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I want this kit.

 I want my mate, and I want my kit. I want the same happiness that the others in the tribe have. I think once Asha’s head clears, she will realize this is a wonderful thing. That we cannot live in fear or grief, but must keep living and loving. She will realize that Hashala would have wanted a sister or a brother. She would want her parents to be happy. “It is a good thing,” I tell her, and reach out to touch her again.

She pushes away from me, a panicked look on her face, and I realize I am going about this all wrong.

Asha needs time. I realize, slowly, even as my body throbs and aches with need for her, that I must give her time. The more I push and prod at her for something, the more she wants to run away. She does not like to be forced into something—one reason why our resonance went so sour. She likes for things to be her decision. She is stubborn, my mate. Stubborn and magnificent.

She will come to terms with our resonance, but she must come to it in her own time.

My presence at her side will be seen as pushing her. Not to the tribe, who thinks we should be together, but to Asha, who resents that she did not choose me. I suspect she has always felt a bit trapped with me as her mate. I am not a hunter, nor am I the handsomest or cleverest in the tribe. I am steady when she craves excitement.

I am also patient, though. I know how Asha’s mind works. The more I push her to accept this, the harder she will fight. This is why I could not help her when she was grieving. This is why I had to leave our mating.

She does not want me at her side. Until she comes to me and says she wishes to have me in her furs, I must give her space. The thought makes me ache, and I hate that it must be so. Why can I not take my mate in my arms and hug her? Rub noses and twine my tail with hers? Why must everything between us be a fight?

It makes me tired.

So I take her trembling hand in mine and give it a squeeze. “Asha,” I say, my voice low and calm. I must act as if I am not affected, as if her presence is not driving me wild with need. “Nothing must be done right away. I will leave and give you time to think about things.”

“What is there to think about?” she asks, and there is a bitter note in her voice. “It has already been decided. I am to be a mother even if my body cannot hold a kit and my mate hates me.”

“I do not hate you.” Hate is the furthest thing I feel for her. But I know that trying to hold Asha is like trying to hold a handful of snow—the tighter I grip, the more she will trickle between my fingers and disappear. “Rest,” I tell her. “Relax. We will talk in the morning.”

My slow, even words seem to finally get through to her. She nods, her movements jerky. “I need time to think.”

“I know.” I give her hand one final squeeze. “Take all the time you need.”

And because I love her, I will not be here when she finally comes to seek me.

CLAIRE

Song Day

“No, not another!” I moan in protest as one of the carolers approaches me with a gift. “I’m not playing!”

“Just take it and enjoy it,” Farli says with a toss of her hair. She is practically dancing with excitement at the fact that I’m getting an unexpected gift.

It’s day two of the celebrations, and the tribe—both sa-khui and human—have thrown themselves into the festivities with an enthusiasm that makes my heart glad. The longhouse has been decorated to the nines, and every inch of the place flutters with homemade seed-or-bark garlands, and our spindly, sad, pink tree is potted and sticks out of the opening in the roof of the lodge itself, too weak and unsteady to support a star or an angel topper. It doesn’t matter. Decorating Day was a success and everyone enjoyed it. The first of the Secret Santa—excuse me, Secret Gifting—gifts were handed out, and I’ve seen people showing off new gloves, scarves, and sharing treats from their gift-givers. It’s been fun to watch the excitement, and no one seems to mind when one particularly un-sneaky gift-giver or two gets caught in the act. It all adds to the merriment.

Today is the second day of terrible weather, which means we are plowing ahead with the next day of festivities—Song Day. It’s a mix of Christmas caroling and summer camp, as we are all hanging around by the blazing fire, roasting food on skewers and singing whatever songs come to mind. The sa-khui are terrible, tone-deaf singers and don’t have many songs that aren’t completely made up on the spot, so most of the actual singing falls back to the humans. It’s all fun, though. Everyone loved it when Tiffany sang ‘Ave Maria’ (perfectly, of course, because Tiffany is flawless) and they are currently enjoying Liz’s Batman version of ‘Jingle Bells.’ She and Josie are playing a game of one-up on who can think of the most annoying song, because between the two of them we’ve heard ‘John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt’ and ‘Henry the Eighth’ and ‘This is the Song that Never Ends,’ which the sa-khui found utterly hilarious. I’m having fun…or at least I was until the newest present showed up.

This is gift number four. Gift number two was a pouch of tea, and gift number three, a carved comb for my hair. I take the gift from Farli and hold it up, showing Ereven from across the fire where he sits next to Vektal and Georgie. He just shakes his head and laughs, amused at my frustration.

For a bit, I thought that Ereven was sneakily being the one providing gifts, but he’s been too surprised with each reveal, and it made me realize pretty quickly that it’s not him. It’s someone else, and no one’s coming forward. But who, and why? Frustrated, I pull open the tie on the pouch, acutely aware of the fact that a dozen people are watching me with interest. It’s a small tribe, and the gossip will be all over every hut before the hour is over. I peer inside, and the smell of toffee hits me. “Hraku seeds,” I announce. “Whoever it is, thank you.”

“Share the wealth,” Josie announces, making grabby hands at me.

I gladly hand them over to her. Josie’s having pregnancy cravings like mad and loves sweets. Stacy’s been trying to keep her supplied with things to munch on, but Josie’s been hoovering them up faster than Stacy can cook. “They’re all yours.”

“Oh, but it’s your gift. I only want a few.” She hesitates.

“I’m sure my gift-giver won’t mind me sharing with the tribe,” I say with a big smile, acting pleased that I’ve received another gift. In truth, it bugs me. I don’t like feeling beholden to anyone, and the fact that I’m getting all these gifts makes me worry what I’m overlooking. I’m afraid I’m going to turn around one day and someone will be there with their hand outstretched, expecting a favor or a gift of their own in return.

“I’ll get my skillet,” Stacy says with a grin, getting up from her seat by the fire next to her mate and child. “I suppose if we’re having a bonfire, we should have the Not-Hoth version of s’mores, too.”

Josie squeals with excitement. “Yay!”

“Who sings next?” someone asks.

“I will,” Megan says, standing up. She clears her throat dramatically and puts a hand out in front of her like an opera singer. “Me me me me me,” she sings, warming up. People giggle at her theatrics.

Her mate Cashol nods. “It is a simple song, but I like it. The words are easy to remember.”

“That’s not the song, babe.” She winks at him and then begins to sing the Hokey Pokey, complete with movements. A few people groan, but Esha and Sessah love it, moving along with Megan as she sings.

Stacy returns by the end of the song, and Georgie gets to her feet. “I just want to say how great the celebrations have been so far, and we have Claire to thank for it.” She claps her hands, and then everyone is clapping for me. It’s a gesture the sa-khui aren’t too familiar with, judging by the awkward smacks of their hands together, but the smiles and nods are universal.