Page 21 of Healing His Mate

Suddenly, his features darken, and he steps out of my grasp. His cock is still hard as steel, bobbing between us and practically reaching for me. I do not understand the shift in his mood, but I am certain I can fix it. I reach out for his cock, and when he steps farther back, I hop down from the table. “Come here.” When he does not, I ask, “What is it?”

He scratches the back of his head as he avoids my gaze. “I suppose I should be relieved you find my cooking skills acceptable, right?”

What? I do not understand his words. “Waldric, I—”

“Because, otherwise,” he cuts me off, “what would I do with my life? I lack the intelligence to do anything else, so I would be lost.”

I lower my voice to a whisper. “I do not think you would be lost.” Waldric is angry with me. That much is clear. But I do not know why, so I offer a theory. “Is this because I was surprised you licked my cunt so well? I did not me—”

“No,” he answers quickly. His shoulders slump and he reaches for his pants. “Just forget I said those words.”

I watch him dress, confused by how quickly things fell apart between us. Once he shoves his feet into his boots, he stomps over to his workstation and quickly tidies the area but leaves the food. Using a bowl next to the pot of what I assume is cold rihlmeal, he scoops out a portion for me and drops the bowl on the table. “Here is your first meal. I shall return for the next one.” He knocks over the stool wedged beneath the door handle, and the door slams shut behind him.

I am left naked, sticky, and clueless as to what I did wrong.

In a trance, I shakily put my torn tunic and leggings back on, pick up the stool, and sit down in front of my meal. I regret taking a bite of rihlmeal the moment it touches my tongue. It is a congealed lump of cold in my mouth, and I spit it back into the bowl. Looking over at the b’fiko syrup, I consider adding it to the rihlmeal, but the sight of it just makes me sad.

What happened here?

Why did Waldric flee? What did I do to cause the drastic shift in his mood?

My appetite has evaporated entirely, and Waldric’s behavior has left me puzzled, and a little hurt. I must find something else to distract myself with. My feet take me in circles around the room as I go over the encounter in my mind.

Everything was fine . . . until it was not.

He had syrup on his hip, and I wiped it off. Could that have done it? Did he prefer to keep the syrup on his skin? Was he saving it for later? That seems odd, but I would not have judged him for it.

Perhaps I am pondering the wrong questions.

What would the old Nalba do in this instance? The Nalba that works among clutter and refuse. The one who creates lights from soil-nourishing liquid. The one who assumed she would not need to note her projects because they were safely cataloged inside her head.

As my gaze drifts over the shop the old Nalba spent all her time in, a beam of sunlight illuminates a large clear jug, catching my eye from where it sits beneath the table on the far wall. I approach it, and carefully remove the boxes obstructing my view.

It is a large jar containing orange liquid, in a slightly less vibrant shade than Waldric’s eyes.

Twisting off the cap, I breathe in the contents of the jar and immediately begin coughing. It smells terrible. Acidic and sour and strong enough to have me breathing through my mouth. But there are several jars with the same orange liquid lined up on either side. I count at least seven. Whatever this is, the old Nalba made sure to keep an abundance on hand. But what is it, exactly?

I suppose there is only one way to find out.

Tipping the jug back, I take a swig far too large for a first taste. It burns my throat as it slides down to my belly, but it also warms my insides. It must be ale. Not very good, but ale is ale.

Then, a flash.

I see a mug in my hand, the same orange liquid sloshing over the sides of it as I wade through a crowd on the main path of the village. Darkness surrounds us, but the warm light from hundreds of douku orbs placed in the trees above gives us enough light to see. I am laughing. There is music. People are dancing.

We are celebrating something. I do not know what, but I seem to be thoroughly enjoying myself.

Then it is gone.

It is a mere fragment of a memory, but a memory, nonetheless. And the answer to my earlier question becomes clear.

The old Nalba would imbibe. And perhaps, more memories will come.

Closing my eyes, I tip my head back and swallow as much of the ale as my throat will allow.

“Beh,” I mutter in disgust before taking another long pull. The sooner I begin feeling the effects of this ale, the sooner my memories will return. Right? Yes, that sounds right.

By the time Cloh-ee arrives, I do not know what time it is, but I have consumed three jars.

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