To the Well-Organized Mind

Chapter Thirty-Five

[Nia/Fen]

Memories are pearls. You can worry over them so much or relive them so often that even if they aren't the most perfect reflection, eventually you wear away the rough edges, smooth over inconsistent rough patches, and wind up with a personal pearl you clutch to yourself to keep yourself going in the darkest moments.

-Fen

***

[Nia]

My movement and sudden appearance into the clearing causes several reactions at once.

From Fen: "Nia?"

From the female ferals: they startle like a herd of deer, grabbing their children and moving as one to the overhang.

From the male ferals: yells and points and rushing to surround me.

From the alpha: frozen observation, spear pointed at me.

From the drummer: finally blessed, blessed silence.

Even the rain finally stops.

I stand still while the males surround me, circling me and looking me over. Though they all wear some article of clothing, most have just a single item, like a pelt looped around their neck or slung over one shoulder like a toga. Most of them are still mainly naked. My appearance is very opposite theirs, and one of the males darts closer, fingering my clothing before jumping back again in caution.

While the men examine me, I keep my eyes fixed on the alpha. He sidles closer, spear butt thudding in the ground with each step. His pushed-back shoulders and tall posture try to mask the darting eyes and flaring nostrils. He's frightened, but he won't let the others see it. When he nears me, the other males back off.

I wish I could remember his name. Saying it might distract him or jar his memory.

The alpha wears strips of pelt on each wrist like a bracelet, as well as each ankle. And that is all. The rest of him is gloriously naked, revealing his musculature and virility. He stalks and paces in front of me, showing off. I am careful to keep myself from reacting. I want to hover in the region of not being a threat, but not being cowed either.

"What are you doing? Nia, run!" Fen strains against his ties, but he is helpless.

Part of me wants to sneak a glance over my shoulder to ensure Ridge is out of sight and safe, but to do so could put him in danger. So I keep up my act, knowing that the ferals will alert me themselves if someone else appears behind me.

The alpha puts his hands on his hips, still clutching the spear with his left. Then he reaches out his right hand and grips my chin, turning my head left and right. Gritting my teeth, I allow him this freedom, even while I promise pain and torment for every bit of gloating visible on his face. If he thinks I'm some new female for his harem, he has another idea coming.

Grinning, he slaps my ass and fondles a breast roughly through my coat and clothing. The clothing disturbs him. He seems puzzled, upset even, at the sensation as he touches me. And while I can tell he wants to lord his dominance over me, he isn't anxious to touch the wet and slick material again. He holds his hand at a strange angle as if he has placed his fingers in poop and is trying to avoid contaminating the rest of his body.

He masks his discomfort by giving me a sly smile. "Mine," he says.

My mouth drops open, and I gape at him. He still has language? I'm about to try rationalizing with him when he says it again: "Minemine."

His intonation isn't quite right. He's speaking sounds that have no meaning to him, like a baby saying "Bababababa." It's just that his babbling has a root of language at their base. So I shut my mouth before I demonstrate my own language. Part of me worries that language and obvious humanity may anger them—may remind them of the people who drove them out here.