Page 112 of Tharn's Hunt
My face ignites.
Justine leans against a rock column, arms crossed. "Took you long enough," she calls, grinning like the cat who got the cream. And the canary.And the whole damn pet store.
I flip her off. She toasts me with her waterskin.
Tharn exhales sharply. His version of a laugh, I realise. But his claws tighten around mine when I try to pull away. As his gaze shifts to his brothers, the mindspace hums between us, thrumming with his reluctance like a second pulse beneath my skin.
My focus slides to them too. All watching us. In the back of my mind, I can feel them. A soft insistence.
Oh.
I can sense them.
And not just them…but who they are…
Haroth’s restless energy buzzes against my consciousness like static. Sarven’s amusement curls at the edges like smoke. The leader, Kol’s, steady presence anchors them all. I don’t recognize their faces—but I recognizethem, as if I've always known the shape of their thoughts.
Oh fuck. No wonder Tharn struggled with the translator.
My fingers rise instinctively to the device in my ear. Such a clumsy, limited thing compared to this—this depth, this intimacy of shared silence. I pluck it out, staring at the tiny tech in my palm. All those misunderstandings, all those halting conversations...
A warm breath gusts against my temple as Tharn leans in. "Jah-kee?"
I look up, gaze on the Drakav.
"I think…they want to congratulate you." I glance at Tharn.
As if I opened a door, the mental chorus of the Drakav hits me all at once.
"—he’s transformed?—"
"—got a Daughter to claim him?—"
"—and she gave him hide coverings?—"
"—lucky drakki-spawn?—"
My lips twitch. Tharn's growl vibrates through my bones as he glares at the last thought-speaker. Across the firepit, Haroth has the decency to look abashed—for all of three seconds, before he resumes his ridiculous flexing.
"They're... enthusiastic," I project carefully, realizing now that if I can hear them, perhaps they can hear me, too.
Tharn's fingers twitch against mine. "They're ka’vrakts." That word comes across as “mindless creature” in my brain. I snort. He’s calling them idiots, but the warmth in his thought betrays him.
I squeeze his hand, marveling at how easily the meaning flows between us now. Just knowing.
Across the cavern, the other unmated males linger near the human women’s area, their golden skin bare, their movements just a little too deliberate as they pretend to be busy.
Haroth is still flexing while "sorting" fire stones. Another is stretching his back in a way that definitely isn't necessary. Sarven is dramatically testing the edge of his blade, though he’s not even looking at the sharp edge. His eyes are on…Mikaela. Who is focusing on everyone except him. In the mindspace, their thoughts are loud and obvious.
"Why hasn’t any human wanted to share water withme?"
"Do I need to hunt better prey? Is that the trick?"
“Rok wears the scent of his female. Tharn wears his female’s scent. Where is my scent to wear?”
Tharn’s mental groan vibrates through me. "Pathetic."
When Haroth—who has migrated near Tina—suddenly flexes so hard his biceps practically ripple in the firelight, even Tharn’s patience snaps.
