Page 19 of Yasmin and the Yeti
“Stay close,” he murmured, his deep voice barely audible over the market’s noise.
The first stall they entered specialized in cold-weather gear. The proprietor, a short, round being with orange fur, greeted them with a series of clicks and whistles. To her surprise, Rhaal responded in the same language, his deep voice somehow managing the alien sounds.
The shopkeeper led them to a section with smaller-sized clothing, clearly meant for species closer to human proportions. She moved through the racks, touching the unfamiliar fabrics with wonder. They ranged from coarsely spun cloth to high tech materials that incredibly light yet radiated warmth.
Rhaal watched patiently as she selected several items—thermal undergarments, two pairs of sturdy pants, a few long-sleeved tunics, and a thermal jacket lined with some sort of syntheticfur. The boots were next—insulated, waterproof, with excellent traction for the snow.
She put on one set right away, immediately feeling more like herself, but made sure to add her hide tunic to the growing pile of clothes. As she was examining a pair of gloves, he moved away for a moment, then returned with a small, sparkling object. He held it out to her—a beautiful hair comb adorned with tiny blue crystals that caught the light like stars.
“For your hair,” he said softly, his eyes watching her reaction carefully.
She took it, deeply touched by the unexpected gift.
“It’s beautiful,” she whispered, running her fingers over the delicate work.
A shadow fell across them, interrupting the moment. She looked up to see a massive, four-armed trader with mottled green skin and small, cruel eyes. He was at least as tall as Rhaal but bulkier, his build speaking of brute strength rather than Rhaal’s controlled power.
The trader’s eyes landed on her, assessing her with cold calculation. His gaze traveled over her body in a way that made her skin crawl—not with desire, but with the clinical appraisal one might give livestock.
He said something to Rhaal in a guttural language, his tone casual but his intent clear even without understanding the words. He gestured with a pouch that clinked with the unmistakable sound of currency.
She froze, the blood draining from her face as understanding dawned. The trader was offering to buy her from Rhaal.
She felt Rhaal go completely still beside her, a stillness more frightening than any movement. The temperature around him seemed to drop several degrees. His massive hand found hers, engulfing it completely, and she felt the barely controlled tremor that ran through him.
The trader, oblivious to the danger, shook the credit pouch again, raising his offer with a leering smile that revealed rows of small, pointed teeth. His beady eyes remained fixed on her, predatory and hungry.
Rhaal moved so fast she could barely track it. One moment he was standing beside her, the next he had the trader by the throat, lifting him off the ground with terrifying ease. The trader’s four arms flailed uselessly against Rhaal’s grip, his face turning a darker shade of green as he struggled for breath.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
“How much for the human female?”
Six simple words. A casual transaction. As if Yasmin were nothing more than merchandise.
Something ancient and primal inside Rhaal shattered. The careful control he had maintained for years—through exile, through loneliness, through the tentative, fragile connection with Yasmin—disintegrated in an instant.
A roar tore from his chest as he gripped the trader by the throat, so deep and savage it seemed to fill the air. The sound silenced the entire market square. Conversations cut off mid-sentence. Haggling ceased. Every head turned towards the source of that sound.
“She is mine,” he snarled, his voice vibrating with pure menace, his fangs fully extended. “My mate. Not for sale.”
The words hung in the sudden silence, undeniable and irrevocable.
He dropped the trader to the ground and the male stumbled backwards, his four arms raised in a gesture of surrender. His mottled green skin had paled to a sickly yellow-green, and his small eyes were wide with terror. He understood, too late, the line he had crossed.
Rhaal felt every eye in the market on him—on them. Aliens of various species stared openly at the massive, white-furred warrior and the small female he now sheltered behind his body. Some looked away quickly when they met his fiery gaze. Others watched with unabashed curiosity.
The realization of what he had done crashed over him. He had made a public, undeniable claim. Not just to the trader, but to everyone present. Word would spread. It would reach the clan caves. It would reach Broc.
He could already feel the clan’s judgment—the disgrace of an exiled warrior taking an offworld female as his mate. It was unheard of. Unprecedented. His claim would be seen as further proof of his broken state, his unworthiness.
He didn’t care. His shame had been replaced by a savage pride. The knowledge that everyone now understood she belonged to him sent a possessive thrill coursing through his body, hot and undeniable.
She was his. He had claimed her. And no one—no one—would ever try to take her from him again.
He glanced down at her, suddenly concerned that his outburst might have frightened her. She was staring up at him, her brown eyes wide—not with fear, as he had expected, but with a breathless, wide-eyed awe.
The sight of her looking at him like that—like he was something magnificent rather than terrifying—fueled the fire inside him. His blood roared in his ears, his heart thundering against his ribs.
