The hut, now that she was looking at it, was nothing more than a mud hole in the ground. The walls were not structures and were not built on scaffolding or brick. Instead, they were merely packed mud smeared with the heel of a hand, cracking where the winds had dried it too fast. The roof was nothing more than stitched thatch and canvas rustling on wooden beams. The floor, merely boards placed upon the spongy ground.
It seemed temporary, a quick fix for a bad situation.
It looked worse than a goddamn stable.
But the hut had been worked on, cleaned up with careful hands. And in the grainy dark, she could see the traces of patchwork made on a leaky roof, the planks attached to repair broken beams. The thin thread stitched through the cloth to make a curtain for the hole they called a window. It was all Riven's work, done completely alone, while the Duchess had wasted away on a straw bed, feeling sorry for herself.
Duchess Sloane had been a useless piece of shit, that was for sure.
The kitchen was nothing more than stones stacked to form a little stove, darkened by soot and grime. It held up an old pot that seemed too old from wear and tear. The fire beneath was small, fed with splinters and twigs. But it was enough to get the food cooking. The air stank of earth, of smoke, of boiling water and yet her stomach churned. Hunger never left her, even in this new world.
Riven stood over the pot, barefoot, sleeves to his elbows. He moved with ease, like someone used to the chore, knowing not to waste his time or energy. The water was already spitting from the heat, and it hissed when he dropped in the thick roots, misshapen tubers torn from the ground, still lightly browned from the dirt. Then a handful of berries, soft, overripe. The kind that would rot by morning.
And then from the corner, an earthen pot that he held to his chest like a treasure. He turned it over, pouring a rain of rice, barely enough to form a handful. She watched as the grains disappeared beneath the cloudy water and swallowed loudly. There was a bitter look in his eyes, a darkness on his face as he watched it vanish into the bubbles.
The last of the stash.
Sloane understood the look in his eyes, the set in his jaw.
He was giving up precious food for her.
And he fucking hated it.
The scent rose, thin and watery, but it was something. And her mouth filled, shamefully needy. Her body, however, did not grant her dignity, growling painfully loud in the dark. But Riven did not speak, stirring once and then twice, tapped a wooden spoon hard on the rim.
He offered it to her in a bowl of old clay, edge chipped as if someone else had dropped it from another time. It did not look like food. Grey, thin soup greeted her, so watery that she could see the grains rolling in the hot water.
But her hands trembled when she took it from him. It was not cold but warm. Hot. When had she last eaten a hot meal cooked by another? When had she tasted food that was not tainted by the rot of pollution and crusty with sand? When had she last tasted soup cooked over a goddamn stove filled with miraculous water?
A year.
It must have been at least a full year or more.
Two years?
She didn't wait to eat. The first spoon scalded her tongue, but she swallowed it down anyway. Each swallow felt golden, ringing her throat with its pleasurable warmth. The heat hurt in a good way, and her jaw ached from chewing too much, trying to taste every bit of the soup. She swallowed too hard, ate too good. Sloane must have looked fucking insane but she didn't care.
It was food.
Riven watched her, and she could feel the ooze of his gaze over her skin. He stared with a befuddled look on his face, a dip between his brows. But she could not give a damn. Sloane was going to relish her first hot meal in years.
A grain clung to her lips, and she licked it away. She scraped the bowl, gathered the last of what her spoon had missed. It did taste awful; her new tongue was not destroyed by the apocalypse. And she knew that the soup was ashy and bitter, that the root tuber had a muddy scent, and it squeaked on her teeth like chalk. She knew that the berries were too damn sour. But it was hot, and he made it for her. It was her first hot fucking meal from another person in years.
She was not fucking wasting it.
The silence stretched, and then his voice echoed.
"You've not eaten in a while."
It wasn't a question, more of a statement. His brow furrowed, not with judgment, but something quieter. Something that tasted like concern, something that felt too large for the room, too pressing. He turned to kneel by the fire, poked at the embers with a stick, although it didn't need any tending. But it gave him something to do.
"I didn't think you'd eat that willingly." There was a curl of surprise on his tongue, coloured too vividly to be just shock. "You've always had a finer palette." There was a softer pause then, a low hum. "But you were eating grass after all."
Sloane stared at him then, pulling her gaze from the empty bowl. His eyes searched hers, caught her thick in his scrutiny. Because God, that had been a feast to her, and he knew it. They both knew it. It was enough to throw him a bone of concern, to pick at the possibilities.
