Ensnared: An Alien Romance Trilogy (The Spider’s Mate Book 1)

Hunching over the work slab, Ketahn carefully drew the thin bone needle through the fabric again. Since being pressed into battle during Zurvashi’s war, he’d neither woven nor sewn anything so intricate as this. The weaving was easily the finest of his life. But it was this shaping, this stitching, that would determine his ultimate success.

Holding the stitching taut with the tip of a claw, he tied off the thread, ensuring it was as secure as possible.

Delicately, he plucked up the fabric, suspending it from its corners. The silk was pure white, but it had a particular sheen that gave it the illusion of being sheer. The folds and cut of the fabric were unlike anything he’d ever seen worn by any female vrix—and that was all the better, because Ivy was unlike any female vrix.

This was not meant to be worn as a wrap, draped over a head or a shoulder, or hung from a belt. This was a dress, and it was for Ivy alone.

He brushed the side of his thumb across the simple patterns with which he’d adorned the fabric; they mimicked the web that held up his den.

Ivy was no vrix, but why should she not go about clad in silk? Why should her skin not be caressed by the finest cloth that could be woven by vrix hands? She was a slight, delicate creature. Better Ketahn’s silk than the tattered clothing she’d been wearing since he’d taken her from the pit.

He slipped his lower hands under the bottom of what she’d called the skirt, sliding them slowly upward until they were at the dress’s waist, where the fabric was cinched tighter. Curling his fingers, he touched the tips of his claws together, forming a rough oval with his hands. He hoped this would be the proper size; he’d made all the measurements by recalling the parts of Ivy’s body compared to his own.

She would look beautiful in this dress, especially with her long, golden hair loose around her shoulders. He hoped it would match the flare of her hips properly, that it would not too greatly constrict her breasts, that she would find it comfortable.

His excitement to give her this gift had overcome even his distaste for Takarahl. Ketahn had not been so inspired in years, at least—but more likely he’d never been so inspired in all his life.

And this fabric was perfect for Ivy. Despite appearing thin and delicate, it was resilient and durable. Like his little human, it was far stronger than it looked.

Using all four hands, he attempted to fill out the dress as though she were wearing it, but he knew that would never come close to the real thing. If he were to leave soon, he could reach the den a little after sunfall, and he could see Ivy wearing this dress beneath the light of the moons. Though were he to be truthful to himself, even that was too long a wait.

Ketahn laid the dress on the work slab and set to it with needle and thread again to complete the final strip of web pattern, working with care and precision despite his impatience—and despite the torrent of thoughts and emotions that had been threatening to flood his mind since he’d left for Takarahl in the middle of the night.

His thoughts in the days following their journey to the waterfall had been…heavy. Though he’d not understood everything Ivy had told him, he’d drawn more than enough meaning from her words to feel as though he and she were connected in ways he could never have imagined. By the Eight, he understood her desire for change, for an escape from the past. He understood her longing for something new.

Was it foolish to believe that he and Ivy were, to each other, that something new for which they’d both yearned?

One thought had risen to the surface of his mind repeatedly these last few days—he’d never wanted a mate. Wanted.

That was no longer true, and it had nothing to do with Zurvashi.

What difference did human and vrix make? Ivy was his. She would be his mate—his nyleea.

He did not intend to give her any reasonable option but acceptance. If she had not realized it already, Ketahn would show Ivy that he was the only male worthy of her on this world or any other.

Something else had happened during those days, something he’d not been able to explain—something that had only intensified his desire for Ivy. Her scent had been growing stronger, fuller, sweeter. Though similar to the fragrance of her arousal, this was different…and, in its own ways, had been more maddening, piercing straight to his deepest instincts and constantly challenging his already tenuous self-control.

This was quickly surpassing a mere desire to mate and becoming a need.

He’d left the den today for two reasons—to deliver meat and make her dress. But he could not deny that escaping Ivy’s increasingly potent scent was a welcome boon. Though he longed to fill his lungs with it even now, the time away had allowed him to recover his senses a little. That was good. He didn’t want to frighten her by falling into a frenzy—but more, he didn’t want to hurt her. As small as she was, as fragile as she was, it did not seem likely that she would make it through mating uninjured, even were he not in a frenzied state.

