Page 7 of Taken to Nobu
A scrap of movement floats between ice and sky, as if carried by the mist herself. I charge for it, using my skills on the ice developed and honed since I was a kit when I learned to glide atop water and swim beneath it at the same time that I learned to walk. My chest is burning with the Xanaxana I have so cautiously repressed this past rotation without my Xiveri mate. Now it is fully unleashed and unrepentant.
A snarl disintegrates the composed male I once was. I feel light burst from the ridges above my eyes in an unbecoming display of emotion, but I do not attempt to tamp it. I will let her see just what it is that she does to me.
She cloaked her scent from me, and I am still savaged by the fact that I was not the first male to root her out. I sate myself with the knowledge that though I may not have been the first male to have found her, I will be the last.
Thoran’El discovered her first in the mire and was the male that delivered the bite in my side, but I do not know what he was thinking, attempting to challenge me for her. Did he not know that it would take much more than claws ripping through flesh to slow me in my pursuit? Did he not know that I would take his plates just for his attempt? I will not be shamed by him or any male. Not before her.
Nox, my Xiveri mate, my Xhea, my Va’Rakukanna, my warrior queen, does not demand weakness. I must be worthy of her and this I must do in thehumancustom. I must not only defeat males of my own tribe, but I must best her in battle as well. The thought makes my chest swell. The custom is not mine, but I feel honored to be able to meet her on the battle plain and prove to her in her own traditions that I am the male that she seeks.
Wind whips my hair into a rage around my face as I close the distance to her by half, and then by half again. She must sense my approach for she glances over her shoulder and begins to slow. I slow in response, proceeding with greater caution as I watch in wait for her body to face me. When it does, I am not prepared for it. Neither for the heat of her fire nor the depth of her beauty.
Even caked in pink mire and the copper blood of my kind, the sight of her catches me. I stumble. I am my nation’s Okkari and yet, I stumble before my queen like an infant.
I could say it is her eyes, as dark as screa and just as cutting. Hard. Scalding. And somehow that makes the beauty of them all the more potent. The sharpness of that heat-filled gaze against the delicate curve of her cheek. They sit slightly rounded and high before tapering to a smooth chin.
Her mouth is large. Obscenely so. I have never seen a female with pillows on her mouth like these. And stranger still, they contrast the darkness of her skin with a lightness not found in Voraxian biology. Much lighter than the mire, they are the palest pink — a color that could be interpreted as either mild anger or fear, even embarrassment. It makesmeembarrassed to see it, as if I am seeing something sacred, a permission not yet given. But I do not look away.
Even in her swollen garments, I have seen no greater beauty. The cloud of her hair is tucked away inside the hood of her coat, but I remember what it had been like to see it, and the rest of her, fully bare on the hot, gritty sands of that human moon. Full breasts, a taut abdomen, delicate collar bones…
My Xaneru had wept for her and the Xana had pulled at me, daring the Xanaxana to come forth. I had locked it down and battered it back, knowing that my Raku would never have allowed me to take home my Xiveri bride when he was denied his own. I am a strong warrior, a disciplined Va’Raku and a fair Okkari and it had taken every ounce of power I had to not challenge the younger Raku there. But I had resisted. And I have already used up the reserves of that resistance. What is left behind is but a tendril, a thread, diminishing smoke.
My xora is in a state and all three of my stones pulsate beneath it. Clenched hard against my body, they do not care that the winter winds of the tundra are enough to douse even the brightest flame and take life from the strongest warrior. I had never been foolish enough to consider braving it, but for her, I’d have continued on until the last breath left my lungs. Not even for her, but for the promise of her. For her in the flesh, watching me with the hatred in her eyes that she carries, I’d do much more. I feel as if I am Okkari no longer.Nox, I am Kinan. The male I was before I took my title. The boy.
“What are you waiting for?” Her voice rips from her lungs and even though I can sense she is shouting, the words arrive to me bitter and torn. They are a battle cry, I sense, a challenge. My Xiveri mate is not to be disappointed.
I charge.
She jerks, as if surprised by my speed, but she does not run. Warriors far larger and more fearsome than she have withered beneath the coming of the Okkari. I am known. But she does not know me. So she fights me without context, without history. A fight I have not fought since I was a kit.Since I was Kinan. I am impressed, proud and above all else, grateful.
