“And sex in a web?” I ask, unable to keep a smile from tugging at my lips.
His mandibles click in his version of a chuckle. “That’s actually part of compatibility testing. A rather important part.”
I run my fingers along the edge of the silk hammock, aware of his eyes tracking my every movement. “And these nests? They’re part of the process too?”
“They’re the culmination,” he says, his voice dropping lower. “The place where a bonded pair would spend their most intimate moments. Where they would…” He hesitates.
“Where they would what?”
“Where they would cement their life bond,” he finishes. “Through a ritual exchange of silk and… other things.”
“You made these a while ago,” I observe. “When you had no reason to believe you’d ever find a mate.”
“Hope and biological imperative are powerful motivators,” he admits. “Even for a reclusive monster.”
I meet his gaze steadily. “You’re not a monster, Riven. You’re a masterful artist who happens to have eight legs and the ability to create the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen.”
He moves closer, his massive form casting me in shadow. “And if the artist wants to create with you as his medium? To wrap you in his silk and display you at the center of his web?”
A hot shiver runs through me. “I’d say the artist has excellent taste.”
Instantly, he lifts me from the ground and deposits me in the center of the nearest silk hammock. The material cradles me, conforming to my body like nothing I’ve ever experienced.
Riven looms above me, his eight legs creating a cage around the hammock, his eyes gleaming in the bioluminescent light.
“Do you know what I see when I look at you, June Hartwell?” he asks.
I manage a weak shake of my head.
“I see every micro-expression, every dilation of your pupils, every flush of blood beneath your skin.” He leans closer. “Right now, I see desire. Arousal. Anticipation.”
“What else?” I whisper.
“Trust,” he says, sounding faintly surprised. “You’re not afraid of me. Not even here, in the heart of my territory, completely at my mercy.”
“Should I be?”
He hesitates. “Most humans would be terrified to be where you are now.”
I reach up and feel the alien texture of his cheek. “I’m not most humans.”
“No,” he agrees, his voice a low vibration that resonates through the silk hammock. “You’re exceptional.”
He leans down, his shadow falling over me completely, enclosing us in our own private world within the vast cavern. The light of his tapestries becomes our stars, the cool cave air our atmosphere. He smells of stone and ancient pines.
“Being exceptional has consequences,” he murmurs, his face just inches from mine. One of his lower, more dexterous limbs lifts, the sharp point of his leg hovering over me before it descends with impossible gentleness to trace the line of my collarbone, just above the fabric of my shirt.
Every nerve ending in my body lights up at the touch. “What consequences?” I manage to whisper, my own voice sounding foreign and far away.
“You understand what happens now, don’t you? In this place. In my nest.”
“You’re going to make me yours,” I say, the words both a breathless question and a hopeful prayer.
“I’m going toclaimyou,” he corrects, the distinction sharp and thrillingly possessive. “I’m going to mark you so thoroughly that every fiber of your being sings my name for the rest of your days. Last time? I was still courting you, proving my fitness as a mate. Now, I intend to claim you.”
From a specialized gland on the inside of his wrist, he pulls out a single, perfect strand of silk. It isn’t the silvery-white of his webs or the pearlescent sheen of my pajamas. This is a deep, lustrous burgundy, the color of the cashmere scarf he bought for me, glowing with a soft internal light. It looks alive.
“This,” he explains, his voice hushed with reverence, “is bonding silk. It’s only produced for a mate. It is a part of my body, a piece of my soul given form.”
