Page 23 of Yasmin and the Yeti (Alien Abduction #25)

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

R haal watched Yasmin sleep, her face peaceful in the dim light of their cave. The knowledge that she carried their cub had transformed everything. The world outside their sanctuary seemed both more dangerous and more beautiful, the stakes of existence suddenly heightened beyond measure.

He placed a careful hand on her stomach, marveling at the miracle hidden beneath her skin. Though there was no visible change yet, his heightened senses detected subtle differences—her scent had become sweeter and more complex, and her heartbeat seemed to echo with a faint, secondary rhythm.

She stirred beneath his touch, her eyes fluttering open. The smile that bloomed across her face would have brought him to his knees if he’d been standing. Never in his solitary existence had anyone looked at him with such pure joy.

“Morning,” she murmured, her voice still thick with sleep.

He rumbled a response, leaning down to brush his lips against her. Her small hands came up to frame his face, her fingers threading through his mane.

“Hungry?” he asked, pulling back reluctantly. “Make food.”

Her needs had become his singular focus. The primal urge to provide for his pregnant mate drove him with an intensity that surprised him. He had thought himself beyond such basic instincts after years of isolation.

“Starving,” she admitted with a small laugh. “The cub is hungry.”

He immediately rose and moved to the cooking area, where he had already prepared a morning meal of rich bone broth and the sweet purple berries she favored. He had risen before dawn to hunt, determined that she would have the most nutritious food possible.

As they ate, he found himself watching her every movement, cataloging each gesture and expression. Was that wince of discomfort normal? Did the slight tremor in her hand indicate a problem? All his senses were on alert for any sign of danger to his mate or his unborn cub.

“You’re staring,” she said, her tone gently teasing.

He grunted, not denying it. “Need watch. Keep safe.”

Her expression softened. “I’m fine, Rhaal. Women have been having babies for thousands of years.”

But not like this, he thought. Not a human female carrying a Hothian cub. The unknown dangers of their unique situation haunted him.

The day passed in domestic harmony. He insisted on doing the heaviest work, but she refused to be completely idle.

That afternoon, she insisted on helping him prepare the evening meal.

He had brought back a large pikka, and they worked together skinning and preparing it.

The sight of her small hands working alongside his filled him with a contentment he had never imagined possible.

He wanted to smoke some of the meat for their journey, and he was in the midst of showing her how to season the meat prior to smoking when he noticed her falter. Her hands stilled, and a strange expression crossed her face.

“Yasmin?” he asked, immediately alert.

She blinked rapidly, her face suddenly draining of color. “I feel… strange,” she whispered.

Before he could reach for her, she swayed on her feet. Her eyes rolled back, and her knees buckled.

He lunged forward, barely managing to catch her before she crumpled to the stone floor, her body immediately wracked with violent tremors. Her limbs jerked, and her teeth chattered audibly as chills seized her.

Time seemed to fracture. Suddenly, he was not in their cave but back in the collapsed mine tunnel, watching the falling rocks separate him from Ayla.

Cold, visceral panic flooded his system.

Not again. Please, not again.

He dropped to his knees with her, gathering her trembling form into his arms. Her skin burned with fever, yet she shook as if submerged in ice water. Her eyes fluttered open briefly, unfocused and glazed.

“R-Rhaal?” she gasped through chattering teeth.

“I’m here. Have you. Safe.”

He tried to sound reassuring but his voice was thick with fear. She wasn’t safe. This wasn’t something he could protect her from—he needed the clan healer. Why had he put off the trip? Why hadn’t they gone as soon as she told him?

Fighting back a wave of guilt, he quickly wrapped her in the thickest fur from their bed. He secured it around her shivering form, tucking it tight against the bitter cold she would face outside. Then he scooped her into his arms, cradling her against his chest.

Her weight was frighteningly insubstantial. Had she always been this light, or had the illness already begun wasting her away?

“Hold on,” he commanded, his voice a low, fierce command. “Strong. Be strong.”

He burst from the cave into the blinding whiteness of midday. The snow was deep from a recent storm, but his powerful legs drove through it without slowing. He set a punishing pace, his lungs burning with the frigid air as he ran.

The clan caves lay across the valley on the other side of the ridge—a journey that typically took several hours. He intended to make it in less than half that time. As he ran, memories of Ayla’s death haunted him.

“Please,” he growled to the uncaring sky, his breath forming clouds in the freezing air. “Not her. Not them.”

It was the beginning of the ancient prayer to the gods, the same desperate plea he had chanted as he tried to reach Ayla. The words felt like ash in his mouth, bitter with the memory of their previous failure.

“Take me instead,” he continued, the ritual words falling into the rhythm of his running stride. “My life for theirs. My strength to hold them here.”

