Page 34 of Yasmin and the Yeti
Fighting back a wave of guilt, he quickly wrapped her in the thickest fur from their bed. He secured it around her shivering form, tucking it tight against the bitter cold she would face outside. Then he scooped her into his arms, cradling her against his chest.
Her weight was frighteningly insubstantial. Had she always been this light, or had the illness already begun wasting her away?
“Hold on,” he commanded, his voice a low, fierce command. “Strong. Be strong.”
He burst from the cave into the blinding whiteness of midday. The snow was deep from a recent storm, but his powerful legs drove through it without slowing. He set a punishing pace, his lungs burning with the frigid air as he ran.
The clan caves lay across the valley on the other side of the ridge—a journey that typically took several hours. He intended to make it in less than half that time. As he ran, memories of Ayla’s death haunted him.
“Please,” he growled to the uncaring sky, his breath forming clouds in the freezing air. “Not her. Not them.”
It was the beginning of the ancient prayer to the gods, the same desperate plea he had chanted as he tried to reach Ayla. The words felt like ash in his mouth, bitter with the memory of their previous failure.
“Take me instead,” he continued, the ritual words falling into the rhythm of his running stride. “My life for theirs. My strength to hold them here.”
Yasmin stirred against his chest, a small whimper escaping her lips. The sound lanced through him, spurring him to even greater speed. His muscles burned, his lungs ached, but he pushed on, a white blur against the snow.
He crossed the ridge in record time, not even slowing as he forded the half-frozen river that wound through it. The icy water soaked him to the waist, but he barely noticed the discomfort. His entire being was focused on the precious burden in his arms and the distance still to cover.
As he entered the valley, he caught sight of a hunting party in the distance. They were Hothians from his clan, their white fur blending with the landscape. Under normal circumstances, he would have avoided them—his exile was self-imposed but no less real. Today, he altered his course directly toward them.
They spotted him quickly, their postures shifting from relaxed to alert as they recognized him. He could see their confusion as he approached but he didn’t care.
“Healer!” he bellowed as soon as he was within earshot. “Need healer!”
Recognition dawned on their faces when they saw what he carried—the human female from the rumors, the one the exile had claimed as his mate.
The oldest of the hunters fell in step with him, his stance wary but not hostile. “What has happened?”
“Sick,” he snarled, not slowing his pace. “Pregnant.”
“Two run ahead,” the old hunter ordered immediately. “Alert the Healer. We will escort Rhaal.”
Two of the younger hunters immediately broke away, sprinting toward the clan caves with the urgent news. The rest fell in around Rhaal, their previous wariness replaced by grim determination. Whatever his status, whatever had happened in the past, no Hothian would stand by while a pregnant female—any pregnant female—was in danger.
The rest of the valley passed in a blur of white landscape and burning muscles. Yasmin’s condition worsened with each passing moment. Her trembling had subsided, but not in a good way—her limbs were now limp, her breathing shallow and labored. The fever seemed to radiate from her in waves, even through the thick fur.
“Stay,” he growled against her hair. “Stay with me. Fight.”
As they approached the final ridge before the clan caves, Rhaal saw a familiar figure limping toward them through the snow, leaning heavily on his staff. Broc.
The sight of his former friend, the mate of his lost sister, sent a complicated surge of emotion through Rhaal’s chest. “The healer is preparing,” Broc called, his voice carrying on the cold wind. “How long has she been like this?”
“Not long,” Rhaal answered, his voice rough with exertion and fear. “Sudden…”
He couldn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t need to. Broc’s expression darkened with the shared memory.
“This way,” Broc said, turning to lead them down a path that would bring them directly to the healer’s cave.
They crested the final ridge, and the clan caves spread out before them—a network of natural caverns expanded and connected by generations of Hothians. Other than an occasional plume of smoke, there were few signs of the caverns on the surface. They plunged down the ramp leading to the central cavern, the way still familiar after all these years. He’d never expected to be here again.
Word of their approach had spread quickly. Clan members emerged from the caves, their faces a mixture of curiosity, alarm, and—when they recognized him—shock. Some of the older ones, those who remembered Ayla’s death most vividly, wore expressions of sad recognition.
Rhaal ignored them all. His focus narrowed to the path before him and the increasingly still bundle in his arms. He followed Broc directly to the largest cave entrance, where the clan healer waited.
“Bring her inside,” she commanded, turning to lead the way into her cave.
He hesitated for a fraction of a second. The last time he had entered this cave, he had carried his sister’s body to be prepared for burial. The memory threatened to paralyze him.
