Page 48 of The Weaver

Her chest burned, and every breath was a struggle, but she couldn’t stop crying. “You’ve done so much for me.So much. And all I’ve ever been is a burden.”

“No. Not a burden.” Rekosh pressed his headcrest to her forehead and stroked her cheeks with his thumbs, wrapping his lower arms around her waist and drawing her close. “Nevera burden.”

Closing her eyes, Ahmya flattened her hands on his chest.His hide was warm, his hearts thrummed beneath her palms, and his scent enveloped her.

“I feel like that’s all I’ve been. To everyone. To…to you.” Her voice was small, quivering, and raw when she said, “I play with flowers. What purpose do I serve here?”

A low, unhappy rumble emanated from his chest.

“Ahmya…” Rekosh dropped a hand from her face, placing it over one of hers. “Your heart is…soft.”

Ahmya’s throat tightened as new tears seeped from her closed eyes. The world spun around her. Her breath shook as she again struggled to contain the emotion, to hold back another sob.

He’d just confirmed it. Had just reaffirmed her doubts, and?—

Rekosh lifted his head, caught her chin, and guided her face up to his, his firm grip leaving no room for resistance. Ahmya opened her eyes, blinking away the moisture from her lashes.

There was fire in his crimson gaze, deep and bright, intense and consuming. “I do not have all the words, Ahmya, so you must listen. Listen much good.”

She curled her fingers against his chest and nodded as much as his hold allowed.

“When you are tired, hungry, hurt, it is strength to do for your tribe before yourself. When danger is most big and you have much fear, it is strength to protect others. When death and pain are most easy to give, it is strength to give kindness instead.

“Do you know my words?” Those dexterous fingers caught the tears flowing down her cheeks, wiping them away, before tucking her hair behind her ears. “Soft is not weak. It is a different strength, strength inside. Your strength. And it is needed here. You are needed.”

Ahmya turned her face into his hand, closed her eyes, and drew in a calmer breath. She’d needed so badly to hear thosewords from him. Though they didn’t silence the whispers of her inadequacy, they helped.

Keeping hold of her hand, he stepped back, leading her along with his hands on her hips. “Come. I am cold in this rain.”

She knew the truth. He wasn’t really cold, he was just cushioning what little of her pride remained. And she couldn’t help loving him for it. “Better get you warmed up then.”

He chittered gently before bending to pick her up.

“The fruit!” Ahmya slipped out of his grasp and ran toward the bluevine fruit she’d piled on the jungle floor. She crouched to gather them on the crook of her arm. “I know it’s not much, but…”

Rekosh scooped her up from behind, coaxing a startled cry from her. He cradled her against his chest, which vibrated with a long, appreciative hum. “Sahn’hadurii uta. You did much good,vi’keishi.”

Her lips rose in a small smile, and contentment danced in her heart, but both faded too soon. She brushed her fingers over the outer shell of one of the fruits and whispered, “I wish it was more.”

He grunted, held her close, and started walking, plucking up the fallen knife as he passed it.

When they reached their shelter, Rekosh ducked beneath the overhang and set Ahmya on her feet. Her weariness came rushing back tenfold. She felt heavy all over, physically and emotionally, and a chill seemed to have taken permanent residence in her bones.

She stepped back from him to deposit the fruit on the ground, only to notice the bag resting against the stone wall. Ketahn and the vrix had drilled it into Ahmya and the other human survivors—keep your bag and your spear with youalways. For Rekosh to have left his bag here when he’d come looking for her…

Frowning, she straightened and met his gaze again.

His mandibles drooped. “You are shaking, Ahmya.”

Ahmya looked down and lifted the hem of her wet top, peeling it away from her belly. “It’s like when we first left theSomnium. When it never seemed to stop raining and I could never get dry and warm.”

Rekosh pinched the fabric of her top with his lower hand, squeezing out a bit of the moisture, which trickled down his fingers. Ahmya found herself staring at his hand. At those long, sharp claws, the slender but powerful fingers, the subtle play of tendons beneath his thick hide. She’d always been fascinated by his hands. So alien, so graceful, so deadly, yet so tender when they touched her.

She didn’t realize he’d slipped his upper arms around her until she felt him untying the knot holding her top in place. The fabric loosened, and the sides dropped.

Ahmya gasped, slapping her hands to her chest to hold the material in place as she looked up at Rekosh with wide eyes. “What are you doing?”

He withdrew his hands, but kept them raised, fingers partly bent as though in uncertainty. “You must dry.”

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