Page 24 of Yasmin and the Yeti
Three days had passed since Rhaal had fled into the night. He’d been different when he returned, quiet, thoughtful. He hadn’t pulled away from her again, but neither had he given in to his obvious need to claim her. He’d concentrated on her instead, a focused determination that both thrilled and confused her as he learned her body, learned how to please her, and brought her to climax after climax.
He wanted to be sure, she realized, wanted to be certain of both his control and her pleasure. But although she understood his reasons, her own frustration grew with each passing day. Her body was ready for him. She craved him—not just his touch but all of him. She ached to feel his huge cock inside her, filling her,claiming her. Each day that he delayed the mating, her desire grew until she felt as if she were on the verge of bursting into flames.
She tried to distract herself by learning more words and practicing his language. Her progress was slow, but at least she was making progress. With each new word, each halting sentence they pieced together, the world opened up a little more to her.
She was also trying to be more independent, not wanting to rely solely on him for everything. She smiled to herself, remembering how he’d shown her these berry bushes yesterday, his big hands gentle as he demonstrated how to identify the edible ones. He’d left at dawn to hunt, promising to return by midday, and she’d decided to surprise him with a small harvest of her own.
The weight of her pendant—a small, carved stone he’d given her, strung on a leather cord—rested comfortably against her chest. It was a visible mark of his claim, his protection. She touched it absently, the gesture becoming a habit that grounded her in this strange new world.
A twig snapped somewhere behind her.
She turned, expecting to see Rhaal entering the clearing, but instead, a different figure stood beneath the giant rocks that surrounded the open space.
He was one of Rhaal’s kind—that much was clear from his height and build—but smaller than her mate, his white fur tinged with gray around the face. Unlike Rhaal’s powerful, fluid movements, this stranger moved with a pronounced limp, leaning heavily on a gnarled wooden staff. His blue eyes lacked Rhaal’s intensity, instead holding a deep, weary sadness that spoke of old pain.
But despite his limp, he was still twice her size and her pulse started to race. What was he doing here? She rose slowly, clutching her small pouch of berries against her chest, and took an instinctive step back towards the cave.
The stranger held up one hand in what seemed like a gesture of peace. He spoke, his voice rougher than Rhaal’s but with the same deep timbre. She recognized a few words—“female,” “safe,” and “clan”—but most of his speech remained incomprehensible.
“I don’t understand,” she said, though she knew he wouldn’t comprehend her language either. She took another step back.
The stranger’s expression softened. He tapped his chest with one clawed hand. “Broc,” he said clearly.
Broc.
Rhaal had taught her this name, along with “Ayla” and “sister.” This was the person from his past, the one connected to the pain she sometimes glimpsed in his eyes.
She nodded cautiously. “Broc,” she repeated, then touched her own chest. “Yasmin.”
His eyes widened slightly at her use of his name. He took a limping step forward, speaking again, more urgently now. She caught “Rhaal” and “danger” amid the stream of unfamiliar words. His tone was concerned, almost pleading.
He gestured toward the distant mountains, then back to her, making a motion like walking. His meaning became clear—he wanted her to go with him.
She shook her head firmly. “No. I stay with Rhaal.”
She pointed toward the cave, then hugged herself, trying to convey that this was where she belonged.
Broc’s expression darkened with what looked like frustration. He moved closer, covering the ground between them with shocking speed despite his limp, speaking more quickly now. She caught the word “shadow,” which she didn’t understand, and “grief.” He tapped the pendant at her throat and shook his head vehemently.
The gesture felt invasive, and she stepped back sharply, her heart beginning to pound.
“No,” she said again, more forcefully. “I wait for Rhaal.”
Broc’s gaze softened again, but there was determination beneath the gentleness now. He spoke again, his tone soothing but insistent. He gestured to himself, then made a protective motion around an invisible figure—protecting, sheltering. Then he pointed to her and repeated the gesture.
He was offering protection. From Rhaal.
A chill that had nothing to do with the winter air crept up her spine. This was wrong. Terribly wrong. Broc thought she needed saving.
“No,” she said, backing away more quickly now. “You don’t understand. Rhaal is good. He protects me.”
But her words meant nothing to him. He saw only her fear, her retreat, and it seemed to confirm whatever he already believed. His expression hardened with resolve.
He lunged forward with that surprising speed, catching her arm in a firm grip. It wasn’t cruel—he was clearly trying not tohurt her—but it was unyielding. He spoke urgently, tugging her gently but insistently away from the cave, away from Rhaal.
Panic exploded in her chest. “No!” she shouted, pulling against his grip. “Let me go! Rhaal!”
Her resistance seemed to distress Broc. He spoke more soothingly, but his grip remained firm. To him, her struggles must have seemed like the panic of a captive creature, confirming that she needed rescue.