Yasmin stirred against his chest, a small whimper escaping her lips. The sound lanced through him, spurring him to even greater speed. His muscles burned, his lungs ached, but he pushed on, a white blur against the snow.

He crossed the ridge in record time, not even slowing as he forded the half-frozen river that wound through it. The icy water soaked him to the waist, but he barely noticed the discomfort. His entire being was focused on the precious burden in his arms and the distance still to cover.

As he entered the valley, he caught sight of a hunting party in the distance.

They were Hothians from his clan, their white fur blending with the landscape.

Under normal circumstances, he would have avoided them—his exile was self-imposed but no less real.

Today, he altered his course directly toward them.

They spotted him quickly, their postures shifting from relaxed to alert as they recognized him. He could see their confusion as he approached but he didn’t care.

“Healer!” he bellowed as soon as he was within earshot. “Need healer!”

Recognition dawned on their faces when they saw what he carried—the human female from the rumors, the one the exile had claimed as his mate.

The oldest of the hunters fell in step with him, his stance wary but not hostile. “What has happened?”

“Sick,” he snarled, not slowing his pace. “Pregnant.”

“Two run ahead,” the old hunter ordered immediately. “Alert the Healer. We will escort Rhaal.”

Two of the younger hunters immediately broke away, sprinting toward the clan caves with the urgent news.

The rest fell in around Rhaal, their previous wariness replaced by grim determination.

Whatever his status, whatever had happened in the past, no Hothian would stand by while a pregnant female—any pregnant female—was in danger.

The rest of the valley passed in a blur of white landscape and burning muscles.

Yasmin’s condition worsened with each passing moment.

Her trembling had subsided, but not in a good way—her limbs were now limp, her breathing shallow and labored.

The fever seemed to radiate from her in waves, even through the thick fur.

“Stay,” he growled against her hair. “Stay with me. Fight.”

As they approached the final ridge before the clan caves, Rhaal saw a familiar figure limping toward them through the snow, leaning heavily on his staff. Broc.

The sight of his former friend, the mate of his lost sister, sent a complicated surge of emotion through Rhaal’s chest. “The healer is preparing,” Broc called, his voice carrying on the cold wind. “How long has she been like this?”

“Not long,” Rhaal answered, his voice rough with exertion and fear. “Sudden…”

He couldn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t need to. Broc’s expression darkened with the shared memory.

“This way,” Broc said, turning to lead them down a path that would bring them directly to the healer’s cave.

They crested the final ridge, and the clan caves spread out before them—a network of natural caverns expanded and connected by generations of Hothians.

Other than an occasional plume of smoke, there were few signs of the caverns on the surface.

They plunged down the ramp leading to the central cavern, the way still familiar after all these years. He’d never expected to be here again.

Word of their approach had spread quickly. Clan members emerged from the caves, their faces a mixture of curiosity, alarm, and—when they recognized him—shock. Some of the older ones, those who remembered Ayla’s death most vividly, wore expressions of sad recognition.

Rhaal ignored them all. His focus narrowed to the path before him and the increasingly still bundle in his arms. He followed Broc directly to the largest cave entrance, where the clan healer waited.

“Bring her inside,” she commanded, turning to lead the way into her cave.

He hesitated for a fraction of a second. The last time he had entered this cave, he had carried his sister’s body to be prepared for burial. The memory threatened to paralyze him.

A firm hand gripped his shoulder. Broc’s. “Not the same,” he said quietly. “Not this time.”

He met his former friend’s gaze, surprised by the absence of blame he found there. Instead, there was a shared determination. Neither of them would stand by and watch another tragedy unfold.

With a short nod, he ducked into the healer’s cave, carrying his precious burden to the fire that blazed in the center. The healer directed him to lay her on a bed of furs, and he reluctantly released his hold on her, his hands shaking as he carefully arranged the blanket around her.

“Tell me what happened,” Cera ordered, her voice brisk but not unkind.

“She was helping prepare meat. Then she collapsed, shaking.” He swallowed hard, forcing himself to continue. “She is pregnant.”

“Has she had any other symptoms? Nausea? Fatigue?”

“Yes. But not bad. Not until…”

The healer nodded, her expression grim. “Winter Womb. It is a condition that affects some pregnant Hothians, and possibly humans as well. It can come on suddenly, with no warning.”

His breath caught in his throat. “Can you treat it? Help her?”

“I will do everything in my power to help her,” Cera said firmly. “But I have never treated a human before.”

He stared at her, unable to speak past the dread that filled him. The thought of losing Yasmin, of losing their cub, was too much to bear. He couldn’t survive that. He couldn’t.

Cera’s voice softened slightly. “But she is strong, and so are you. That is something I can work with.”

“What can I do?”

“Stay by her side and pray,” she ordered as she moved to her workbench.