Page 43 of Yasmin and the Yeti
They worked in companionable silence for a while. Her piece began to take the shape of a smooth oval, while Polly’s remained more abstract.
“I was taken too,” Polly said suddenly, her voice so quiet Yasmin almost missed it.
She kept her eyes on her work, sensing that direct attention might cause Polly to retreat. “From Earth?”
A tiny nod. “Two years ago. I was walking across campus at night.”
“I’m sorry,” she said softly.
“I was sold to a… a bad place.” Polly’s hand tightened around the stone. “Then I came to Hothrest. After. And Njkall took care of me. He didn’t ask questions. He brought me here.”
She risked a glance up. Polly’s face was tight with remembered pain, but there was something else there too—a fierce gratitude.
“He’s a kind male.”
“They all are. Even when they don’t understand.” Polly’s eyes met hers briefly. “Your mate—Rhaal. He’ll come back. They always come back for what’s theirs.”
The words were simple but filled with absolute conviction, and she felt a surge of hope—not just for Rhaal’s return, but for thisfragile connection with Polly, for the clan fighting to survive, for the future they all shared.
“Yes,” she agreed, her hands steady as she continued to shape the bead. “He will.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
The journey back to the clan caves passed in a blur of fury and purpose. Rhaal took the surface route, moving like a ghost through the snowy mountains, his big body cutting through drifts that would have stopped lesser beings. His mind was a cold, focused blade, replaying everything he had seen in that hidden laboratory.
The desecration.
The poison.
The casual disregard for all his people held sacred.
He had slipped away unseen, fighting the urge to tear apart every scientist in that facility with his bare hands. It would have been satisfying—gods, it would have been satisfying—but also foolish. This was not a threat that could be eliminated by one warrior’s rage, no matter how justified.
This required the clan.
As he crested the final ridge overlooking the clan caves, he paused. The concealed entrance looked so small, so unassuming,concealing the richness of life in the caves. For the first time in years, he was not approaching as an exile, but as a returning warrior bearing critical intelligence.
And for the first time in years, he felt no hesitation about his welcome.
The sentries spotted him immediately. They straightened, recognizing his silhouette against the evening sky. One of them raised a horn to his lips, sounding three short blasts—the signal for an urgent arrival.
He descended the slope in long, powerful strides. His eyes glowed with an intensity that made the younger warriors step back as he approached. They had heard the stories of the shadow-dweller, the exile who had returned with a human mate. But none of those stories had prepared them for the cold, controlled fury that radiated from him now.
“The Elders,” he growled, his voice a low rumble that brooked no argument. “Now.”
The sentries nodded, one breaking away to lead him through the network of tunnels. He followed, his senses automatically cataloging changes since he’d left—new carvings on the walls, different arrangements of the communal spaces, the unfamiliar scents of cubs born during his absence.
But one scent cut through all others—Yasmin. Faint but present, her unique sweetness called to him, pulling at something deep in his chest. He wanted nothing more than to follow that scent, to find her, to see with his own eyes that she was still alive, still fighting.
Instead, he clenched his jaw and continued toward the council chamber. Time enough for reunions after he had delivered his report.
The formal council chamber was a vast, circular cavern, its walls polished to a gleaming smoothness over generations. Crystal formations had been carefully cultivated to provide light, casting a blue-white glow over the gathering. The Elders sat in a semicircle on raised stone seats, their faces solemn as he entered.
Njkall occupied the central position, his massive frame somehow even more imposing in this formal setting. To his right sat Broc, his status as a respected hunter evident in his position among the Elders despite his relative youth. The sight of him sent a flicker of old pain through his chest, quickly subsumed by the greater urgency of his mission.
“Rhaal returns to us with news,” Njkall announced, his deep voice filling the chamber.
He moved to the center of the chamber, standing tall before the assembled leaders of his clan. He did not bow or offer formal greetings. This was not a time for ceremony.
