Page 51 of Romancing Rem'eb

Licking the sea salt off his skin. Coaxing the umbrella-like frill out?—

“Oh, fine. If I must,” Raashel declares dramatically and tosses her hair. “Give me the fish.”

Rem’eb’s mouth quirks with amusement, and he silently hands his catch over to the girl, even as he glances over at me for approval. I nod, because I remember him saying his people had a communal food pot, too. Plus, we still have our clams and mussels from earlier, and I know the perfect spice that goes with them. Fish, I can get back in Croatoan, but the mussels are a treat I intend on gorging myself on while I’m here?—

And…wait.

Because I’m not going back to Croatoan, am I? This is supposed to be my home. Where I’m supposed to belong. So why does it still feel as if I’m just visiting? When does this feel like home?

Or am I doomed to always feel in between places and at home nowhere?

Chapter

Twenty-Five

REM’EB

Tia is quiet as we return to her hut. My thoughts are strangely content despite all the strangeness of the day.

It has been a good day. I got to fish in the strange, roiling waters and provide for these people. I got to meet several of the children who live here—males and females together. The children escort me to the main cookfire, where more people greet us and take our catches. I watch everyone. There is no wall separating their peoples. Strange-looking sorts of all kinds— from green males to brown females and ones with orange manes and strange speckles on their skin. The young and the old all gather together. Other than some good-natured arguing, they get along. Everyone does their share.

The women mingle amongst the men as easily as they breathe. They pass kisses to mates, chat with each other, and offer me cheerful greetings when I pass by. The children of the tribe—as varied in appearance as their parents—race happily along the beach, and I cannot help but compare to the echoing quiet of my own people’s existence.

It makes my people’s existence feel more and more fractured. It also makes me even more determined that I must be the one to change it.

“I like this place,” I admit to Tia when we are back in her hut. “Everyone is kind and welcoming. I do not care for the weather, but I can see why your people seem so happy.”

She nods, setting a tripod with a leather pouch over the firepit. She has brought a coal back from the main fire, and uses it to refresh hers. When the fire is blazing, she sets rocks down into the coals and adds the clahms to the heating water. Her movements are industrious and busy, but the sparkle is not in her eyes. Something troubles her.

I can guess what that something is.

“You are quiet,” I point out. “Will you tell me what makes you so withdrawn?”

She gives me a frustrated look, gesturing at her mouth and then the two of us. She cannot tell me what bothers her. We do not have the shared words.

I reach for her hand. “It was foolish of me to ask. My apologies.”

Tia shakes her head and lets me pull her over to my side. I tuck her against me, stroking her back. Holding her close, breathing in her scent, my khui song sings loudly, making my cock stiffen in response. I ignore it as best I can, but it is difficult, especially when Tia is here in my arms, her khui singing to mine. I wish I could tell her how much I both love and hate this moment. That I love being here with her, and I am full of dread knowing that I will not have these moments for much longer.

“I hate that we do not have words,” I admit.

She makes a noise of assent, turning her face in against my neck.

“Should I get Noj’me? I would truly like to know why you are sad. I can see it on your face. I do not need shared words to understand it.”

“No.” Tia’s voice is soft, and she says one of the few words I understand well.

“Then share with me what you can. Please.”

Tia pulls back and gazes up at me, her expression thoughtful. I wait for her to speak, to make hand gestures, but she simply shakes her head again and returns to kneel next to the tripod. As I watch, she puts on a thick, fuzzy glove, picks up a rock from the coals, and adds it to the water in the pouch. It hisses and bubbles, and the scent of something cooking fills the air.

“If we were home I could make you a metal pot,” I say, thinking of the differences between our peoples. “Or rather, I would not make it, but trade for one for you. We have a metal-slinger who teaches his secrets only to his sons, just like the weaver only teaches his sons his most complicated patterns.”

“Mmm.”

She is not being cold to me, but it is clear something is making Tia melancholy. I hate that and I desperately want to fix it. To see a clever smile on her lips. To see that determined glint in her eyes. I don’t like the expression of defeat that is there now.

“Is it me?” I ask, suspecting the answer.

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