Yet another day in his den, breathing her in, would’ve shattered his resolve.

Ketahn made the final stitch, tied it off, and trimmed the thread. Tucking the needle against his palm, he smoothed his hands over the dress, flattening the fabric. It was impossible not to see Ivy’s pale, smooth skin in his mind’s eye as he did so, impossible not to imagine this silk sliding over the curves of her breasts, settling over her hips, brushing along her—

A sound in the tunnel outside the den caught his attention, just different enough from the dully echoing conversations and the noise of crafters doing their work—a whisper of movement, legs sliding over stone. He looked over his shoulder toward the den’s entrance.

The silk hanging in the entryway swung aside. Ketahn quickly folded the dress to obscure its shape as Rekosh slipped into the den, the cloth falling back into place behind him.

Rekosh tilted his head, mandibles slowly squeezing closed. “I must have pricked my hide one time too many, or else I am bearing witness to a spirit. The real Ketahn would have departed long ago.”

Ketahn chittered and turned to face Rekosh, bracing his hands on the work slab and shielding the dress with his body. “Perhaps he did, and I am but a reflection of your loneliness, Rekosh.”

“Loneliness?” Rekosh huffed and moved toward his pile of furs and silk, lifting his tool-laden sash off as he went. “I speak to more vrix in a day than can be counted.”

“I am aware. And they share a great many whispers, I am sure. But those are not the same, are they?”

“So, you are the true Ketahn,” Rekosh said with a chitter, “for only he seeks to pierce so deep with every thrust.”

“You bite, I claw. Is that not the way it has always been?”

Rekosh plucked his blackrock knife out of the pouch before placing the sash on a carved stone shelf. He reached to a nearby basket with one hand, lifted the lid, and removed a piece of moonblossom fruit from within. “Have ever I treated you with anything short of the greatest respect and admiration, my friend?”

Ketahn’s mandibles twitched upward, but he stopped them before they could rise more than a finger’s span; he’d been about to smile. Smiles were only for Ivy. Other vrix would not understand. “Yes. Most every time we have spoken.”

“You know me nearly as well as your broodsister does.” Rekosh sliced open the fruit’s thick skin with his knife.

“Ahnset certainly does know you well. That is why she avoids you, Rekosh.”

“I cannot argue that.” Cutting a wedge out of the fruit, Rekosh lifted it to his mouth, caught it between his teeth, and tore the soft meat from the rind. “Perhaps I should embrace my loneliness, as you have, and go live in some mire out in the Tangle.”

“Take care, Rekosh. You may find the idea of such a life too appealing to resist, should you consider it for long.”

Rekosh sliced out another piece of fruit and slipped it into his mouth, regarding Ketahn as he did so. He folded his lower arms across his abdomen and leaned a shoulder against the wall. “What has truly brought you out of your exile today, Ketahn?”

Ketahn’s fingers curled, and his claws scraped stone. If he’d not told Ahnset when she was twenty segments away from Ivy, he wasn’t going to tell Rekosh now, but…he did not like withholding information from his friends and broodsister. It seemed to defile the trust they’d all built with each other over their lifetimes.

“I simply felt the urge to weave.”

“Ah. Understandable enough.” Rekosh lifted the remaining moonblossom fruit to his mouth and squeezed it, forcing the fruit within to separate from the rind and fall into his waiting gullet. Once done, he extended his red tongue, licked way the juice lingering around his mouth, and tossed the empty rind into a waste basket near the entrance. “That is, it would be understandable enough were I speaking to anyone else.”

Ketahn narrowed his eyes, fighting back a wave of tension. “What do you mean, Rekosh?”

“You have not touched a loom in years, Ketahn, and you have not entered Takarahl of your own will in nearly as long.” Rekosh snatched up a scrap of silk from the shelf and used it to wipe his hand and clean the blade of his knife. “So why would I believe that you showed up at my den before suncrest this morning and asked to use my tools because you had a sudden urge to weave?”

Raising an arm, Ketahn raked his claws through his hair until they met the tie keeping the strands pulled back. He longed for it to be Ivy’s fingers doing this. Longed to be able to say so out loud. “There is more, yes, but you must trust that I cannot share it with you.”

