Page 32 of Yasmin and the Yeti (Alien Abduction #25)
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
T he sound of ceremonial drums echoed through the central cavern, their deep, resonant thumps vibrating through the stone and into Rhaal’s bones.
He stood tall, tense with an emotion he couldn’t quite name.
Around him, the entire clan had gathered—males, females, and cubs—their white fur a stark contrast against the dark stone walls illuminated by clusters of glow crystals.
He felt exposed here, vulnerable in a way he hadn’t in years.
The last time he had stood in this hall, it had been to announce his self-imposed exile.
Now he was back, but not as a broken, grief-stricken shadow of himself.
He stood as a warrior who had helped save his people, with his mate—his human mate—at his side.
Yasmin’s small hand found his, her fingers twining with his much larger ones. Even through the haze of his discomfort, the simple touch anchored him. He squeezed her hand gently, grateful that she’d recovered her strength enough to accompany him.
The drums fell silent as Njkall stepped into the center of the cavern, his powerful figure commanding everyone’s attention.
“We gather today to honor those who defended our sacred lands, our waters, and our way of life,” Njkall’s voice carried through the hall without effort. “The offworlders who poisoned our rivers and desecrated our burial grounds have been removed.”
A low rumble of approval rolled through the assembled clan.
“But today, we also gather to heal old wounds,” Njkall continued, his gaze finding Rhaal. “To welcome back one who has been absent too long.”
His chest tightened. Yasmin’s fingers tightened around his, but he couldn’t look at her. Not now. Not when the past and present were colliding so violently within him.
Movement from the side of the hall caught his attention. Broc stepped forward, his distinctive limp marking his progress as he made his way to the center. The hall fell utterly silent. Everyone knew the history between them—the cave-in, Ayla’s death, Rhaal’s guilt, Broc’s blame.
Broc stopped beside Njkall, then turned to face Rhaal directly. For a moment, he said nothing, his gaze traveling over Rhaal’s face as if searching for something. Then his eyes dropped to where Yasmin stood at his side, her small body pressed close to his much larger one.
“I speak now not just as a clan brother,” Broc began, his voice strong despite the emotion Rhaal could scent on him, “but as one who shared the deepest loss with Rhaal.”
The words hung in the air, heavy with years of unspoken grief.
“When Ayla died, I blamed him.” Broc’s blunt statement caused a ripple of discomfort through the hall. “I believed his strength had failed when it was most needed. I could not see past my own pain to understand his.”
His throat tightened. He had never expected this—not a public acknowledgment, not an absolution.
“I was wrong,” Broc continued, his voice steady but thick with emotion. “Rhaal did not fail Ayla. The mountain failed us all. And in my grief, I failed him—my brother in all but blood.”
Broc took a step closer, his eyes now locked with Rhaal’s.
“In the Valley of Echoes, we fought side by side again. I saw not the broken male who left us, but a warrior of tremendous control and power. A male who would die to protect what he loves.” Broc’s gaze flickered briefly to Yasmin. “A male worthy of his mate and the cub she carries.”
A low murmur rippled through the crowd at the mention of the pregnancy.
“I formally welcome Rhaal back from his exile,” Broc declared, his voice rising to fill the hall. “The past is buried. The debt is paid. He returns not as one seeking forgiveness, but as a hero of the clan.”
Broc extended his arm, offering the traditional warrior’s clasp. He hesitated only a heartbeat before releasing Yasmin’s hand and stepping forward. He clasped Broc’s forearm, feeling the strength in the other male’s grip.
“Brother,” Broc said quietly, for Rhaal’s ears alone.
“Brother,” he agreed.
The hall erupted in approving growls and the pounding of fists against chests—the clan’s way of showing respect and acceptance. The sound was deafening, overwhelming. He felt a pressure building inside his chest, overwhelmed by emotion.
As the noise subsided, the healer stepped forward from her position near the wall, her movements sure and graceful. In her clawed hands, she carried a small clay bowl filled with a shimmering blue liquid—sothiti in its purest form.
“Rhaal,” she called, her voice surprisingly strong. “Bring your mate forward.”
He returned to Yasmin’s side, placing a protective hand at the small of her back. He could feel her nervousness in the tension of her muscles, but her chin was high, her eyes clear and unafraid as they walked to the center of the hall.
The healer dipped one gnarled finger into the sothiti. With precise movements, she drew a glowing blue symbol on Yasmin’s forehead—the clan’s mark of protection and belonging.
