Page 12 of Bred By Sor'en

Pheor’aya and Fam’ora, our twin goddesses, are said to be equal in all things, not quite mates, not only sisters, two halves of a larger whole. Balance. They created the Xyreliths to force that balance so that we might right some disturbance within the universe.

We tried.

We were hunted.

Hoarded.

Used.

We do not seek balance outside of ourselves any longer. We’d stopped solars before I was even born.

“Wait, where are you taking me?”

My mate's soft, angry voice brings me back to myself, but I don’t answer her, for fear something unbalanced would leave my throat. If my people knew the way their honored botanist had acted… if they knew I had left…

“Stop! I don’t want to go outside!”

“Hush,” I urge her, running an oil-slick palm back up her rounded bottom.

What was the universal slang for it?

Ah yes, herass.

I like herass. It is soft and warm. The females of my kind are not soft in that way, not that I have ever lain with one. Nor did I find myself wanting to.

“I know you would not have chosen this, chosen me, but it is up to the goddesses. You are mine now, you must—”

“No! Put me down!”

Her voice pitches up, her hands bracing on my back to leverage away. She will feel better after she sees what I have done. She will be proud of her mate. My gardens are the best we have had in two passings. She needs only—

Her little fists slam feverishly into my back. “Stop! Please, I was supposed to wait! I’m supposed to wait for her! Please, please, please don’t—”

Ignoring her feverish rantings as I cross the threshold, plopping her gently down onto the cool grass, waiting intently as she locks up, her entire body goes stiff. Big, heavy tears gather in her eyes anew. My chest giving a hardened pang at the sight of them. I am not being a good mate, but the gods have given her to me.

A human.

She must learn of her place here, the importance of it, even if I can’t yet force the words to my lips.

My palms capture her head, forcing it softly out toward the Lyr’lumara Fields that surround our dwelling. “This is your home, my mate. It is beautiful.” The words sound different in my throat, thick like a plea.

A loud keening sound leaves her. The agony in that singular sound making me flinch. If I hadn’t been looking right at her pod-colored eyes, I’d swear she’d been wounded. Such an open show of emotion is… fascinating as much as it is distressing. I gather the sheet around her better, not that anyone is here to see, but my mate’s flesh is for me alone. Hoping, if nothing else, perhaps the modesty will calm her.

“Lunareth is my home,” she whispers, her eyes swimming and cold on mine, her small hand going to that odd tooth around her neck. “I will never stay with you. Iswearit.”

A deep sigh leaves my throat as I cup her face, rubbing my thumb across her soft, plush lips. Such an odd feature, so jarring, but they felt nice on my mouth. I hope to feel them again. The oil I coated them in sets in quickly, and when my soulveil sways, I’m there to catch her.

Finally bursting from his hiding spot, Melion zips toward us in a frenzy, gathering and swelling with excitement. I offer a soft smile toward my old friend, but deep in my bones, there is a hesitation… a fear. He can feel it too, but like me, he is helpless against her already. Melion’s wide white orbs fixate on our mate as I pull her into my arms. When he reaches forward, his shadow slipping over her sleeping sheet-laden body, I shake my head. “Not yet.”

His sadness hits me all at once, the rejection of our mate souring a moment Xyreliths spend their entire lives building toward. Melion slips around me with a comforting hug before he zips toward the field, throwing himself among the flowers where those who call to him lie. Me? I stare at the ground in front of my boots, wondering if this is my divine punishment. If this is the price I pay for what I did that day so long ago on Vortara. For what I’ve done since to keep that secret buried, to keep my people safe.

I bend, nestling my face against my mate's, coating myself in her scent.

It is fitting, I suppose. A murderer to be despised by the one being who is supposed to love and adore him above all.

“Melion, come. I must tell the Balla’mar my mate has arrived.”

His concern spikes through the bond.