Ruby Dixon

He snarls at me, baring his teeth again.

I squeak and drop back down to the ground. Okay, so he’s not a talker, but he’s really good with nonverbal communication. I know ‘sit down and shut up’ when I hear it.

I do know that living in fear of what might happen prevents us from enjoying what we have today.”

Even if tomorrow goes to hell, we have today.

She is making me resonate. She is mine.

She bellows something and thrashes at me again. Her hand curls into a fist, and she smacks it into my face, knocking my lip against my teeth. A flash of pain shoots through my mouth, and I snarl.
She immediately goes quiet, flinching backward, her hands raised to shield herself.
I am sickened at her reaction.
This woman, this small creature who has half the stature of a sa-khui is my mate. How can she possibly think I would harm her? But she is cringing back even now, as if expecting a blow to fall. Rage fills me, because this is not a normal response.
Someone has hurt my mate in the past.

And then it occurs to me that . . . she is not resonating. She doesn’t feel what I do, because she has no khui. Maybe she never has.
I’m hit with a sense of loss so strong it makes me bare my teeth. This . . . this cannot happen. How is it that she cannot resonate to me? That we are not connected? It is as if I have found my other half after so long…and she is dead to me. The thought chokes me. To lack a khui is a death sentence. To see Shorshie so vibrant and so doomed makes my soul ache.
But no. She is my mate. My other half. I’ll do whatever is necessary to keep her.

I say, because it feels good to talk to her.

“Shorshie?” If I’ve hurt my mate, I will be sick with self-loathing. My khui seems to recoil in agreement.

You are always thinking about sex, aren’t you?”
“It is difficult not to when my mate is so soft and beautiful.” I brush a finger down the curve of her cheek.
She looks sober at my words. “Vektal . . . I’m not your mate.”
“Yes, you are. My khui has chosen you. When you receive a khui, it will thrum for mine. Wait and see.”
She shakes her head. “Humans choose their mates. I haven’t chosen anyone. Not that you aren’t nice,” she tells me, giving me another soothing pat to the arm. “And not that I don’t care about you. It’s just that . . . mating should be a mutual decision.”

“And where is your home, if it is not here?” My heart starts to pound a slow, unhappy beat. Georgie talks of leaving me as if she does not feel as I do. As if her heart is not torn apart at the very thought of being separated. My khui brought us together, but I am proud to have her as my mate. I want no other. Not now, not ever. It is unthinkable.