Alarm tightened in her throat. She'd let her guard down. Had forgotten to be careful in a new world. "Riven," she said, rolling his name on her tongue with a thickness in her throat. But her mind had huge fucking gaps in them. And if he tested her for memories she did not have, she would be discovered. A sound between a sigh and a groan resounded from her throat. "I don't remember—"
"You hit your head," he said to her. There was a crumble of vulnerability then in the ink of his eyes. No longer a sweet pink but dark in the shadows. "It seems to be worse than I expected it to be." He looked away, and she saw the word 'grass' mouthed on his lips. Her cheeks grew flushed. Fuck, he was never going to forget that.
"I hit my head," she repeated after him.
"You were drunk," he told her the story, poked at the embers, the fireplace painting his beautiful features, kissing the curve of his nose. "You've been drunk for a while. You fell, tripped over the curb." He pointed to the corner, to a root peaking from the ground. "You were unconscious for days. I kept you alive."
"Right." She accepted the story, and his eyes swerved to her, smouldering gaze intensifying. "Okay."
"There's no more money for more drink," he told her plainly, brushing too long locks back from his eyes. "The last of it was gone a long time ago. I saved what you did not use to buy the last of our rice." He pointed to the earthen pot.
There was a pause.
"Veyr," his tears shone then, sparkled in a sudden raw vulnerability. "He stopped sending money."
Sloane frowned, perplexed. "Veyr is your…"
"Our mate," Riven reminded her, tears growing wet in his eyes, falling on dewy skin. He blinked them away. There was a strange flash in his eyes then, a revulsion that came and then ebbed too quickly when he looked her way. "Veyr's our husband."
"Right," she nodded. Heart lurching at the word. Husband. She had to get used to that. The second husband. "He went to the army."
"He needed to make money for us," Riven offered to her, his body trembling. "We didn't have anything so. He went to work." Sloane detected a fleck of detest then in his voice as he stared at her, but it vanished soon after. "We're supposed to take care of our female anyway," he sniffed, lifting his palm to rub at his cheeks, but vitriol flavoured his voice, an almost snarl dripping free. His true feelings trickled in.
Her temple stung then, more knowledge crawling into her brain.
Women were rare in this world, numbering one to a hundred men. They were so rare that in a pack, it was the norm for a woman to have more than one mate. It did not matter whether or not they were weaker than the men; they were always known to be top dog, the worshipped treasure, the one to be cared for due to their rarity and fertility.
And they were always the pack Alpha, the precious leader of the pack.
Meanwhile, the men in this world could present as both sub-genders with their duties and roles. The stronger, more dominant, ruthless Alphas, known to hunt for supplies and protect their mates. And the weaker, more submissive and needy Omegas, known to care for the household and raise their family.
But in a pack hierarchy, females were still precious, still greatly valued and desired for their ability to conceive. It was widely accepted that men were supposed to care for their females. And so, all this time, it seemed that Riven had been carrying the burden of taking care of her on his back.
A murky memory twisted into her mind, a strange bitterness in her throat. The Duchess had a complex over the sub-genders. Riven had called her an Alpha, and it seemed more like a taunt than a sign of respect. Her thoughts churned. The Duchess was weaker than the other Alphas, not quite as dominating or strong. It had made her infamously pathetic to everyone everywhere.
But what was Riven's sub-gender?
The question burned in her mind. Another blank.
She nudged her head to the remains in the pot on the fire. "You should eat too," she said. "It's the last of the rice, isn't it?" His eyes flickered, turned to her with a glare.
"I guess?" Riven shrugged, but there was a glint in his eyes, an angry sigh on his tongue. He was growing bolder, knowing that Sloane had lost memories. And the submissive rabbit in the forest was now gone, replaced by a sullen, irritated bunny. "I can just beg for it." He made a face, a pout on his lower lip as he turned back to glare into the fire. Beg. The word echoed in her head. Had he been begging for scraps from the villagers?
"We'll find more food," she pushed. "Just eat it. You need your strength."
"Find more food?" he turned to look at her incredulously. "Alpha, how?" His voice rose to a taunt, an almost sneer etched onto his features. He'd make a good villain, if not for how goddamn devilishly handsome he was, squatting in a potato sack and still looking like a God. He blew a breath, shoulders slumped as he vibrated, foot tapping on the ground, ears folding. "I'll just save it for you for later. I don't want you to die."
"I won't die," she said, oddly touched that he cared. "I'll find something in the forest outside for us to eat."
And Riven barked out another laugh, the sound twisting from his throat like a taunt. But he took the pot and swallowed it all down without another word, eyes sliding to look at her as he drank. She knew what he thought of her.
Fool.
Idiot.
Dumbass.
She merely shot him a pleasant smile.
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