Page 11 of Tharn's Hunt
I’m swimming in too many emotions to process. Relief collides with fear, hope tangles with confusion, and somewhere deep down, a flicker of gratitude burns hotter than I want it to.
He’s the one who tended my wounds while I was at death’s door, wasn’t he.
He hasn’t attacked me; only reacted to defend himself.
I raise my eyes to him, really taking him in now that the shock has temporarily replaced fear. His proportions are almost human, butwrongin ways that keep setting off alarms in my brain. His shoulders are too broad, his limbs too long, and his ears are not rounded like mine, but sweep up to elegant, knife-like points. His features are just alien enough to unsettle me without fully crossing into monstrous.
And those eyes.
Golden, unblinking, and too intense. They study me with a predator’s focus, like they’re cataloging every breath I take, every micro-expression I make.
And yet…
He placed the earring between us like an offering. A message?
The alien shifts, gliding like some kind of giant jungle cat, which is just plain unfair for something that big. He watches me with this intense stillness, like I'm a scared little bunny and he's afraid I'll bolt. Buddy, look in a mirror. I am not the one people run from here.
Lifting one clawed hand, he points first to the earring, then in a direction over his shoulder. I blink at him, almost too afraid to acknowledge what he’s trying to tell me. But the message is clear:She's that way. I can take you to her.
My throat constricts around words I'm afraid to voice. If I speak them, if I let myself believe...
"Justine?" I finally croak. "My sister. Is she alive?"
He winces when I speak. Actual physical pain flickers across his face, but he doesn’t reply.
“Do you know where she is?”
No response. But his eyes remain fixed on mine with unmistakable intelligence. Unnerving, in fact.
Slowly, he reaches for something tied to his waist—some kind of pouch—and pulls out…is that a stomach? A dried animal bladder? It sloshes.
He extends it toward me, carefully, like he’s offering treasure instead of what looks like a grotesque science experiment.
Water.
It has to be water. Nothing else would make that sound.
I don’t care if it’s camel piss or recycled colon juice at this point. My fingers shake as I reach for it, the promise of liquid overriding every survival instinct screamingdon’t trust alien beverages.
The moment my fingers close around the waterskin, his entire body tenses.For a split second, as our knuckles brush, I think I see a faint spark, like static electricity on a dry day. He pulls his hand back quickly, a low grunt rumbling in his chest, but my grip is already ironclad.
Okay, so the hot alien is a little jumpy. Noted.
But that’s not as important as the liquid in my grasp.
I don’t care about decorum. Don’t care if I’m gulping like a dying animal at an oasis. The container smells faintly of herbs and something earthy, but the water itself tastes clean. Better than the metallic tang of our emergency rations.
It’s cold. Perfect.
I’m halfway through draining it when I notice him still watching me.
He’s standing so absolutely still, staring at my throat with something between fascination and alarm.
When I drain half the skin in one go, a strangled sound escapes him. Like I’ve just committed a crime against his entire species.
"What?" I rasp, wiping my mouth. "You offered it to me."
His claws twitch like he wants to snatch it back.
