Page 50 of Rok's Captive
They’re moving like liquid across the sand, dark shapes that seem to flow rather than run. Five of them, spread out in what can only be described as a hunting formation.
“What the fuck are those?” I whisper, my voice catching in my throat.
And then I hear it—that same screeching sound I’d heard the night before. The sound that had preceded our mad dash through the desert, the sound that had sent us fleeing up the cliff to safety.
“Oh fuck,” I breathe, my fingers digging into Rok’s arm. “It’s them. The things from last night.”
Rok’s entire body has gone rigid, and when I glance up at his face, what I see sends ice through my veins. His brow is furrowed, his eyes narrowed to slits of molten gold, and there’s something like confusion—or maybe even surprise—in his expression.
Like he didn’t expect to find them here. Like they shouldn’t be here.
“We should turn back,” I whisper, as if they might hear us. “Rok, we need to go back.”
But it’s too late. One of the creatures stops, its head—if you can call it that—swiveling in our direction. The others follow suit, and suddenly all five of those shadowy forms are facing us.
Rok snarls, a sound so feral and alien it makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up. Gone is the almost gentle giant who carried me down the cliff, who helped me search for my earring, who bared his teeth in an attempt to smile at me.
In his place is something wild, something dangerous, something that reminds me very sharply that he is not human.
And I realize with a jolt that the soft glow that seems to emanate from beneath his skin has dimmed, almost extinguished. He looks…darker. Harder. Like his name. Like stone. The opposite of the strange being I was starting to like.
Wait.
I am so not beginning to like him. That would be ridiculous. Stockholm syndrome takes longer than a day to kick in, right? Even if he did save my life. Even if he is breathtakingly beautiful in an alien, predatory way. Even if something about the way he says my name makes my stomach do backflips.
Nope. Not liking him at all.
But I’m definitely about to get eaten alongside him, which is more intimacy than I’ve had in years, so there’s that.
The shadow creatures have begun to move again, slinking toward us with a fluid grace that’s both beautiful and terrifying. They’re too far away to make out details, but I can see now they’re a lot like wolves. Or hyenas maybe. Except their bodies are sleek and low to the ground, and there’s no fur—just scales or plates that catch the light as they move.
“Rok,” I say, my voice barely more than a whisper as my fingers find his chest again. I can feel the rapid beating of his heart. “Run. We need to run.”
But he’s not looking at me. His eyes are fixed on the approaching creatures, and there’s a look in them I haven’t seen before. Not fear. Something darker, more primitive.
Rage.
Before I can say anything else, he’s setting me down, too fast for it to be careful, too controlled for it to be careless. I stumble as my shoes hit the sand, momentarily disoriented after being carried for so long.
“Wait, what are you doing?” I sputter, grabbing at his arm. “Don’t put me downnow! This isn’t the time to start listening to me! Pick me back up!”
The screeching of the creatures turns to clicking, a staccato rhythm that sounds almost like communication. They’re closer now, close enough that I can see they have no eyes that I can discern—just smooth, elongated heads that end in what look like circular mouths ringed with teeth.
Yeah, hell to the fucking no.
“Rok, please,” I say, real fear creeping into my voice. “We need to go up. High. Like before. They can’t climb, right?”
He ignores me, pushing me behind him with one powerful arm. Then he drops into a crouch that looks disturbingly like he’s about to run—not away from the creatures, but toward them.
On all fours.
“What are you doing?” I hiss, trying to move around to face him. “We need to run away, not toward them!”
He snarls again, using his arm to push me back with enough force that I stumble. His eyes dart to me, and the look in them chills me to the bone. It’s not just a warning—it’s a command.
Run.
He grunts, a deep sound from his throat, and pushes me again, harder this time.
