Page 28 of Healing His Mate

“Damn, that’s usually enough to deter human men from asking any follow-up questions,” Cloh-ee says under her breath. “Forgot who I was dealing with.”

She pinches the edges of the mold together on the bottom and uses her thumb to smooth any remaining creases. “Oh, um, little of this, little of that,” she mumbles as she gets to her feet in a hurry. “Well, I’ve gotta go feed Vahla, but I’ll be back after Varrek gets home from his morning training session.” Cloh-ee takes one final, adoring glance at her vibrator before rushing out the door.

Waldric peers at the door then turns to me with his brow furrowed. “That was an odd reaction from Cloh-ee, was it not?”

I grunt in response. “She is human. Everything they do is odd.”

He chuckles, the sound rich and lovely. “This is true.”

Then I focus all my attention on completing my mold. Cloh-ee and I used a pliable clay alternative calledgavneyahthat I perfected under Yignnuf’s tutelage. It requires no more than half a day’s time to set once it is molded. I showed her how to shape it around the base structure that holds the small mechanical vibration case that will deliver the same delicious quiver that Trovilian cocks have. Once the larger mold is complete, I work on the suction head attachments I will add later.

Waldric and I continue working, him on the meal he is preparing, and me on my mold. It is quiet but . . . a comfortable lack of sound. Occasionally, he will hum or whistle as he begins a repetitive task, like dicing or stirring, but he stops the moment he needs to focus. His back flexes beneath his tunic with each movement, and my mind begins to wander. I picture the two of us mating in various positions and places around my shop, my claws scraping along his neck and chest, following the path of his tattoo, and my fangs sinking into the skin of his shoulder, his soft belly, and all over that strong back of his.

“Done!” he calls out as he serves our meals.

“Uh, splendid.” I quickly shake my head free of the spell I was under and move the molds Cloh-ee and I made to the window. Then I rinse my hands beneath the spigot and join Waldric at the table.

“This is junasii bread with sliced tree fruit, lightly grilled, with savory viiki spread between,” he says, pointing at each item.

It smells of nature and spice and the warm comfort only freshly baked bread can illicit. A moan escapes me the moment I lift the bread to my lips and take a bite.

Waldric watches me closely, his tongue trailing along his bottom lip as I swallow. I remember the feel of that tongue on my cunt, the girth of it filling me in the most sinful way. I find I want nothing more than to leap over this table and seat myself on his face, but would he welcome that kind of behavior?

“Never be patient with me. Pounce.”His words play in my mind, and I place my utensil on the plate. But then, shame fills my gut at the memory of him rejecting my touch and pulling away from me. I do not know if Old Nalba ever experienced rejection here on Oluura, but I know I certainly did not while on Trovilia. It felt brand new when Waldric did it the other day. I am not eager to feel that way again. It made me feel exposed and insignificant.

Then there is the way he cared for me the previous eve. The way he carried me to bed and remained by my side in case I needed him in my drunken stupor.

The two vastly different versions of Waldric leave my head spinning.

But what am I expected to do? Wait until he gives me some sign that my embrace would be welcomed? Wait forhimto embrace me? Who has that kind of patience?

“Anything coming back to you?” he asks, breaking through my thoughts.

“Hmm?” Oh, he means memories. “No. Nothing,” I reply. Nothing from before I hit my head, anyway.The memory of your claws digging into my flesh as I rubbed myself against you is quite clear, however.“I did recall completing the design of the armbands with throwing knives, though,” I offer instead. “Did I tell you this? It came back to me while drinking the tea you made.”

“That is wonderful, Nalba!” His smile is so wide, it looks like it hurts his face. It is then that I realize how supportive Waldric has been through this entire ordeal. He truly wants my memories to return, perhaps more than I do. But why? Is there something he has not shared with me? Was he close with Old Nalba?

“Waldric,” I start, “what were we like before my head injury?”

“You and I?” he asks, his voice suddenly timid. I nod, and he clears his throat. “Uh, we were . . .” he trails off.

His reluctance to continue makes me nervous. “Were we enemies?”

He laughs. “No, not at all.”

“Then what?”

“We . . .” he sighs, dropping his utensil on the table with a clatter. “We were not close. We were just two members of Varrek’s clan, nothing more, nothing less.”

That does not make sense to me. The attraction I feel for him now, the joy I experience in his company––was I completely unaware of it all?

“It is fine,” he says, his tone soft. He lifts his utensil and presses the edge of it into the bread, cutting it into smaller pieces. “You did not pay much attention to me.”

I scoff. “O fah. That is ludicrous.” He must be lying now. Trying to trick me with a silly fable.

He takes my hand in his. “But I paid attention to you, Nalba. Whenever you entered a room, I could look nowhere else.”

My gaze drops to his lips, and I feel my heartbeat quicken.

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