Page 55 of The Weaver

He emitted a distressed buzz.

“Not because of you, Ahmya. Because they were hungry. Because we were alone. Because I did not see good.” He slid the back of a knuckle up her cheek, wiping away one of those escaped tears. “And we fell because of me.”

Ahmya shook her head as she clutched the silk to her chest. Releasing it with one hand, she circled her fingers around his wrist, drawing his hand down. “You were protecting me.” She touched his forearm, below the silk-packed bite marks. “All of your wounds came from protecting me.”

He leaned his head closer to hers. Her scent filled his nose holes, and the echoes of her taste lingered on his tongue, but he did not allow himself to submit to either. “And I will carry the scars with joy. Wear them like the best silk.”

He looked down and lightly brushed a finger from his lower hand over one of the pink scars on her belly, making her skin quiver. “Because my scars mean you will not have more.”

“Rekosh…” Ahmya took his upper hand in hers and raised it, pressing her face against his palm. Nuzzling it, she released a shaky breath. “I don’t want to be the cause of you getting hurt all the time.”

Her skin was soft, warm, and smooth, and Rekosh reveled in its feel. He yearned to run his hands over more of it, to feel her muscles flex and relax, to learn every bit of her body by touch.

“You are not,” he said. “I am friends with Ketahn, Urkot, and Telok. Most of my hurt is because of them. And needles.”

A laugh burst from her. Rekosh had always been intrigued by the sounds humans made, but the sound of Ahmya’s laughter? It flowed straight to his heartsthread, dancing along it with warmth and pleasure that permeated his soul.

“I’m sure you prick your fingers with needles often.” She turned her face and pressed her lips to the pad of his thumb.

Everything inside Rekosh stilled.

A kiss.

It was not the sort of kiss he’d seen Ivy and Ketahn share, but he knew what the press of a human’s lips meant. Knew it was a simple but powerful gesture—as intimate as vrix touching headcrests, if not more so.

And it was like a breeze over the embers in his core, rousing them back into flames.

Ahmya’s eyes flared, and her cheeks pinkened. Releasing him, she brought the silk cloth up to his shoulder and resumed drying him. “I just don’t like seeing you hurt and hate that I can’t do anything to stop it.”

A storm swirled inside Rekosh as the effects of that kiss clashed with the guilt and vulnerability in her voice. His claspers pressed tighter around his slit, and his mandibles ticked down. “You did help, Ahmya. One kuzahk died because of you. It would have made much more hurt.”

More tears gathered in her eyes. She clamped her lips together before stepping in front of him and running the silk down his chest. Though she did not reply, he knew what she was thinking. Words she’d previously spoken sounded from his memory.

And all I’ve ever been is a burden.

His chest ached for her, and that ache rippled along his heartsthread.

“Ah,kir’ani vi’keishi.” He cupped the back of her head with an upper hand and flattened a lower hand over hers, locking it in place against his chest.

She tipped her face up, and her dark brown eyes met his.

He knew the rawness in her gaze. Understood the emotions in its depths, the doubt. “When I was a broodling, I was small,” he said. “More small than my brothers and sisters. Other vrixwere not kind. They said I was…a stick, weak and easy to break. And they hurt me. With words, with hands and claws and legs.”

“Oh Rekosh…”

“I know, Ahmya. Know how it feels.” Rekosh squeezed her hand over his hearts. “I was small and weak, and they made me feel useless. I followed my father, to hide from other vrix, to flee. But I found…purpose there. Found my use, my skill. Found weaving. Found the first whispers. And as I learned, I knew the others were wrong. I was not like them, but I was not useless. They were more big, more strong, so I made other ways to be better.

“You are not a warrior in body”—he placed one of his hands between her soft breasts, over where her heart beat strong and steady—“but in spirit.”

Ahmya’s lips parted, and her heart quickened as she leaned into his touch. Her fingers curled, scratching his hide with her blunt nails, and she settled her other hand over his, clutching it to her chest. A content rumble rolled through him.

“But what can I provide to the tribe?” she asked. “What use am I?”

“When I met Urkot and Ketahn and his siblings, I learned something more. We are only threads. Alone, easily cut. Easily broken.” He shifted the fingers of both his hands, interlocking them with Ahmya’s. “But as a tribe, our threads weave together. Each thread makes the others more strong. A word alone may hold no power, but woven into a story or a bond, it can move vrix to do what cannot be done. A vrix alone—a human alone—may struggle to survive, but in a tribe, they can do anything.”

Rekosh moved his hand from the back of her head to her cheek, brushing aside stray strands of her hair and tucking them behind her small, rounded ear. “Each danger you face, each trial you defeat, another thread is added to your weave. You are more strong, and the tribe becomes more strong.”

Her lower lip trembled. “I understand your words.”

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