My human lunges out of my path. As she dives, I snag a swatch of her muddy sleeve. She brings her right arm across my wrist hard enough to break my hold. I feel white flash along my ridges, followed by a splash of black and on its heels, a wave of green — surprise, bloodlust, amusement — before finally my ridges settle on a fierce orange pride.
The wind picks up speed and when I grab for her, she ducks and I catch only fluttering ice crystals. She holds both fists at her chin, just below her eyeline and though I understand the posture, I have never before seen a female assume it. This is why, when she strikes, my hands are lowered and my torso is left exposed. She strikes me.My warrior queen is savage.
The pressure is enough to slow my advance when she strikes me again with her other hand, I realize she is adual handedwarrior. I am impressed. Not all of my most seasoned warriors are and yet she attacks me with both hands and with confidence.
I block the second attack with my forearm, but she uses her legs. She kicks up — or tries to, but she is limited in her mobility by the thick padding that covers her, weighted by water and filth. I had feared it was not enough when I allowed the elder females to clothe her for the Mountain Run and I worry still.
She comes from a planet equally harsh but entirely opposite, plagued by suns that whither their fauna to sand and dust, whereas we on Nobu almost never see Voraxia’s suns for our world has been claimed by ice that covers everything. Even the sky. My warrior queen is likely cold down to her bones.
Her eyes are slits and I see the way her lower jaw trembles, teeth chattering against the upper in a way that resembles the younglings in their first encounters with weather like this.
She grunts when she kicks and I can tell it is work for her. She is too slow to make contact with my groin and as her left leg lifts, I sweep her standing leg and lurch forward, catching the back of her head and her waist before she hits the ground.
She does not attempt to dislodge my hold on her body — my Xhea is too smart for that. Rather, she punches up, striking me squarely in the face. Immediately after her first strike, she repeats her attack until I feel the skin around my mouth break open on her fist and I taste my own viscous blood. White and then black, green and then yellow are the colors of my ridges once more.This combination of my emotions will know her well. She pleases me to no end. Even as she strikes.
I do not dare drop her, but let her punch me twice more — once against my right eye and I feel the skin above my ridges tingle at her punch, but when she hits my left cheek, I hear a slight crack and watch her expression twist into one of pain. Furious that she would bring injury to herself, I growl out my displeasure and the delicate hairs on her eyelids flutter in a way that sends pulses fluttering through me.
I hiss so loudly she flinches, and in her hesitation, I lower her all the way to the icy ground below and plant my palms on either side of her head. Her momentary calm lasts only until I position my lower body on top of hers and she registers my weight.
She resumes her fight in earnest now, body ripping from side-to-side, fingers forming claws even though I know they are not tipped by them. Her hands attempt to score my skin, but she is injured. I snarl. Her bottom mouth pillow shakes.
A momentary grapple ensues, in which time she is able to lift up one knee and spear it into my thigh. She makes contact with sensitive flesh and the pain is palpable, but fleeting. I feel green again, and then orange. And on my tongue, I do not taste the blood of the other males on my skin or the mud from the mire on hers, I taste zxhoa, that delicate, flowering herb. A desert canyon bathed in sunshine. The dizzying dazzle of a faraway star. I hallucinate the Great Ocean of the After and for a moment, bask on the tide.What is she doing to me? What has already been done?
Her grunt of frustration drags me into the present as I settle my weight onto her once more. My xora presses against her stomach and I feel my eyes roll back into my skull. The pressure is not something I instinctively know how to fight through. Rather, every instinct in my body is screaming its demands. Demands for release. The Xanaxana in my chest is pitching. It wants to find unity with its pair. And I am the male. The one responsible for guiding the mating. I need to move quickly or rutting fever may grip me and I need to remain in control if I am to satisfy us both for our first time together. I want to satisfy her. I want nothing more.
I reach down the length of her body, finding a small panel taught to us males that will allow my xora entry, but before I can unlace the binds, she slips her hand from beneath mine and swipes for me. I release her covering to snatch her wrist mid-air. Taking precious seconds, I fasten both of her arms over her head and hold them down at the wrist with one of my hands, careful with her injured fingers.
She continues to struggle, to seethe between her teeth. She bites at me and I have to lurch back out of the path of the strike. When I do, she wriggles more fiercely and that’s when I see and feel what she’s done.
