Page 102 of The Weaver

She twisted slightly, peering at him from the corner of her eye with her brow creased. “Did something happen?”

Rekosh turned his face away, staring out into the dark jungle. He’d thought he was done with this. Had thought his last encounter with his sire had been the end, that he’d set asidewhatever attachment he’d felt. That his goodbye had somehow eliminated his own pain.

What a fool he had been.

Ahmya turned her body to face him, pulling her hair free from his grasp and making the braid come loose. She curled a leg atop his and caught one of his upper hands in hers. Rekosh looked down and stared into the deep, concerned, brown eyes of his mate.

“Remember, you never have to talk about anything if you don’t want to.” She reached up and cradled his jaw beneath his mandible, stroking her thumb over his hide. “I can tell something happened that made you sad. Just know I’m here for you. To listen, to talk, or to just simply be if all you want to do is hold me.”

He tipped his headcrest to her forehead and closed his eyes. Banding an arm around her waist, he held her close.

His heartbeats measured the passing time as he remained that way, soaking in her feel, in her warmth, in the comfort she was offering. Without her, he might’ve felt that old anger resurging. Without her, he might’ve been consumed by resentment and bitterness.

Now there was only that sorrow and a pervading weariness not of body, but of spirit.

Rekosh let out a slow, heavy sigh, opened his eyes, and lifted his head, once more meeting her dark, beautiful eyes. “I will tell you, my heartsthread.”

She smiled softly before pressing her lips to his mouth. The kiss was light, but the affection and love it conveyed echoed into the deepest recesses of his hearts.

Then, without another word, she turned around again, giving him her back, and took hold of his lower hands. She dragged them onto her lap, lay her palms atop them, and laced her fingers with his.

Warmth bloomed in his chest, pulsing outward in soothingwaves. His mandibles ticked up into a smile. He gently combed his upper claws through her hair, undoing the loosened braid to start over. “My sweet little flower knows me well.”

And he wanted her to know him fully. No barriers between them, no secrets, no shame; hearts and souls bared and entwined. With anyone else, such vulnerability would’ve felt like a weakness. With Ahmya, it was strength. He was neither so prideful nor so foolish as to deny that his mate bolstered him.

But that made it no easier to refine the truth from within his complicated emotions, and to weave that truth into words.

“On our final day in Takarahl, I strode to my father’s den. We had not seen each other in many moon cycles. And I cannot say if I truly wanted to see him at all. No, what I really wanted was to show him the dress I made for you. I wanted him to look upon the finest silk ever woven by vrix hands and feel pride in me, in what he had taught me.

“I had the bundle in my hands, and I…did not open it. I did not show him.”

“Why not?” Ahmya asked gently.

Rekosh let out a heavy sigh, but he kept his fingers working. “Because he was happy. Happy to see me safe, but more… He was happy in that den, happy in that new life with his mate and their broodlings, who he wanted me to finally meet. And as I looked with all eight eyes, I could see no place for me there. The broodlings’ playthings reminded me of my brood siblings, and seeing his goldworker tools…

“What could I do but remind him of the pain and loss he suffered? What could I do but make him remember old hurts?”

She squeezed his hands. “Oh, Rekosh…”

“He took his new mate a few years before Zurvashi made war on the thornskulls. I was already grown, already denning alone, yet I was still angry at him. The life they made is not mine, the family they made is not mine. For so long, I felt…apart. I felt it most when I was with him this final time. I gave him harsh words before I left.”

“And did those words make you feel better?”

Rekosh tilted his head, mandibles twitching. “Should not the question be how my words made him feel?”

“I’m here with you, Rekosh. You are my mate. I want to know what you’re thinking, what you’re feeling.”

A thoughtful hum escaped him. The braid grew more intricate with each passing moment as his fingers continued weaving; they knew their work well, even if his mind was otherwise occupied.

Finding a satisfying answer was difficult. That was a surprise for Rekosh, nearly as much so as the question itself had been.

Ahmya stroked her thumbs over his lower hands, seemingly unbothered by the lengthening silence. She was simply here with him, for him, and he knew she would be regardless of his response—even if he didn’t offer one at all.

“My anger has become sorrow,” he finally said. “I…I do not regret what I said to him. I spoke the truth of my hearts. But I regret how I spoke. It is as though I threw a stone, when I should have used the softest silk. I made…unnecessary hurt. Do you understand my words?”

She lifted one of his lower hands to her face and pressed a tender kiss to his palm. “I do.”

He trilled quietly, lowered his face closer to her hair, and breathed in her scent, seeking solace in it. “He told me he is sorry. For all the hurt he gave me. Even though he could not see it all, even though he could not understand it all, he said he is sorry.”

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