Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 91775 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 459(@200wpm)___ 367(@250wpm)___ 306(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91775 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 459(@200wpm)___ 367(@250wpm)___ 306(@300wpm)
The door shivers and bangs open, and I bite back a small scream of alarm.
Rem’eb shuts the door quickly behind him, his expression grave.
Oh god. That’s not good. I hide my knife in the folds of the blanket and scramble to my feet. “What is it? What did you find out? Is he alive?”
Rem’eb advances toward me, glancing at the walls. “Lower your voice,” he murmurs, and takes my hands in two of his. “I must deliver terrible news to you, Tia. I am sorry.”
I feel like I can’t breathe. “R’jaal’s dead?” He’s a nice guy, always willing to go the extra mile for anyone that asks, and I can’t imagine him dead. I blink back tears. “What happened?”
He searches my face, and then a third hand rises to squeeze my shoulder affectionately. “Your friend lives, but he has resonated to another.”
I let out a sharp, gaspy breath. God, I hate this language barrier. “But he’s alive?” I free my hands from his and pat my heart, trying to indicate a pulse. “Alive?”
Rem’eb gives me a woebegone look. “I regret that you have lost your suitor, Tia. It pains me to deliver this news, but you must know he is lost to you.”
Lost to me? I grab Rem’eb by his arms—two of them at least—and give him a little shake. “But is he alive or dead?” At his blank expression, I touch his chest over the heart, indicating the steady heartbeat, and then mime breathing. And when neither of those clue him in to what I’m asking, I try a different tactic. I fake-stab myself in the guts and then dramatically flop to the floor. “R’jaal?”
Realization dawns upon Rem’eb. “Your suitor is well. He is being held captive in an old cell in the belly of the mountain, deep in tunnels that are not used. He’s kept there with the yellow-mane female.”
I let out a shuddering breath and feel like crying out of pure relief. Thank god. Wherever R’jaal is being kept, he’s all right. He’s being kept with…
Wait. Who is he being kept with? I glance up at Rem’eb. “Yellow-mane female?”
“Both of them are being kept by Kin’far the Exile. My father has decided that since they resonated to each other, they are of no use to him. He cannot let them go because they will come looking for you, but he does not have the heart to kill them.” He pauses. “Yet.”
I press my hand to my forehead, thinking. “Wait, wait, back up. Who’s this yellow-mane female?” I mentally go through the list of people on Icehome Beach, but the only blondes that I can think of are mated to other people. There’s Raashel, who has Liz’s bright blonde hair and her father’s blue skin, but she hasn’t even hit puberty yet. She’s a kid. There’s Daisy, but Daisy resonated to O’jek. Hannah? But she resonated to J’shel. Raven is mated to U’dron. Resonance never picks a second person, either. I’m literally the only eligible bachelorette on the planet, which is what makes things so difficult.
Or…I was as of yesterday. Now there’s a whole new people staring me right in the face, and it occurs to me that they’ll have women. He’s obviously hooked up with a blonde from their tribe. Good for him, though his timing is lousy. It’s going to make escape difficult. I nod absently, trying to mentally picture what one of his people’s women looks like. A blonde with four arms? And lots of body hair?
“I am sorry that my news has brought you sadness,” Rem’eb tells me in a voice that manages to be both stiff and oddly gentle. “I think you are a very worthy female. The most worthy.”
Aw. Is he trying to comfort me? Does he think I’m sad over R’jaal? “I’m honestly just fucking relieved he’s alive, Rem’eb.” I take his hands in mine again and squeeze them. “Thank you for finding out.”
He touches his chin in the gesture we’ve decided is “thank you” and “you’re welcome” at the same time. We stare at each other for a moment, and I’m dimly aware that I’m holding hands with a stranger. One of the people that kidnapped me. I have so many questions, and yet they all fly out of my mind the moment our eyes meet again.
“I did not have time to find you a loom,” he tells me. “Tomorrow, perhaps.”
Politeness tells me that I should demur and say it doesn’t matter, but I want that stinking loom. I know how much of a difference it would make for us if we could make textiles on a larger scale. I envision washcloths. Diapers. Fucking panties that aren’t made of soft leather. I’m not in a position to make demands, though. All I can do is nod.
“I will bring you more food in the morning, and fresh water for washing,” he says, and still doesn’t let go of my hands. Instead, he drops to his knees in front of me, his eyes wide and guileless. “Have I earned another?”