Page 11 of Yasmin and the Yeti (Alien Abduction #25)

CHAPTER ELEVEN

R haal watched as Yasmin lowered the now-empty bowl to her lap with a satisfied smile.

Her small fingers lingered on the rim, tracing the carvings he’d spent countless winter nights etching into the hard stone, and he immediately pictured them tracing a similar pattern on his own skin.

The thought made his kotra throb and he hastily looked away.

She was still so fragile—he would not let his instincts make her uncomfortable.

Her deliberate touch earlier had threatened the wall he was trying to build between them, but he did his best to put it back in place.

Despite his best efforts, the silence grew heavy, laden with unspoken possibilities that terrified and thrilled him in equal measure.

He needed to fill it with something, anything, before the throbbing ache of desire consuming him drove him to cross lines he must not cross.

He made a decision and moved to sit across from her, the fireplace between them. He deliberately looked at her, then pointed to the dancing flames.

“Khorva,” he said slowly.

She tilted her head, confusion briefly crossing her features before understanding dawned. Her lips parted in a small “oh” of realization.

“Khorva,” she repeated, her voice softer, higher, the sound strange but pleasing to his ears.

He nodded once, satisfaction warming his chest. He pointed to the stone floor beneath them.

“Muth.”

“Muth,” she echoed, the word awkward on her tongue but recognizable.

“Good,” he said in her tongue and she smiled happily, then pointed at the water in the stone basin near the fire.

“Water.”

“Water.” The word felt odd on his tongue, but she nodded. He pointed to the water as well. “Shen.”

“Shen,” she repeated eagerly. They continued in this way for several minutes, trading names back and forth for simple items. Her pronunciation was often imperfect but they were making progress, and the activity kept his focus on something other than his body’s desire.

As they continued around the cave, he pointed to the thick furs on the sleeping platform.

“Peltar.”

She repeated it, stumbling slightly over the harsh consonants. He found himself leaning forward, entranced by the way her small mouth worked to form the unfamiliar sounds.

“Peltar?” she asked, pointing to the thick white fur covering his arms and he shook his head, patting his arm.

“Rhalka.”

She leaned forward, her eyes bright with interest. Her hand hovered in the air between them, a question in her eyes.

He remained perfectly still, hardly daring to breathe as she reached out and lightly touched the fur on his forearm.

The contact sent a jolt through him, but he didn’t pull away.

Her fingers were warm, delicate, and the gentle way they stroked through his fur felt like nothing he had ever experienced before.

His kotra hardened instantly, pressing painfully against his sheath, and he gritted his teeth, determined to remain still, to allow her this exploration.

Her touch wandered, moving from his forearm to his bicep, his shoulder, and then his face.

She traced a path across his cheekbone and down the line of his jaw, cautiously touching his fangs before her fingertips brushed the corner of his mouth.

His control snapped, and he jerked away before he did something he shouldn’t do.

She made a soft, apologetic noise. “I’m sorry.”

He understood the intent, if not the words, and shook his head abruptly. She’d done nothing wrong—it was his lack of control which was to blame. He forced his attention back to the language lesson.

“Rhalka,” he repeated.

“Rhalk-cha?”

Her attempt to reproduce the word came out distorted, with an extra breath at the end.

The sound was so close to their word for “sneeze” that a sudden unexpected noise escaped his chest before he could stop it.

It took him a moment to recognize the unfamiliar sensation—laughter.

He was laughing, a sound he hadn’t made in years.

Her eyes widened, and then she smiled back, clearly pleased at having amused him rather than embarrassed by her mistake. She tried again, exaggerating the mispronunciation, “Rhalk-CHA!” with a dramatic flourish of her hand.

The rumbling in his chest deepened, and for a brief, precious moment, the weight of his past lifted. The air in the cave felt lighter, warmer.

She was still smiling when her eyes dropped to the dark stone pendant he always wore, and she pointed at it, her expression questioning.

The brief lightness vanished. His hand moved automatically to the pendant, fingers closing around it in a protective gesture. He hesitated, the urge to retreat behind his walls nearly overwhelming, but she had offered him trust earlier. Perhaps he owed her the same.

“Ayla,” he said roughly. “Sister.”

She gave him a confused look, and he tried to figure out how to explain.

His hand tightened around the pendant, then he rose, crossing to the storage chest against the far wall.

He retrieved his sister’s bracelet, returning to show Yasmin the carvings of the two younglings playing in the snow. He pointed to each of them in turn.

“Ayla. Rhaal.”

