever seen him. “When I was a youngling, the tribes would gather and hold competitions. I always won the dicro smoking contest.”

I blink. “You’re serious?”

Oh. My. God . Aliens have cooking contests. I mean, yeah, weapons, war, and all the usual survival stuff is a given, but I wasn’t exactly expecting The Great Alien Cook Off . Like some intergalactic version of Bake Off, but with dicro meat and fire pits instead of shortbread and soggy bottoms.

His eyes glint teasingly in the dim light of the cave. “Would I jest about something so important?” The corners of his lips twitch upward with just the barest hint of amusement, but I go still, barely breathing.

Why do I want to see him smile so bad? Every time his lips so much as move, I find myself hoping it will finally happen. A real smile. One that stretches from ear to ear and reaches his eyes. One he doesn’t try to hide under all that stoicism and brooding.

But it doesn’t come. Not yet.

“The secret is in the seasoning.” He says it like he’s imparting some sacred wisdom.

I half expect him to glance over his shoulder like someone might be lurking in the shadows just waiting to steal his secret recipe.

“I use the skin from casae tubers. When they’re dried and ground to a powder, and mixed with nectar from the marcas flower, it adds a sweet and spicy flavor to the meat. ”

I don’t know why that makes me want to laugh.

Maybe it’s because the image of this male—this battle-worn, gruff, brooding guy—carefully seasoning meat by a fire like it’s an art form is unexpected.

But then again, I shouldn’t be surprised.

He takes everything seriously. Of course, he’d treat cooking like a battlefield to conquer.

I want to ask more. I want to keep peeling back the layers, but before I can speak, his nostrils flare and his brow ridge furrows.

“Do you smell that?”

I pause mid-bite and inhale deeply, but all I smell is the stale air of the cave. “Um… no.”

Vrok rises in one fluid motion and turns to me. “Follow me. I have a surprise for you.”