“Shh,” Hemalo whispers against my mane. He strokes my back, over and over again. “I have you.”

For some reason, that just makes me cry harder. He does not have me. He has left me. I only found him because I came after him. I cannot stop weeping. “Everything I love leaves me.”

“I am here.” His big hand rests on my lower back, and then he squeezes my side. “Feel me against you.”

I shake my head, so sad that I feel it deep in my soul. “You left me, too. Always, you leave me.”

“Is that what you think?” His big hand cups my jaw, and he forces me to look up into his eyes. There is such sadness there, sadness and love, and it makes me ache all over again. “You think I choose to leave you?”

I feel his tail trying to twine with mine, and I flick it away. I push at his shoulder. “What should I think? When I need you the most, you turn your back to me. Twice you have done it now! You left me after Hashala died, and you have left me again now that we resonate? Tell me what I am supposed to think of that.” My voice grows in strength with anger and hurt.

He stares at me for a long, long time, saying nothing.

“What?” I say, feeling defensive.

Hemalo sighs. “I am a fool. I should have explained myself.”

“That would be nice,” I say tartly, though I do feel better to hear him call himself a fool. It is what I have called him in private, after all.

He brushes his knuckles over my cheek, and I want to start crying again at how good it feels to have that small, loving touch. “I left you because I care for you.”

“That makes no sense,” I tell him, pushing his hand away. “Only a fool would say such a thing.”

“Perhaps so, but it was how I chose to help.” The look in his eyes is so sad. “I left our mating because my presence made you angry. Every time you looked at me, you were full of fury. You attacked me with words, and you sought the furs of others. It made me feel like my presence at your side was making things worse. I thought maybe if you had time to yourself, time to heal, then you would come back to me.” He gazes at me with such love that it feels as if he is touching my cheek all over again, even though his hand is not moving. “And even if you did not come back to me, if you were happy, I could live with that. It is your sadness that tears me apart.”

I swallow hard. What he says is true. I was not a good mate. After Hashala died, I was numb. And then, I got angry. I lashed out at everyone, but most especially at him. If Hemalo said anything to me, I attacked. If he looked at me wrong, I spat ferocious words at him. I kicked him from my furs. I destroyed his leathers and his work when I was upset, which was often. “I was a terrible mate. But I felt you were not even trying to understand me.”

“I was not,” he agrees softly. “I was lost in my own grief. I wanted you to turn to me for comfort, and instead, you turned away and made me your enemy. I felt as if I lost both my kit and my mate in the same day.”

That hurts. It hurts the most because he’s not wrong. I did not think about his pain, only my own. The apology I want to say sticks in my mouth, though. It is hard for me to unbend, to accept that I have been the terrible one in this mating. That he was quietly trying to be there for me and I pushed him away. It does not make me feel good. So I tell him the only thing that comes to mind. “I never went to another’s furs.”

“If another male would make you happy, I would give you to him,” Hemalo says gently. “I know you have never wanted to be with me.”

I open my mouth to protest, but have I not said the very same words to him in anger? Before we mated, I enjoyed flitting from the furs of one male to another. I liked being coveted by every hunter in the tribe and choosing to bestow my favor. I never looked at Hemalo, because he was always quiet, never loud or demanding. He was content to stand in the background. When we resonated, the entire tribe was shocked, but no one more so than I. It was like I had seen him for the first time when my khui sang to his. At first, I was upset. Why did I not get one of the strong, brash hunters that flirted with me? Why did I get the quiet tanner who was content to stand in the background?

But resonance chooses. And I think it chose wisely for me. Over time, I grew to appreciate that Hemalo was steady and quiet. I learned to like his soft smiles and gentle voice. I liked that he was content to let me shine while he stood behind me. We never competed for attention, he and I. Hemalo is happy to let me take the lead. I did not realize how pleasant it was and how right for me he was until I lost him. Everyone else in the tribe eventually irritates me with their words or their demands. Not Hemalo.

Perhaps I pushed so hard against him after Hashala died because he did not fight. Because he did not rage like me. He was quiet in his sorrow, because he is always quiet. Why am I just now seeing this? Why did it take me so long to recognize that because he is different than me in personality, he will grieve differently than me, too?

I feel ashamed. “I might not have picked you at first, but you are the only one I can see myself with. You are the one that is right for me…except that you keep leaving,” I add, unable to resist jabbing at him. “Twice now you have abandoned me.”

He gives me a small, rueful smile that makes my belly flutter. “It is because the throbbing here,” he begins and presses my hand over his heart, “means that it makes the throbbing here,” he says as he leads my hand to his cock, “unbearable.”

“Do you think it’s more bearable for me if you leave?” I retort, and stroke his cock through his leathers just to be spiteful. And maybe because I enjoy teasing him. Maybe. I feel a shiver move through my body as he hardens under my grip, and his khui begins to sing even louder. I cannot resist touching him, just like I cannot stop the wetness that creeps between my thighs.

“I thought of Jo-see, actually,” Hemalo says.

That stops me cold. I lift my hand, frowning. “Jo-see?” That small, chattery human?

He nods. “Jo-see left and she was able to bear not mating to Haeden for almost a full turn of the moon. I thought perhaps if I left, it would give you time to adjust to the idea of being my mate again. That I could return when you were ready.”

It is the sweetest—and most ridiculous—thing I have ever heard. “That is foolish.”

He sighs and rubs his brow. “I seem to think many foolish things around you.”

“This is true. Why did you not talk to me?”

“You think I do not wish to talk? I talk. It is you that does not wish to listen.”

I scowl at him. “You never talk to me. You never tell me what you are thinking. You force me to guess, and I guess wrong. I would never tell you to leave our cave, and I would never tell you to walk away when we resonate! It solves nothing!”

“You never talk to me, either. You think it is easy for me to see you hurting and when I try to find out what is bothering you, you turn me away? You snarl at me and push me aside? You never tell me how you feel. I am your mate. Your happiness is everything to me. You think it does not wound my heart when you want nothing to do with me?”

I glare at him, but the tears come again, because I know he is right. I am not good at expressing myself when I get angry. I shut down and hide away. “I will try harder,” I grit out, and it sounds very sullen, even to my own ears.

“All I want is for you to talk to me when you are troubled or when you are hurting.”

“I am hurting right now,” I say hoarsely, thinking of Shasak out in the cold with his dirty, hungry mother. More tears start to flow from my eyes, and I cannot help myself. My lower lip quivers, and then I bury my face against his neck again, because it is too much for me to handle.

“I know you are.” He strokes my mane, his hands and voice soothing. “You are full of love and want a kit of your own. You want to be a mother.”