She studied the intricate design, then nodded thoughtfully and mimicked the two figures growing taller together.

“Yes, sister.”

She swept her arm around in a wide gesture, encompassing the cave and the land beyond.

“Ayla?” she asked softly, the name a gentle whisper that somehow hurt less coming from her lips.

He managed to shake his head, unable to speak past the sudden thickness in his throat. The pendant felt heavy against his chest, a physical reminder of his failure, his shame.

“I’m sorry.”

She reached across the space between them and gently, so gently he barely felt it, placed her small hand over his much larger one where it still clutched the pendant.

She didn’t speak. She didn’t need to. The simple touch said everything. I see your pain. I honor it. I am here.

He froze, caught between the instinct to pull away and the desperate need to lean into that touch, that understanding. His heart ached as if it could expand enough to encompass her compassion.

He swallowed hard, fighting back the rush of emotions, and she seemed to understand his struggle because she didn’t push him, didn’t try to speak.

She simply sat there, her hand over his, letting the moment hold them together.

When he felt ready, he turned his hand, interlacing their fingers.

His hand dwarfed hers but she didn’t pull away, didn’t flinch.

Instead, she tightened her grip on him, a silent affirmation that she was with him.

“Rhaal,” he said, his voice barely more than a growl.

She repeated his name, her pronunciation almost perfect, and then added, “Ayla,” nodding towards the bracelet again. “Sister.”

“I… failed,” he admitted after a long pause, knowing that she wouldn’t understand.

She squeezed his hand once more, a silent reassurance that allowed him to continue.

“My sister. Ayla. I failed her.” He shook his head, trying to clear the memories, but they came rushing back. “I was strong, but not strong enough. When she needed me, I… wasn’t enough.”

She tilted her head to one side, clearly not comprehending, but the act of speaking the words aloud had loosened something inside him.

“Broc,” he added after a moment, gesturing to the pendant and then making a motion like walking with a limp. “Friend. Brother.”

He didn’t have the words to explain more—how Broc had been his closest friend, how they had both loved Ayla, how her death had destroyed them both in different ways. How Broc blamed him still, and rightly so.

But somehow, looking at Yasmin’s face, he thought perhaps she understood anyway.

She repeated the names softly, “Ayla, Broc,” committing them to memory as if they were precious things to be safeguarded rather than painful reminders of his greatest failure. Her eyes held only sympathy and a deep understanding of his pain.

The urge to tell her more was almost overwhelming—to share the full story with someone for the first time since it happened.

To speak of his regrets, his sorrow, his guilt.

But even if she had been able to understand him, he couldn’t bear to add her condemnation to the weight on his shoulders, so he closed his mouth.

She looked up at him, her gaze still warm and soft.

Inviting. His gaze traveled over her slender body, now covered in the makeshift garment he had made for her.

He was struck once more by how small she was, how fragile.

She looked even smaller now than she had last night—like something he could break without even trying.

The thought of hurting her made him feel sick, but the desire she awoke in him was just as terrifying. He’d never felt such intense, primal urges before, and the depth of his need scared him. How could he trust himself not to harm her? How could he live with himself if he did?

He was still struggling with his conflicting impulses when she suddenly yawned, her small hand covering her mouth.

“Tired?” he asked, already rising from his seat.

He didn’t want to leave her, but he couldn’t trust himself to stay either. The longer he spent in her presence, the more his desire grew.

“I’ll return soon,” he promised. He pointed to the bed furs. “Rest now.”

She made a faint protesting noise but he could tell she was exhausted and guilt immediately swept over him. He shouldn’t have kept her up so long. She needed to regain her strength.

“Rest,” he repeated firmly.

She sighed but she was already moving over to the bed platform. As she settled under the furs she looked over at him, her expression uncertain.

“Rhaal?” she said hesitantly, lifting the edge of the furs. “Stay?”

His chest tightened, but he shook his head and left the cave before he could change his mind. Outside, the cold wind cleared his head but did nothing to soothe the burning ache in his loins.

His self-control had never been an issue before, but he had never been so tempted. The thought of crawling beneath the furs and holding her against him was almost irresistible. He snarled, his claws extending and retracting in frustration as he battled with his instincts.

He couldn’t trust himself right now.

He stomped off into the snow, focusing on the chill wind against his fur and the sound of the ice crystals shifting beneath his feet instead of the need pulsing in his veins.

He would find something to occupy his mind— perhaps there would be a skarn to hunt, or he would check the traps he’d set to catch the small herbivores that occasionally ventured out in the winter.

But he already suspected that nothing would clear his thoughts of her.