Page 60 of Humans Don't Have Horns
Bree is their version of alcohol, and has the color and scent of piss. And I learned the hard way, to Bahar’s great amusement, that it also tastes like piss. I refused to drink it for over a month because of the smell. But his pleading made me sip it in the end. It wasso horrible that I couldn’t keep from coughing and spitting it out immediately, to the immense delight of him and everyone near us. And of course, Daton had to arrive at our circle at that exact moment.
On the night before the battle, the Mongans are more boisterous than ever, as if determined to revel in everything left of the night. Each evening, after a long day of grueling training, they find the energy to dance, sing, drink, and laugh loudly. Tonight, they are in overdrive.
It’s almost primal, yet even with the bree, there is no melee. They stay kind and jovial, not turning into the sort of drunks I saw in the forest with the Aldonian soldiers from whom Daton saved me.
But there are also fewer inhibitions: the smell of sex carried in the air, the flirting was bolder than ever, and couples retired from the main areas to the act of creating life in the face of death.
Women of all ages buzz around Daton as if he is the last flower met with a crowd of bees. They flirt with their eyes and smiles, and some of them also flirt with their hands. I feel like smacking them on the heads and drowning them in bree. I can’t help but feel excruciatingly jealous, even though I know I have no right. After all, I drew a clear line between us, and he doesn’t dare to cross it. He never would. He would consider it dishonorable.
I willed us to become friends, but I was lying to myself. I want far more than his friendship. I want his everything. His darkness and his light. And it’s too much, too overwhelming. I pushed him away constantly, but the thought of him dying tomorrow chills my blood and makes me feel empty.
While there are many areas of dancing and music, Bahar is playing in the main tent tonight, so I find myself there. He’s a gifted musician, really. He and Shana both. Their music is nothing like Aldon’s or Renya’s. It’s as if they have more music notes, and the tempo is much faster. The instruments are nothing like I’ve seen. While Shana beats on something similar to a drum, Bahar strums on an instrument the likes of which I’d never seen before. It’s round and small and has more than ten strings. The tent is crowded and full of people dancing in small circles.
My eyes go to Niska and the group of men practically drooling over her. They kneel around her, clapping in encouragement. She dances so sensually. Her red hair is down, her lips painted red, and she wears a ridiculously short dress I wouldn’t consider even as an undergarment. Her hips sway in a way no Puresoul woman would ever be bold enough for. Not even a Renyan. She is an impossible combination of beauty and strength. She radiates sex and power as the men wait for her verdict on which lucky soul she’ll leave with. But she barely even acknowledges them. She’s too lost to the music to care for any of them. I envy her at that moment. She lives outside her head in a way I never will. She is one with her body, with her wants. It’s mesmerizing.
As for me, I stand at the edge of the tent close to the exit. Trying to absorb this last night. Whatever tomorrow brings, nothing will ever be the same. When I search to see if Daton is with anyone from the crowd of his female fans, he isn’t there, and my heart stops. Did he go to his tent with one of them? He just left the night before the battle without even saying goodbye?
My feet carry me to Daton’s tent. I tell myself it’s to wish him luck in tomorrow’s battle. But what if he has company? It’s unnecessary, really. I can speak to him in the morning. But I can’t suppress my desire to see him alone before the battle. I’m so anxious about what might happen to him. I already know he will put himself in the front line against the demichads. His honor demands it, and he is ruled by honor.
Daton’s tent is on the edge of the camp. It’s as modest as mine. Only the Mongans lodge their leaders in the same conditions as the rest of their people. No symbols of supremacy, no servants. Even the Emancipator washes his own clothes and cooks his own meals.
I stand still and try to listen for any company. But my heart pounds so hard I’m having trouble hearing anything else. Why doesn’t he have a door to knock on? I try calling him, but my voice dies in my throat. Why am I so nervous? I don’t want to dwell on the meaning.Don’t think of it, I order myself.
I’m relieved to find him alone in his tent. He sits on his pallet,sharpening his ax. His eyes rise when I come in, and he grins at me. Goddess, I’m addicted to the man’s smile. Daton rises to his feet quickly and stands next to me, towering over me. All of a sudden, breathing is a complicated task. “I came to wish you good luck tomorrow,” I say, and thank the Goddess, it comes out steady.
