Page 12 of Yasmin and the Yeti
He held the white shift out to her, but it was so torn and tattered that it was barely recognizable. She stared at it in dismay, then sighed again. She had run away wearing it, fallen in the snow with it, and spent the night freezing in it. It was hardly surprising that it had disintegrated, but that meant…
“I’m stuck naked, aren’t I?”
Her cheeks heated, and she clutched the fur even tighter. He looked from her to the remains of the shift, then picked up one of the folded hides. The bone knife flashed as he bent over it. Next he retrieved something that looked like cord from a nearby basket and brought the hide over to her.
“I don’t understand…”
He dropped the hide gently over her head and she realized he’d created an opening in the center of the hide. He hesitated for a moment, then showed her the small holes on either side, careful not to touch her, and handed her the thin rope.
“Oh, I get it. It’s a belt, isn’t it?”
She beamed up at him and his eyes flashed with that strange glow once more. She pulled the rope through the holes and tied it in a loose knot at her waist.
The makeshift tunic fell to just above her knees, but it was so big that it felt more like a dress. It was longer than the shift but even more open along the sides, but at least she was no longer naked. She climbed carefully out from under the furs, doing her best not to flash him and went over to the fireplace.
A rich aroma drifted up from the simmering pot and her stomach growled.
“That smells wonderful. What is it?”
She pointed at the pot and gave him a questioning look.
“Pikka,” he said slowly.
“Pikka is the meat?” She pointed at the remains of the animal and he nodded.
“Pikka,” she said again, committing the word to memory as he bent over the pot again.
She perched on one of the ledges covered with the thick pink moss and watched as he ladled some broth into a beautifully carved stone bowl. He turned back to her, moving with deliberate slowness, as if afraid to startle her, and held out the bowl.
As she reached out to take it, their fingers brushed. The contact sent a spark of electricity shooting up her arm and through her chest, leaving her momentarily breathless. He flinched as if burned, pulling his hand back sharply. Blue fire glowed in his eyes for a split second before his stoic mask slammed back intoplace. He took a half-step backward, his entire body rigid with tension.
“I… I’m sorry,” she stammered, unsure what she had done to cause such a strong reaction. She wanted to ask him what was wrong, but she didn’t know how. “Rhaal?”
He didn’t respond, only shook his head sharply before handing her an eating utensil with a shallow bowl, careful not to touch her. Instead of pulling away as he clearly expected, she reached out and deliberately put her hand over his, meeting his gaze with a small, reassuring smile.
“Thank you,” she said softly. Her heart pounded in her chest, but she kept her eyes locked with his, hoping he understood her message. She wasn’t afraid of him.
His eyes searched hers, looking for the fear he expected to find. When he didn’t see it, something shifted in his expression—a barely perceptible softening around his eyes, a slight easing of the tension in his massive shoulders before he gave a quick jerky nod.
The soup was amazing—rich and savory with a hearty, gamey taste—and the hot broth warmed her from the inside out. She was suddenly aware of how little she had eaten since her abduction and she finished the bowl eagerly. When she gestured at the pot and raised her eyebrows, he grunted approvingly and refilled her bowl.
“It’s delicious,” she told him, rubbing her stomach. “Pikka is good.”
“Good,” he repeated, and his fangs flashed as something approaching a smile crossed his face.
She smiled back. Food, clothing, and now communication. Things were finally looking up.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Rhaal watched as Yasmin lowered the now-empty bowl to her lap with a satisfied smile. Her small fingers lingered on the rim, tracing the carvings he’d spent countless winter nights etching into the hard stone, and he immediately pictured them tracing a similar pattern on his own skin. The thought made his kotra throb and he hastily looked away. She was still so fragile—he would not let his instincts make her uncomfortable.
Her deliberate touch earlier had threatened the wall he was trying to build between them, but he did his best to put it back in place. Despite his best efforts, the silence grew heavy, laden with unspoken possibilities that terrified and thrilled him in equal measure. He needed to fill it with something, anything, before the throbbing ache of desire consuming him drove him to cross lines he must not cross.
He made a decision and moved to sit across from her, the fireplace between them. He deliberately looked at her, then pointed to the dancing flames.
“Khorva,” he said slowly.
She tilted her head, confusion briefly crossing her features before understanding dawned. Her lips parted in a small “oh” of realization.