Rekosh’s mandibles twitched, and his posture stiffened. “You know everything between us—all of us—remains so, Ketahn. I have not once shared your secrets with anyone.”

Ketahn stepped forward and stretched a foreleg, touching it to Rekosh’s. “I know that, Rekosh. I trust you with my life, my friend, but this matter…”

“You mean to bend to her will?” Rekosh asked softly. “To…win her, as she has demanded?”

Though Ketahn understood exactly who Rekosh meant, understood exactly what Rekosh was asking, the mere thought of it was so infuriating and alarming that he couldn’t force a single word out of his throat in response. Especially being so close to…to something more with Ivy, the notion of mating Zurvashi made Ketahn’s insides tight, knotted, and heavy, made furious fires spark in his chest, made him long to sink his claws into something and tear it apart.

“We all know this High Claiming will be different,” Rekosh continued, speaking with uncharacteristic care. “All of this is building toward something, Ketahn, something…immense. And you cannot hi—”

Rekosh snapped his mouth shut at the sound of heavy steps and clinking metal in the tunnel outside, his gaze darting toward the entryway.

Ketahn’s eyes moved in the same direction, his tension intensifying eightfold. Even without seeing, he knew what those steps meant. And with each one, Rekosh’s unspoken words echoed through Ketahn’s mind.

And you cannot hide from it.

Those steps moved directly to the opposite side of the entryway; at least four females, by the sound, if not more.

The hanging cloth jerked aside, and a huge figure filled the entryway, her gold jewelry shimmering in the light cast by Rekosh’s crystal.

Prime Fang Korahla ducked low enough to peer through the opening. “Weaver, leave. Hunter, remain.”

Ketahn met Rekosh’s gaze briefly. He’d never seen his friend so tense, so concerned. He had never seen so uncertain a light gleaming in Rekosh’s eyes.

“I would never dream of disobeying,” Rekosh said, moving to the entryway. “I am not so foolish as to believe this den is my own.”

“You are the one who likes to talk, are you not?” Korahla grumbled. “Resist the urge to do so until this matter is concluded.”

The Prime Fang shifted aside to allow Rekosh through the entryway, who glanced at Ketahn over his shoulder before crossing into the tunnel and out of sight.

Ketahn backed up to the work slab again, which was just tall enough for his hindquarters to slip beneath, snatched up the dress, and held it behind his back. The queen’s approach was heavy enough that he could feel the faint vibrations of it in the stone beneath his legs before she even appeared in the entryway. Zurvashi made that opening look as though it had been sized for a hatchling.

She leaned forward and twisted her torso, her golden adornments clinking and clanging as she drew herself through the too-small opening with a brutal sort of grace that was far more the result of strength than agility.

Once she was through, her body dominated the den, seeming to fill up every bit of space, to force out all the air. Her scent crashed into Ketahn even as her eyes settled upon him; it was stronger than ever, and it poured fire into his blood that had nothing to do with his anger or hatred.

“My Claws always pass along accurate information,” she said, turning her head from side to side to glance around the small den, “but I did not believe them when they told me you had remained in Takarahl after bringing meat.”

Ketahn’s fist curled around the dress, but he stilled it before he could strengthen his hold any further. He would not damage it, no matter how overwhelming his emotions became—no matter how overwhelming the queen’s scent became.

Zurvashi extended an arm and flattened her palm against the wall to the side of Ketahn’s head. She didn’t even have space enough to straighten her arm fully. “You seem tense, little Ketahn. Did you think I would not know? You can do nothing in Takarahl of which I will not be informed. This city is mine. You are mine.”

He tipped his head back to glare up at her, keeping his shoulders squared and the dress securely in hand. “If I have learned anything during my time in the Tangle, Zurvashi, it is that nothing is certain.”

“Do you truly believe that, Ketahn, even though you know me?” She leaned closer, caging him in by bracing another arm on the wall to his other side. “I am the queen. I will have what I desire. That is certain.”

Her nearness forced Ketahn backward. His hindquarters scraped along the underside of the work slab, his back bumped into the slab’s hard edge, and he was forced to bend his rear legs to harsh angles to fit them in the limited space. “So you have said more times than I care to count. Loudly enough that every vrix in the Tangle is sure to have heard by now.”

