Page 2 of The Weaver

“So you truly believe Zurvashi was slain by one of those…strange creatures?” asked the female with braids.

“I know she was,” he replied.

“How could youknow?”

“He witnessed it with his own eight eyes,” said the green-eyed female as she placed her pot aside. “I know you. You are called Rekosh, yes? The weaver?”

He bowed his head and spread his arms. “I am.”

“You are Rekosh?” asked the first female, looking him over again with a glimmer in her red eyes. “You are even more attractive than the stories say.”

The scent of the females’ want intensified, flooding his senses and making heat skitter beneath the surface of his hide. Despite his disinterest, despite turning all his willpower againstthe effects, his hearts quickened, and his stem pulsed behind his slit. His claspers pressed subtly but firmly inward, keeping his slit closed.

This was not what he wanted, not at all. These females were not who he wanted.

“One of our greatest warriors,” said the female with braids.

“And I have heard he is quite skilled with silk,” the green-eyed female added with a trill as she drew herself straighter.

Though he did not regret listening to their conversation, speaking to these females had been a mistake. Rekosh hadn’t had time to spare to begin with. He certainly couldn’t waste any more of it.

And he had no interest in battling these accursed pheromones.

The female with paint on her hands slid a foreleg toward him.

Rekosh sauntered backward before she could touch him and sketched a bow. “Please, your words are far kinder than I deserve.”

She chittered softly. “I recall my elder sister mentioning she used to speak with you from time to time. A handsome weaver from Moonfall… Do you?—”

“Is it true you are a friend to the queen?” asked the first female, drawing a glare from the one who’d been speaking.

He’d encountered such interest often enough, and his manner of speaking typically didn’t deter it. Now that he’d taken part in Zurvashi’s downfall, many females would see him as even more desirable a mate. But none of them had ever caught his eyes. No female had awoken that same interest in him.

Not until he’d first glimpsed Ahmya, the small, soft, delicate creature who roused every protective instinct within him, whose scent stirred a consuming desire he’d never experienced, whose every touch made him crave more.

Ahmya, who was the mate of his hearts.

Ahmya, who he had not seen in nearly a moon cycle.

Forcing his mandibles to remain in a neutral position, he pressed both sets of forearms together, creating a vertical line, to signal his apology. “Forgive me, but I must go. There are important matters I must attend, and I have already delayed overlong.”

The green-eyed female’s mandibles sagged. “Must you go already?”

“I must. Perhaps I will return another day. I am sure there are a great many words we could share, many of them far more pleasant than talk of the dead queen.”

“Will you offer me your word on that?”

He chittered and retreated a step. “That, I cannot offer. I will not make a vow I cannot keep.”

Such as the vow I made to protect Ahmya from harm? The one I failed almost immediately afterward?

The females made disappointed hums as he turned and strode away, but he did not slow, did not glance back. Not even when one of them said, “I wonder if he is doing the queen’s bidding.”

“Perhaps,” the green-eyed female replied. “But I believe he has kin here.”

“He does? Who?”

Rekosh strode faster, putting enough distance between himself and the group to ensure that their voices were overpowered by the other sounds echoing along the wide corridor.

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