Page 17 of Yasmin and the Yeti
He’d spent years alone, punishing himself for his failure to save Ayla. Now this small, fragile female had awakened something inhim he thought long dead and he didn’t want to lose it. To lose her.
To distract himself from the endless circle of his thoughts, he reached into a small pouch at his belt. His fingers closed around a piece of soft, dark soapstone and a carving tool. He’d been meaning to teach her the basics of stone carving—a skill all clan younglings learned early.
He extended his hand, offering the materials to her. “For you,” he rumbled, the words still awkward in his throat.
She looked up, surprise brightening her features as she took the stone and tool, turning them over in her small hands with obvious curiosity.
He expected to have to demonstrate, to guide her fingers through the motions. Instead, she settled the stone comfortably in her palm and took up the tool with obvious confidence. Her first strokes were a little tentative as she tested the resiliency of the stone, but she quickly began shaping it, her movements growing more precise as she worked. He watched, mesmerized, as her delicate fingers guided the tool.
She wasn’t carving clan symbols or animal shapes as he would have done. Instead, she worked the stone into a simple, smooth bead before beginning a detailed design. Her brow furrowed in concentration, her lips pressed together as she focused on the task.
Something painful and beautiful twisted in his chest. Her skilled hands, so small and vulnerable yet so capable, reminded him painfully of Ayla. His sister had been a gifted carver, her hands always busy creating beauty from simple materials.
The sight of Yasmin working the stone with such focus stirred a confusing mixture of emotions—deep sadness for what he had lost and a profound, protective warmth for the female before him.
She glanced up, catching his intense gaze, and gave him a small smile before returning to her work.
As he watched her, he noticed something he hadn’t before. Her hair, though cleaner after the bath, was still badly matted in the back from her crash and time in the snow. In the clan, grooming was an act of care between family members and mates. His mother had often untangled his fur when he was a youngling. Later, he had done the same for Ayla after his parents died.
In some ways the act was more intimate than the physical encounter they’d shared, and he wrestled with himself, uncertain if she would welcome such an intimate gesture. After a long internal struggle, he made a hesitant gesture towards her hair, his expression questioning. His hand hovered near her head, not touching, waiting for permission.
She looked up from her carving, surprise flickering across her features. She studied his face for a long moment, seeming to read the intent in his eyes. Then, slowly, she nodded.
Relief and something deeper flooded through him. He moved behind her, his breath catching slightly as her scent enveloped him. He carefully began to work through the stubborn knots with the tip of a single, massive claw. He was acutely aware of the contrast—a deadly weapon being used for such a gentle purpose.
He worked methodically, starting at the ends and moving upward, careful not to pull too hard as he patiently freed eachtangle. The fire popped and hissed, the only sound in the cave besides their quiet breathing. Outside, the wind howled, but in here, in this moment, there was only peace.
As his claw separated the last tangle, he ran his fingers gently through her hair, making sure he hadn’t missed any knots. His fingers lingered in her hair longer than necessary. He was loath to leave the silken strands, but he didn’t want to overstep. She was a fragile thing, a creature not meant for his world or his touch, yet here she was, sitting with her back to him as if she trusted him.
Her trust humbled him. He had failed Ayla, failed to protect her, but perhaps, for a moment at least, he could be worthy of this small female’s trust.
When he was done, she ran her fingers through the newly loosened strands and smiled at him.
“Thank you,” she said softly in his language, one of the phrases he had taught her.
He rumbled low in his chest as satisfaction filled him—he had cared for his mate.
Mate.
The knowledge struck him with sudden clarity. Despite the healer’s warnings, despite his own doubts and fears, in his heart he had already accepted the truth. Yasmin was his mate. Not a captive, not a responsibility—his mate.
She returned to her carving, working the stone with renewed focus, and he watched her, content in the silence they shared. For the first time in years, the ghosts that haunted him seemeddistant, held at bay by the quiet presence of the small female who had somehow found her way into his solitary life.
Outside, the storm raged on, but inside the cave, he felt a peace he had thought forever lost to him.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Several more days passed in the same familiar rhythm. The healer’s salve had worked on Yasmin’s feet and there was no longer any pain when she walked. Her strength had completely returned, and with it, a growing restlessness. The cave, once a sanctuary from the deadly cold, now felt increasingly like a comfortable prison.
The night after the bath, Rhaal had joined her in the bed. She’d waited expectantly but all he did was wrap himself around her protectively. She was acutely aware of his presence—the gentle rise and fall of his chest against her back, the occasional rumble that vibrated through him when she shifted position, but eventually she’d fallen asleep.
It had been the same way ever since. Sometimes in the darkness, she felt the unmistakable hardness of his arousal against her, but he never acted on it, maintaining a careful separation even when they were curled together in the bed.
Since the healer’s visit, something had changed. The kiss they’d shared before the interruption hung between them, acknowledged but not repeated. He watched her constantlywhen he thought she wasn’t looking, his ice-blue eyes following her movements with an intensity that made her skin tingle, but he kept his distance.
One morning, as she used the carved bone comb he’d made for her to untangle her hair, she caught his reflection in a polished metal plate. He was staring at her with such naked longing that her breath caught in her throat. When their eyes met in the reflection, he quickly looked away, busying himself with tending the fire.
Enough, she thought. She couldn’t continue like this—wearing make-shift clothes, living in his space, completely dependent on him. She needed to show him she was more than a cave-bound invalid he needed to protect. He’d sketched out a map of the area for her during one of their lessons, including a small spaceport. The thought of leaving the safety of the cave made her nervous, but she couldn’t stay locked inside forever.
