Page 23 of Koha'vek
Then there was a noise that he made one night when I woke up from a deeply disturbing nightmare that the Mesaarkans’ asylum was denied, and they were taking Koha’vek away. It was hard to shake because it represented my deepest fear.
Koha’vek crept across the room, adding a log to the coals. The end of summer had brought cooler nights. But I suspected that was not the only reason he was up. He didn’t say anything. He never did when I woke up like this, but he always noticed.
My throat was tight, and I was trying not to cry. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you.”
Of course, he didn’t say anything. Then I heard the sound, the kind of vibration that I felt more than heard. It was not a song, just a tone. I sat up, looking at him. “What’s that sound?”
“Resonance. It’s something we do for calm or reassurance.”
“For yourself?”
“For others.” He stood, came back to our nest, and sat beside me. “It’s how mothers soothe younglings, or how scouts let others know the path is clear.”
I blinked back tears. “You did this forme?”
He nodded. “You were trembling.”
I didn’t even realize it until he said it. I breathed in and out, letting it wrap around me. “It’s nice. It felt like being held.”
He didn’t say anything, but his eyes softened. I reached out, slowly brushing my fingers across the scales of his forearm. “Can you keep doing it?”
He moved a little closer and resumed the low, grounding hum. I curled into his warmth, closing my eyes as the tension began to melt away, replaced by the familiar feeling of safety when Koha’vek was beside me.
I woke up the next morning to the most delightful scent. Koha’vek was crouched by the fireplace, mixing oils and crushed herbs in an ancient cast-iron pot.
“Mm. Is that rosemary I smell?” I asked, sniffing the air.
“Rosemary and pine resin,” he said without looking up. “Plus a drop of crushed sweet root.”
“Is that for flavor?”
“For scent. As for something I wish to share with you, if you are willing.”
“What is it you wish to share?” He had been so kind and caring, there was little I would not do to please him.”
“It’s a Mesaarkan ritual. One we only perform with our chosen mate. While we have bonded emotionally and physically, this will demonstrate to others that we recognize the truth in our bond. We also do it to honor each other.”
“What should I do?”
“Come kneel with me on the fur I prepared for you.” I trusted him completely, even though I didn’t know what to expect. I knelt across from him with the iron pot between us. “Okay, what’s next?”
“We will share this.” He dipped his fingers into the warm mixture and leaned forward slightly.
“You must breathe when I do,” he said. “It allows our scents to sync. If you hold your breath, it won’t take.” His fingers brushed the hollow of my throat—warm, resin-slick, careful. The scent rose immediately: sharp pine, green herbs, a whisper of something sweet and earthy beneath.
He moved to my collarbones, tracing symmetrical lines—almost like ancient warpaint, but meant to soothe, not intimidate. Our gazes locked, we inhaled deeply together, and a wave of calm moved through my chest. The scent enveloped me like a memory and a promise, wildness and home.
He offered me the bowl. I dipped my fingers into the warm, silky liquid. “Tell me where.”
“Here and here. He touched his chest just below his collarbone.
I copied his movements slowly and reverently. Koha’vek’s skin was warm beneath my fingertips. I relished the texture of his scales as I smoothed the fragrant liquid over them. His eyes fluttered shut, and he let out a low, contented breath.
He placed his hand over mine and held it against his chest, opening his eyes to meet mine. “You are part of me now,” he said.
I knew that already, but I just smiled and leaned forward to kiss him lightly.
Even though there was nothing overtly sexual about the ritual we had just shared, my nipples tightened, and my core throbbed for attention. As I leaned back and looked into his eyes, he gave a half smile and stood, holding my hand. He helped me up and stepped close, so that I could feel the warmth of his body.
