Page 94 of Ruled By The Alpha

“You should wash that and let me make you a fresh dressing.”

He does as I say, and I watch as his careful fingers work the leaves loose from his skin. His fingers have always been skilled like that. He can make almost anything with the knowledge of his hands and a sharp blade. It is strange how they possess the power to snap a neck, twist a bone, strike an enemy, but also the gentleness to carve the tiniest of intricacies, to draw pictures in the dirt.

When the last leaf has been removed, I bob closer. The wound is still open and raw, but it does not weep and the flesh around it is not swollen. It is a good sign.

“I’m getting cold, Nafia. Now you must turn around.”

I do as he says and hear him splash through the water and haul himself onto the bank. I know I shouldn’t, but I cannot resist the urge to turn my head ever so slightly and peer over my shoulder. His back is to me, and I see the strong curve of his backside, the power of his thighs, and the shadow of something that hangs between.

I swallow a gasp and snap my head back, ignoring the way my stomach flutters as if a butterfly flaps within.

“I’m going to search for more of the healing leaves,” he calls to me, and then I hear him stomp through the undergrowth.

I duck under the surface, running my fingers through my tangled hair and washing away the dirt and grime. Lifting up an arm, I sniff under my armpit.

Do I really smell? I shrug, wondering why I care. It is not something that has ever concerned me before.

Hensta returns by the time I’ve secured my hides back around my torso and my waist, and I sit him down on a log so I can see his wound, walking around him to get a better view as I chew the leaves.

His dark hair lies wet against his back, and I sweep it softly to one side, my fingertip brushing against his skin and a silent sigh escaping his mouth. I frown as I work the mush into thewound, trying not to think of those words, trying not to see the fine sprinkling of bumps that rise on his skin at my touch, or the way every muscle on his torso is expertly carved.

“Is it bad?” he asks me.

“No.” I rest my hand on his good shoulder, inspecting my work, and my thumb glides against his skin. He stills, and I snap my hand back and dart away to find my spear.

“Come on,” I call to him, “we’ve already wasted too much time.”

Chapter 6

As the day ages, thick clouds linger and the air blows cooler, so we walk through the middle of the day, even though our pace is slower now that we are weakened by hunger and weary from walking.

The distance closes, and though the smoke died long ago, we know we are nearing our destination. I keep a lookout for our people, for the children who may be playing near the edge of our camp, or the women who may be out fetching water and food, even for the hunting party returned before us. But as we draw closer, we find nothing but the whistle of the wind and the rustle of leaves.

We walk through the flattened glass and find the debris of a meal, the remains of the fire, the hints of familiar scents. Nothing more.

We are too late.

They have left us.

I stare at the ashes, and I can’t help the big, fat tears tumbling down my cheeks, my body shaking with my sobs. It is the second time I have cried today, and I wonder at my own weakness. It has been many years since I cried. I am tough and brave. I am not weak, not pathetic.

But I am tired and hungry and lost.

“It’s okay, Nafia,” Hensta whispers.

“It is not!” My voice trembles, and before I know it, I am encased in his arms as he presses me against his broad body, my wet cheek flush against the plane of his warm chest.

“I can tell which way they went. They are not long gone, and I can track them.”

I blow out my cheeks. He is right. Hope is not lost.

I sniffle. My sobs subside. Yet I do not pull away. I let him hold me, let him stroke my hair away from my face, and wipe the wetness from my cheeks.

Against my ear, I can hear the steady thump of his heart, and my nose fills with his deeply masculine scent. I lean into him, and his hand that rests at my waist brushes lightly against the square of skin exposed between my hides.

Something stirs low in my belly, and my breath catches in my throat.

Hensta’s words come floating back into my mind, and I try to imagine what would happen if I took his hand and pulled him to the hard ground.

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