“Then heed me, my little hunter.” She leaned closer still, close enough that her mouth was less than a handspan from Ketahn’s cheek and one of her mandibles brushed his neck. “The High Claiming will be upon us in four days. You know what I expect, and I will have little patience to spare should you fail to fulfill my desires.”

He could smell nothing but her scent; it had become the very air around him, and it would either suffocate him or drive him into a frenzy right there. Her touch made his hide itch with unpleasant heat, and her breath was harsh against his skin.

Ketahn’s arm trembled as he clamped the dress tighter. It was for Ivy, and Ivy was the one he wanted. Ivy was the one to whom he would be bound. He focused on the fabric, on its texture, its softness, on its connection to Ivy—on his connection to Ivy. And, slowly, the influence of Zurvashi’s scent faded. It was not the fragrance he longed for. It was the not the fragrance he craved.

It would not be the fragrance that broke his resolve.

The queen grasped Ketahn’s arm—the one tucked behind his back—and tugged it forward. His hearts stuttered with a fresh flare of heat, and it took every bit of his willpower to prevent himself from raising his arms and legs in challenge.

She leaned back as she forced his arm up, moving the folded dress into the scant space between them. “This had best be part of your efforts toward that end, Ketahn.” With one of her free hands, she grabbed the dress and yanked it, tearing the fabric.

That sound filled the den with crushing finality, more stunning and penetrating than a crash of thunder from directly overhead.

Everything within Ketahn stilled. Hatred and rage roared at the core of his spirit, flooding his muscles with pure, raw, bloodthirsty strength. In his mind’s eye, he surged forward to attack the queen.

But in reality, he just kept glaring at her, making no effort to disguise his emotions—and every effort to prevent himself from succumbing to them.

Zurvashi chittered; the sound was bitter, arrogant, and spiteful all at once. “It will take much more than a scrap of silk to fulfill your duty, Ketahn. I suggest you busy yourself. No more hiding in the jungle. No more pretending you have a choice.” She lifted one of her lower hands, pressed the pad of a finger to the underside of his jaw, and forced his head back farther. “I will see you soon, sweet one.”

She flicked her finger off him, clipping his chin with her claw and producing a flare of pain that was immediately drowned out by his fury. Releasing her hold on the torn dress, she shoved away from the wall, turned, and squeezed her way out into the tunnel, almost ripping down the cloth over the entryway in the process.

Ketahn watched her silk cloths ripple, her muscles bunch and stretch, and her golden ornaments gleam. He watched her, and he longed to snatch up his spear and plunge it into her back. So long as he could hit one of her hearts, she was unlikely to survive…and then his death would have been worthwhile.

But he cast that idea aside when his gaze fell upon the dress. He lifted it as the entryway covering fell into place and the heavy steps of Zurvashi and her guards started down the tunnel, staring at the torn silk, the ruined pattern.

All this anger, all this hate, all this pain, and what could he do with it? Of what use was it to him?

Mandibles twitching in agitation, Ketahn turned away from the entrance and laid the dress upon the work slab, spreading it to assess the damage. He ran his fingers delicately along the tear. It could be fixed—more importantly, it could be fixed without leaving much sign of the damage.

The hanging cloth rustled, and legs rasped over the floor.

“Are you all right, Ketahn?” asked Rekosh.

“Yes,” replied Ketahn distractedly as he reached for fresh thread.

“You do not seem yourself…”

Something warm tickled Ketahn’s chin. One of his hands snapped up, catching the drop of blood that fell from the small cut the queen had inflicted just before it could land on the pristine silk of the dress. Ketahn stared at the blood on his palm.

How much more would Zurvashi wring out of him before this was all done?

“Not another damned drop,” he growled.

“What did you say?” Rekosh asked, shifting closer.

Once again, Zurvashi was keeping Ketahn from his Ivy for much longer than he’d hoped, but he would not return to his female empty handed. He would not allow the queen to deny his mate-to-be anything—not this dress, and certainly not Ketahn himself.

Ketahn closed his fingers over the blood and pressed the back of that hand against his chin to stem the blood flow. “I need to use your tools a while longer, my friend.”