He shrugs and turns back to the roof, eyeing the hole I have created (and denied). “I do not feel like there is much to celebrate.” His hand caresses the leather.
I am startled to hear him say that. Hemalo has always had such an even, calm personality, unlike my fiery temper. It sounds like something that would come from my mouth, not his. “The humans, especially Claire, have been working very hard to make this enjoyable for the entire tribe,” I chastise him.
“You have been working alongside them,” he reminds me. Hemalo glances over his shoulder at me, and it nearly takes my breath away. My tail patters against my leg with excitement, coiling and flicking. “I am glad they have finally accepted you.”
Accepted me?
His words sting. Saying they ‘accept’ me makes it sound as if I am the outsider. This is my tribe. I was here first. And it hurts my feelings. “Spare me your pity,” I tell him. “If I wanted to hear what you thought, I would have asked you to come to the howse. There is a reason why it was Farli that asked you here, not me.”
I hate the words even as they spit forth from my mouth like daggers. They are needles designed to launch and hurt, and they succeed. I can see the look on his face as his expression changes, growing cold. It is as if the warmth in his eyes ices over and leaves nothing but frost. Just like that, we are enemies again. My body needs his, but our spirits will never understand one another.
“I am sorry I came,” Hemalo says. Even now, his voice is so beautiful and pleasant that I want to weep. “Tell Farli I will be back to fix it tomorrow.” He steps away from the hole in the roof, and then moves carefully away from me, where I stand hugging my chest and hating the anger that fills me. “I will make sure to come by when you are not home.”
And now I am the one being hurt. This is what I want, right? But the thought of him deliberately avoiding me, deliberately avoiding my house when I am here because he does not wish to talk to me? Even as it makes me angry, it also hurts and makes me feel empty inside. But I lift my chin. “Good. Leave. It is what you are best at.”
He stiffens. Hemalo stops and turns back to me. His nostrils flare and his tail flips wildly, the only signs that I have upset him. “You say that as if you think I wanted to leave.”
“Did you not?”
“No.” The quiet word echoes in the howse between us.
My heart flutters wildly. “If it was something you did not wish to do,” I say, stepping forward, my every movement a confrontation, “it seemed rather easy for you to do.”
“Is that what you think?” He takes a step toward me, and I realize he is devouring me with his eyes, his khui humming. “That it is easy for me to walk away?”
“Should I think differently?” I whisper. I can barely hear my own thoughts over the pounding of my heart. Why am I so nervous around him? So very tense? It is like my entire body is coiled into one anxious knot.
Hemalo gazes down at me, and I think for a moment that he is going to touch me. That he will reach out and brush his knuckles over my cheek. Just the thought of that small touch makes my body react, and my khui hums even louder. His joins it, and the song between us seems to fill the air.
It takes me a moment to realize what is happening. That the joined song of our khuis should not be so loud, so overwhelmingly strong that they take over the air around us. That my pulse should not be thrumming so hard that my heart feels as if it will leap from my chest. That I should not be so very aroused by the nearness of my mate.
I open my mouth, and the humming of my khui is so loud it erupts from my throat, my entire body vibrating with the ferocity of its song.
Resonance.
Hemalo’s eyes widen in surprise. His hand goes to his chest and he places his palm flat over the center of his heart, as if he can feel the heart beating under the plating there. I can hear it, though. I can hear his khui singing to mine.
“Resonance,” he breathes, speaking the word aloud.
We are to mate again. We are to mate and have another kit.
I am…terrified. Completely and utterly terrified.
8
HEMALO
The wonder of the moment disappears in a heartbeat.
Resonance. I am to have a kit again. I am to bond with my mate again. Joy bursts through me, like the suns coming through the clouds after a long snowstorm. Even as I feel the smile spreading across my face, Asha begins to tremble. Her face pales, until she is so pale blue that she is almost the color of one of the strange-looking humans. Her tail goes limp. “No,” she breathes.
No?
This is the best thing that has ever happened to me. I am filled with joy at the thought of being able to experience the wonder of resonance with the female I love—again. To bring another kit into this world. To get a second chance with everything.
And my heart feels as if it is being squeezed by a fist when her eyes well up and she begins to cry.
She does not want this. She does not want a second chance. “Do not cry, Asha. Please.” I begin to panic, my mind spinning through possible things to say to calm her tears. “Nothing has to be done.”
She gives me an incredulous look. “Nothing has to be done? We have resonated! There is no denying resonance!”
“Yet,” I say. “Nothing has to be decided yet.” I will give her as much time as my body will physically allow me. It does not matter if resonance makes me deathly ill—I will not push Asha into something that will hurt her spirit.
She throws her hands in the air. “Why do I even speak to you?”
Because you have no choice? I want to say, but she is already panicking. “Is resonating to me again so awful?” I know I have never been her mate of choice, but surely she would grow used to the idea over time? It is not inconceivable to resonate a second time to a mate, or even three or four times. But Asha acts staggered, as if I have plunged a knife into her chest.
She shakes her head slowly. “I…I cannot. Hemalo, I cannot.” She moves forward, and I think she moves to hug me, but her hands grip my vest, and the panic in her face is overwhelming to see.
“Do you not wish another kit?”
Agony moves over her face. “I…I do not know. I want Hashala. That is who I want.”
My poor mate. “She is gone,” I say gently, covering her hands with mine. “We cannot bring her back with thoughts or hopes. If so, she would be in your arms even now.” I reach out and caress her cheek. “But we can try again. We can have another kit. Resonance wants us to have another kit. And perhaps this time, we will have a healthy one to love and take care of.”
Asha moves away from me as if burned. “I love her,” she spits at me, suddenly furious. “She may have only lived for a hand of hours, but I loved her so. I still do.”
“I do, too. Do you think the pain of grief is solely yours?”
Her shaking hands press to her mouth. “I am so scared, Hemalo.”
I know she is. I know exactly what she is thinking. She is not scared of being mated to me—she is scared of it all going wrong again. Of the tentative, fragile bond we had between us being destroyed once more in the wake of unending grief. Of loss. Of bringing something so small, so fragile, and so loved into this world only to have it taken from you as quickly as it arrived. She does not need to say any of this. I know. Oh, I know.