Nothing. Just wind and my own desperate sounds.
By dawn, the ground around me shows the evidence of my struggle. Scratches where my new claws dug into earth. The stone is dark with sweat and the evidence of my body's constant preparation. My fingers are cramped from hours of futile effort, my core sore but still desperately empty.
He said tomorrow. The promise hangs in the air like a lifeline.
But there's something else in the air now. Another scent, fainter than his but definitely male. Different. Younger.
Something else is hunting these grounds, and my scent is drawing more than just my intended mate.
MARA
Day 4 - Dawn
I wake to evidence of my failed night—the ground around me destroyed by desperate clawing, blood dried under my fingernails from scratching at stone and skin alike. The rock beneath me shows deep gouges where my new claws tore through volcanic glass in frustration. Dark stains mark where I ground myself against anything that might provide relief, finding nothing but hollow friction.
My body screams with need that goes deeper than thirst, deeper than hunger. The tonic has rewired every nerve ending, made me hypersensitive to everything while denying me the specific stimulation I crave. Three days of this torture, and I'm coming apart.
“Morning, little female.”
The voice comes from above. I look up to see him silhouetted against the orange sky, balanced on the ledge like he's been watching me destroy myself all night. Probably has been.
“Khor.” His name tastes strange on my tongue, alien syllables that the translator makes familiar.
“You remember. Good.” He drops down to my level, landing silent despite his size. This close, I can see the ridge of spinesalong his back flexing with subtle movement. “You look... desperate.”
“Go to hell.”
“Tell me your name.”
The request catches me off-guard. “What?”
“Your name. If you want what your body is begging for, tell me who you are.”
“Mara.” It comes out hoarse, broken. “Mara Barnov.”
“Mara of where?”
I almost say Detroit, but that's not right anymore. Detroit is a dying city on a dying world that I'll never see again. “Nowhere. Mara of nowhere.”
“Mara of nowhere.” He tilts his head, considering. “I am Khor of the Obsidian Ridge. And you, Mara of nowhere, are going to run for me.”
“What's the point? You'll just catch me.”
“The point is that you need to understand what happens when you run toward something instead of away from it.” He backs toward the canyon entrance. “Five minutes. Then I follow.”
“And if I don't run?”
“Then you spend another day like last night. Clawing stone until you bleed. Finding no relief.”
The casual cruelty in his voice makes something snap inside me. I'm moving before I can think, scrambling down from the ledge and running toward the canyon maze spread before me.
The maze is a labyrinth carved by ancient water, passages that branch and twist through volcanic rock. I choose the widest path first, feet slapping against stone still cool from desert night. My lungs burn in the thin air, but the tonic has changed even my respiratory system. I can run longer than should be possible.
The first passage leads to a wall of fallen stone. Recent collapse, judging by the sharp edges and loose rubble. Ibacktrack, choose another route. This one narrows gradually until I'm squeezing sideways through a gap barely wide enough for my shoulders.
Behind me, the sound of claws on stone. Measured. Patient. He's not hurrying.
The narrow passage opens into a wider chamber, but every exit leads upward at impossible angles. I test the walls, looking for handholds. The volcanic glass is too smooth, too sharp. Blood from my palms makes everything slippery.
