Page 12 of Bite Sized Bride
Once the suru is skinned and cleaned as best I can manage, I set about building a fire. I gather dry twigs and moss from the back of the cave, my movements slow and deliberate, never turning my back on him for more than a second. I strike the flint against the steel, again and again, my numb fingers fumbling. A spark finally catches in the tinder. I blow on it gently, nurturing the fragile flame until it grows into a small, steady fire.
The warmth is a blessing. It pushes back the damp chill of the cave, and the cheerful crackle of the flames is a welcome sound in the oppressive silence.
I skewer pieces of the suru meat on a green stick and hold it over the fire. The smell of roasting meat soon fills the cave, a savory, comforting scent that makes my empty stomach ache with hunger.
Throughout it all, he watches. He sits on his haunches near the entrance of the cave, a silent, brooding mountain. The firelight dances across his scarred hide, making shadows writhe in the hollows of his face. The red glow in his eyes has faded, leaving only the deep, molten amber. He is watching the meat cook, a look of profound, almost childlike curiosity on his monstrous face.
When the meat is cooked through, I pull it from the fire. I eat a piece, my hunger so sharp it’s a physical pain. It’s the most delicious thing I have ever tasted. I hold out the stick to him, an offering.
He stares at the cooked meat, then at me. He does not move.
“It’s for you,” I say softly. “It’s better this way. Cooked.”
He slowly reaches out a massive hand. His claws, which I have seen tear through steel armor, are gentle as they pluck the stick from my grasp. He brings the meat to his mouth and tearsoff a piece with his teeth. He chews slowly, thoughtfully. A low rumble starts in his chest. It is not a growl of aggression. It sounds like… pleasure? Of contentment.
We eat in silence, sharing the meager meal. A truce.
When we are done, I am exhausted, but the fire and the food have brought a sliver of warmth back to my soul. I cannot live like this, though. I cannot live in silent terror, waiting for his whims to change.
I take a breath, gathering what little courage I have left. I point to the crackling flames.
“Fire,” I say, my voice clear and steady. “That is fire.”
He looks at the fire, then back at me, his head tilted.
I point to myself. “Mikana.”
I point to him. “You are…?”
He just stares, the amber eyes unblinking. The silence stretches, thick and heavy. I am about to give up when he opens his mouth. A sound comes out, a harsh, guttural rasp, like stones grinding together.
“Kael.”
The name hangs in the air between us, a fragile, impossible thing. It is the first word he has spoken. It is the first piece of himself he has given me.
The next few days fall into a strange, tense rhythm. He hunts. I cook. I tend to the wounds he sustained in the fight at the temple, cleaning them with boiled water and crushed herbs I find in the forest. The first time I approached him with a damp cloth, he went rigid, a low growl rumbling in his chest, a clear warning. My hand trembled, but I did not pull back. I met his gaze, and after a long, heart-stopping moment, he allowed it. Touching him is terrifying. His hide is a landscape of scars and unnaturally hard plates, his muscles like coiled steel beneath. But it is also warm, alive.
He shadows my every move. When I go to the stream to fetch water, he is there, a silent sentinel on the bank. When I search for edible plants, he follows a dozen paces behind, his eyes constantly scanning our surroundings. I am his prisoner, but I am also the most well-protected creature in all of Protheka.
I continue the lessons. I point to a tree. “Tree.” I hold up a stone. “Stone.” I touch the fused iron collar on his neck. He flinches violently, a roar of pure agony ripping from his throat, and I never touch it again.
He is a slow student. His voice is a rough, barely used thing, and the words come out as harsh, one-syllable grunts. But he learns. He watches my mouth as I form the words, his brow furrowed in intense concentration.
On the fourth day, I wake from a fitful sleep to find him sitting by the dying embers of the fire, watching me. This is not unusual. I have woken to find him watching me every night. But this time is different. The ever-present tension in his massive shoulders is gone. The red storm in his eyes is calm.
He sees that I am awake. He looks at the entrance of the cave, where the morning light is beginning to filter through the trees. Then he looks at me.
“Safe,” he rumbles, his low voice a vibration that I can feel in my bones.
And in that moment, I realize the most terrifying, impossible truth of all. He is right.
Out there, beyond the mouth of this cave, is a world of refined cruelty, of elegant torture, of men who smile while they break you. A world ruled by my former master. In here, with this silent, scarred monster, this broken warrior who speaks in grunts and eats burnt meat from a stick, I am safe. The peace I feel in his presence is more real, more profound, than any I have ever known.
I am the captive of a monster. And finally, I feel something akin to home.
8
KAEL