Instead of responding, he picks up a bottle from the small table at the side of the tent. “Would you like something to drink?”
“Just not bree, please.”
He laughs at that.
“It’s awful. What is it made from anyway?”
“You don’t want to know.” He laughs again, his eyes full of humor and the creases at the sides of his eyes dancing. How can he be so joyful on a night like this? “Lucky for you, I confiscated some wine from the Renyan camp.” He smiles impishly. “I was saving it. I was hoping you would stop by.” His smile goes shy all of a sudden as he pours me a glass of wine.
It unravels me when he gets shy like this, after seeing him dominate any crowd, the reverence with which his people treat him, and how boldly the women woo him.
Even here in his ridiculously small tent, where his head almost grazes the top, with his simple clothing and his lack of jewelry, power and charisma pour out of him as I’ve seen from no one else. But the shy, smiling Daton is my private Daton. The one who stands barefoot in front of me with his starry eyes. And I cherish it, this piece of secret truth.
Daton’s smile leaves his face, and his gaze grows intense. He hands me the glass slowly, and his eyes burn me with something I cannot name. Something ravenous, maybe.
“I was sure you would be with one of your suitors.” I wince at how jealous I sound, but I’m terrible with moments of intimacy, it seems. And seeing all those Mongan women flirt with him all night took a toll on my composure.
He searches my face before he says, “All Mongans know I’m a taken man.” Baghiva, he means her. It can be the only meaning.
“Right,” I quip. I really should leave. His presence is too consuming.There is really no reason to stay. I put my glass down on the small table and turn to leave, but he grabs my waist and pulls me to him in one swift movement, my back pressed to his chest. His arm envelops me. Heat radiates from him as his breath brushes my cheek. His scent fills my nostrils, honey and man and the wine we just shared.
“They all know my heart belongs to you, Lian.” His words hum inside me, and I can’t help but close my eyes and sink back into him.
His lips graze the side of my neck, and I swallow a whimper. It’s been almost two months since he touched me like this, and it feels like it has been years because nothing has been the same since the waterfall. Not in me, not in us. Maybe not in him as well. It feels like I have denied myself the warmth of the sun on a cold, snowy day. Now that his body envelops mine, I will never be able to push him away again. It would be like numbing my own skin, my own heart. And behind the touch, there are his words. My heart leapt at them. He has been waiting for me to forgive him all this time. He hasn’t moved on.
But still, there is a frightened voice in my head. One that insists bad things always happen when we touch. He will leave again, that voice in my head screams. But if he does, I will survive it. I survived enough to know my own resilience. I’m not the girl at the wedding camp, nor am I the one from the waterfall. I’m strong enough to survive the heartbreaks. Daton doesn’t need to be strong enough for both of us. I’ve been telling him that, but it’s time for me to practice what I preach and be strong enough to endure whatever Amada will toss on us. And she will. I have no doubt that she will—that is, if we get to see another sunset.
I turn to face him. He is so bare in front of me. It’s as if I can see into his soul. His beautiful, damaged soul. My lips crash onto his, and I kiss him. Ever so slowly, his tongue licks my lips, then enters my mouth and swirls against my tongue. Then slowly, he undresses me, kissing every new piece of skin revealed in the process. He showers me with openmouthed kisses. First at my shoulder, then my arm. His hands palm my breasts, and I buckle, needing more. But he doesn’thurry. His mouth moves back to my neck, his tongue licking, his teeth nipping gently. It’s torture but of the sweetest kind.
I repay him by nearly tearing his clothes off, and he laughs at my eagerness. He is magnificent, all muscle and strength. Dark hair trails from his chest to his abdomen and lower still. He looks at me, at my naked form, his eyes lingering on my breasts. My nipples harden painfully under his gaze. And he doesn’t laugh anymore. His eyes darken with desire, and as they travel down to the apex of my thighs, his throat bobs as he swallows. So slowly, he lifts his eyes to mine. And I shiver as I see the hunger there. All for me.
Before I can even blink, he sweeps me into his arms and carries me to the pallet. It should be ridiculous. The tent is so small. It’s barely two steps to the pallet. But it doesn’t feel ridiculous. It makes me feel safe and cherished.