“This female, though not born of our world, has earned her place among us,” Cera announced. “She has shown courage, loyalty, and strength of spirit worthy of the greatest of our females.”
The healer then turned her attention to Yasmin’s stomach.
“May I?” she asked Yasmin directly, her eyes kind, and Yasmin nodded.
The healer placed her hand on Yasmin’s stomach. An unexpectedly fierce protectiveness surged through him, his instinct to shield his mate and unborn cub nearly overwhelming. But he controlled it, instead placing his own hand over the Cera’s.
The healer closed her eyes, murmuring ancient words in a dialect so old even he could barely understand it. It was a blessing as old as their people—a prayer for protection, for strength, for a safe birth and a healthy cub.
“This child,” the healer proclaimed, opening her eyes and addressing the clan, “born of two worlds, shall have the protection and love of this clan. The gods have blessed this union. Let no one question what they have joined.”
She removed her hand, and his remained, covering Yasmin’s stomach protectively. The healer dipped her finger once more in the sothiti and drew the same symbol on his forehead that she had placed on Yasmin’s.
“What was broken is now whole,” she declared. “What was lost is now found.”
The clan erupted in a thunderous cheer, the sound echoing off the stone walls.
Talvi stepped forward with a finely woven cloak of soft white fur, which she draped around Yasmin’s shoulders.
Other females approached, each offering small gifts—carved beads, polished stones, small tools useful for a new mother.
He watched, a strange tightness in his chest as his clan—his people—formally accepted his mate and unborn cub. He had never expected this. Had never thought he would stand here again, honored rather than shunned, his choices celebrated rather than condemned.
The formal ceremony transitioned into a feast. Food was brought out—roasted meats, cave fruits, and fresh bread.
The drums began again, but with a different rhythm—celebratory rather than ceremonial.
Cubs darted between the adults, playing games of chase, their high-pitched squeals of delight punctuating the deeper conversations of the adults.
Throughout the celebration, he remained close to Yasmin, watching her interact with his people. She spoke easily with the females, and she even managed to make Broc laugh—a sound he hadn’t heard in years—with some comment he couldn’t quite catch.
As the night wore on, Njkall approached them, his expression solemn but his eyes warm.
“You have honored us with your courage,” he said to Yasmin, then turned to Rhaal. “And you with your return.”
Njkall gestured to the bustling cave around them. “There is a place for you here, if you wish it. A dwelling near the central caves, close to the healer for when the cub comes.”
It was a significant offer—prime living space, integration into the daily life of the clan. After years of solitude, it was more than he had ever expected to be offered.
“Consider it,” Njkall said, noting his hesitation. “The choice is yours.”
After the Elder left, he looked down at Yasmin, finding her already watching him, her expression thoughtful.
“We could stay,” he said quietly, his voice a low rumble meant only for her ears. “Be part of the clan again. The Healer would be close for you and the cub.”
He tried to keep his tone neutral, not wanting to influence her decision. This was her choice as much as his—perhaps more so, given her condition and the coming birth.
She looked around the bustling cave, taking in the activity, the community, the acceptance they had been shown. Then her gaze returned to him, her eyes softening as they met his.
She reached up, her small hand touching his face.
“This is wonderful,” she said, her voice gentle. “But you are my home. Take me home.”
Something tight in his chest loosened at her words. He had not realized until that moment how much he had dreaded the thought of living here, surrounded constantly by others, never having the privacy and peace of their own space.
“You are sure?” he asked, searching her face. “The healer?—”
“Perhaps we could return when the time is nearer. But in the meantime, she’s a short run away if we need her. Our cave is not so far. And it’s ours.”
He understood what she didn’t say—that she valued their privacy, their sanctuary, as much as he did. That after the trauma of her capture, the loss of her world, she had found peace in their small, shared space.
“Our home,” he agreed, a deep purr of satisfaction rumbling from his chest.
The celebration continued around them, but they were in their own world now, connected by a choice that was about more than just living arrangements.
It was about who they were together—not just a human and a Hothian, not just a mated pair, but two souls who had found in each other exactly what they needed.
Later, as they made their way back to their cave through the quiet, snow-covered forest, he felt a peace he had not known in years. The weight of exile had been lifted. The burden of guilt had been eased. He had been welcomed back, not just tolerated but honored.
Yet it was not the clan’s acceptance that filled him with this profound contentment. It was the small female walking beside him, her hand in his, her choice as clear as the stars above them.
She had chosen him. Not just as a rescuer, not just as a protector, but as her home.
And in her, he had found his.