Page 59 of Tempted By the Alien Warrior

My breath catches. “A cache?”

Vrok nods, his silver eyes flicking to meet mine. “Supplies. Left behind by hunters or warriors in case they need them.” His gaze shifts back to the jungle around us. “Most likely from the Tussoll tribe, since we’re on their territory.”

He steps around the stone and begins pushing through a tangle of thick undergrowth. I follow, branches tugging at my clothes and hair. The jungle around us hums with unseen life and the air is so humid here I feel like I’m breathing through a wet blanket.

Then, he abruptly stops.

Nestled against a slope, partially veiled the sweeping branches of a short tree, is a pitch-black, narrow opening in the hillside. He steps forward first, drawing his blade in a silent motion, as he ducks inside.

I hesitate. Just for a second. A prickle runs up the back of my neck, some old primordial instinct whisperingdon’t go in there, but I shove it down. Vrok’s already inside, and I’m not about to be left out here alone.

I duck in after him.

The air inside is cool and dry, a welcome change from the thick, humid jungle. I take a long breath in, letting the musty scent of the cave settle in my chest. Bioluminescent moss clings to the walls, casting a soft blue and green glow that almost seems to dance around the chamber.

My gaze lands on the far wall, and my breath leaves me in a soft, stunned exhale.

“Jackpot.”

Dozens of baskets are stacked in neat rows, their woven sides slightly frayed and dulled from time and exposure, but they still look sturdy. From here, I can make out waterskins, thick furs that look worn but still usable, and bundles wrapped in cloth. Maybe food?

Relief crashes over me in a wave so sudden, it nearly knocks me off my feet. The thought of curling up on one of those soft furs makes my shoulders sag as the tension I hadn’t even realized I was holding begins to drain away. My body aches in places I didn’t even know could hurt.

I sway a little on my feet before I catch myself.

Vrok notices, of course. He always does. His eyes narrow, scanning me in that observant way of his. He doesn’t say anything, but he crouches beside the baskets and pulls out a waterskin before handing it to me without looking. Before I caneven take a sip, he’s untying one of the fur bundles and shaking it out, then laying it on the ground.

“Sit,” he says, voice low and firm.

I bristle at his command. Not because I don’t want to sit, but because I want to be stronger than this. I want to believe I can keep going.

“I’m fine,” I mumble. My grandma always said I was too stubborn for my own good. Guess she was right.

His eyes meet mine again, and there’s a softness in them that I’m still getting used to. Before I can argue further, he steps closer and grazes my arm with his fingers. His touch is feather-light, but a low pulse of heat settles in my chest.

“You’re tired,” he says, quieter this time. “Let me take care of you.”

It’s not a demand. Instead, it’s a plea, and that almost makes it worse.

I swallow hard, my throat suddenly dry, but finally I nod and lower myself onto the fur.

It’s scratchy and smells musty, but it’s thick and right now, that feels like a luxury. I sink into it, and something inside me unwinds. I hadn’t realized how much I’d been bracing myself. Against the terrain, the fear, the unknown.

Vrok lingers for a moment longer before turning back to the baskets. He starts sorting through them, but I don’t miss the occasional flick of his gaze in my direction. He’s watching me. A quiet warmth settles in my chest.

He won’t say it outright, but I know he cares about me and he’s making sure I’m okay.

I close my eyes and let my body rest for just a second. Tomorrow, we’ll keep moving. We’ll follow the trail until we find Lily. But for tonight, we’ll rest and recover.

When I open my eyes again, Vrok is crouched beside one of the baskets, pulling out a ration bag filled with dried meat.Without a word, he tears off a strip and hands it to me. The glow of the moss casts shifting shadows over his face, making the lines of his features seem sharper. He looks like a statue carved out of stone.

But I know better. I’ve seen the softness in him. The softness he tries to hide from the world that he’s only just now starting to let me see.

I take the meat from him, my fingers brushing against his. The contact is fleeting, barely more than a spark, but it races through me.

We eat in silence with the only sound being the soft rustle of movement and the occasional drip of water from somewhere. I chew slowly, expecting the familiar gamey toughness of dicro meat, but the flavors burst on my tongue. It’s savory and rich, with a hint of something almost smoky. It’s actually good.

I hum in appreciation before I can stop myself.

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