Nothing.
The silence in the mindspace is deafening, and frustration surges through me like a storm.
I growl low in my throat, pulling back sharply, and her gaze locks on mine. There’s water in her eyes now, glistening like tiny stars, and the sight of it sends a jolt of alarm through me.
She cannot leak again. I will not allow it. I must fix this.
“Jus-teen,” I growl. She blinks rapidly, the water pooling in her eyes spilling over her cheeks.
Her voice softens, trembling, and she nods slowly, as if accepting something. Then she wriggles, forcing me to set her down though I do not want to, and turns toward her hide coverings.
I watch her as she moves, my body tense, my claws twitching at my sides.
Her clothes are still damp, clinging to her fingers as she pulls them on one piece at a time. My gaze follows every movement. The curve of her back, the line of her legs, the way her hair falls over her shoulders.
Hunger coils in my chest as if I have not just consumed something, and I clench my fists, forcing myself to look away.
But I can’t.
Her scent fills the chamber, her every movement drawing my attention like a shadowmaw tracking prey. Every sound, every shift in the air sharpens to a painful degree.
Her eyes flick to me as she dresses, as if she knows something inside me is unraveling. She doesn’t vocalize, but the way she watches me—alert, cautious—makes it clear she senses the change.
I can’t stay still.
So, I pace the chamber.
She finishes dressing, pulling on her strange foot coverings before turning back to me.
Her gaze is steady, her expression unreadable, and for a moment, we simply stare at each other, the tension between us thick and suffocating.
Then she crouches.
I stop pacing, my head tilting as I watch her. She picks up the sandfin bone, using it to carve into the dust at her feet.
“This is me,” she says, pointing to the figure she draws, then to herself. “Justine.”
I nod, giving her the chin jerk she recognizes as understanding.
She draws another figure, larger and broader, and points to me.
My chest tightens.
She’s trying to communicate.
I crouch beside her, studying the marks in the dust as she continues to draw.
The next shape is a stone formation. Familiar.
The place where I found her.
She points to it, then to herself, then to other figures she draws—many grouped together.
I lean forward, touching my brow to hers. With a breath, I close my eyes. “My clan.”
“No.” She shakes her head, her hair tousling on her shoulders. “Not your clan.” She points at the figures again. “Not Rok’s.” Shaking her head again. “Mine.” She touches her chest. “Justine’s clan.”
Her words flow again, faster now, her tone rising with urgency.
My brow furrows, trying to piece it together. She repeats the motion—pointing to the stone formation, then to herself, then to the others. She vocalizes the same sounds over and over, pointing at each figure.
I tilt my head, my brow furrowing.
She draws something else—a new shape, a circle with radiating lines.
Ain.
My chest tightens.
Justine gestures toward Ain, then picks up a small stone from the ground. She holds it high, above the figures, and then lets it fall, the rock landing in the dust with a soft thud.
My glow flares brighter, but she doesn’t notice. She’s already moving, drawing more figures around the fallen stone. Tiny, crude shapes that surround it like a gathering.
She points to the stone formation again, then back to the figures, vocalizing softly, her tone urgent and pleading.
My claws curl into the stone floor as I try to make sense of her meaning.
The stone. The figures. Ain.
She pauses, glancing at me with wide, expectant eyes, as though willing me to understand. But I don’t.
Her lips press together in what looks like frustration. She draws more figures, pointing to them as she speaks, her voice trembling with emotion. The same vocalizations again. Over and over.
“Jah-kee. Mih-kay-la. Eh-rihka.”
Then it clicks. She names them. She names them.
The sound of her voice, the way her hands move, the desperation in her tone—it all clicks into place. As she draws two more lines—one leading from her figure to the fallen stone, the other from my figure to the same point, I understand.
There are more of her.
And she wants to go back for them.
Her people.
Daughters of Ain.
The realization hits me like a blow, and my chest heaves with the weight of it.
She is not alone. Was not alone. She wants to return to the place where I found her, near the Silent Valley, where danger lingers.
She wants to go back.
And I have no choice but to take her.
Chapter 25
THIS IS FINE. EVERYTHING IS FINE. I’M TOTALLY FINE
JUSTINE
Rok won’t look at me.
He’s been pacing for hours, his movements growing increasingly agitated with each pass across the cave floor. Every few minutes, he pauses to stare at the entrance, nostrils flaring, head tilted as if listening for something I can’t hear.
“Are they still out there?” I ask, even though I know he can’t understand me. “The other aliens?”
No response. Just more pacing, his claws scraping against stone with each turn.
I watch him from where I’m sitting by the small fire, the remains of the last lizard-thing long since picked clean. The cave has grown darker as the day progresses, shadows lengthening as the light filtering through the ceiling cracks changes from harsh white to a softer gold.
Rok’s behavior is…concerning. He’s always been a bit wild—I mean, I knew that from the moment I met him—but this is different. There’s a frantic quality to his movements, a tension in his shoulders I haven’t seen before. His glow pulses erratically beneath his skin, flaring brighter whenever he glances my way.
Which isn’t often.
In fact, he seems to be going out of his way to avoid looking at me. Like making eye contact might somehow hurt him.
“You know, the silent treatment is getting a little old,” I say, mostly to fill the uncomfortable silence. “Especially now that I know you can actually talk. Sort of.”
I still can’t wrap my head around it. His voice in my mind—clear as day, rich and deep with that strange accent I can’t place. Not some hallucination or fever dream, but actual communication.
Telepathy. Actual honest-to-God telepathy.
“The longer I stay on this hellscape of a planet, the weirder things get,” I mutter, poking at the fire with the bone stick. “Next thing you know, I’ll be growing a third eye or developing the ability to shoot laser beams from my fingertips.”
I glance up, half hoping for a reaction, but Rok is focused intently on the cave entrance again, his body tense and alert.