The Lion and the Mouse

by Emmy Chandler

  The sun goes down long before I'm finished harvesting my prey. I've chased off several small scavengers and have killed a couple of larger ones. They were carnivores, hunters, much like me, and I hated to waste them, but the truth was that the scraps of fur and leather I would get from those dead scavengers would not be worth leaving Syrie alone much longer.

  When I've taken what I can from my kill, I continue my work at home, packing slabs of meat in salt to cure them. Cutting fur into sections of a size that I can manage and scraping them clean. Preserving sinew for thread. Setting aside innards that I will not eat as bait for future hunts. It's a lot of work. A very long day. It's most of two days, in fact. By the time I finish, the sun has risen again and is already starting to beat back the chill of night.

  Syrie is still asleep on my bed. She's turned onto her side, favoring me with the silhouette of her hip, highlighted by the glow from the fire. I want nothing more than to fall asleep beside her, but before I can do that, I bank the fire and suspend a thick leather bowl over it. I pour fresh water into the bowl and add several large pieces of meat. They will cook slowly while I sleep, and by the time I wake, they should be tender and easy to eat, having cooked in their own broth.

  Finally, I wash my hands in the last of my clean water, then I sink down onto my bed next to Syrie. Her warmth calls to me, her scent washing over me, and my cock is instantly hard again. There's only room for me to sleep on my side, but that's fine. I haven't slept next to a woman in months, and I've never slept next to a human woman. Truthfully, she doesn’t take up much space.

  As long and thick as her dark mane is, it stays put when I brush it down with my hand to keep the individual hairs from tickling my nose. I carefully move her over so that there is space between us. So that she doesn't wake and find my hard cock pressed against her.

  And then, finally, well more than a full day after I found Syrie caught in my net and was forced to kill the ezaki the hard way, I let myself succumb to sleep.

  Something warm brushes my shoulder and I am instantly awake. Instantly on alert. Before my eyes have even opened, I seize the creature hovering over me and flip it onto its back, pinning it to my bed as I snarl.

  It thrashes beneath me, and I can hear its rapid heartbeat. Its panicked breathing. It's smaller than I expected, and—

  Woman. In my bed.

  My eyes fly open and Syrie’s face comes into focus beneath me. Is she ready to mate? Is that why she crawled onto me in my sleep? Trying to tempt me?

  No. Her eyes are wide and terrified. My hands are wrapped around both of her biceps, pinning her to the bed, and I'm straddling her thighs. Which means that my cock is pressed against her stomach. And it’s rock hard.

  “Please let me go!” she pleads, and my confusion gives way to a surprising sort of understanding. A Fetoji woman would have nipped at my shoulder, a warning bite not hard enough to break the skin, unless I refused to let her go.

  Should I have mistaken her anger for foreplay, she would have clawed and bitten me anywhere she could find tender skin, until she’d inflicted enough pain and shed enough blood to convince me that she meant business. That she was not simply trying to tempt me into seducing her roughly. Which is usually what a Fetoji woman wants, when she mounts a male—a playful role reversal.

  "I apologize," I say as I let Syrie go. I back away from the bed to give her some space, and rather than hissing at me or swiping at me with her claws—claws she clearly does not have—she immediately crawls to the far edge of my fur-covered sleep space, her back pressed against the wall. Cowering.

  She’s fucking trembling, like a scared little mouse.

  An odd sort of sympathy rolls over me. She is not aggressive and forward, like a Fetoji woman. She has no defensive features whatsoever, and she likely will not simply remove her clothing and bend over to present me with her cunt, when she is ready to be fucked.

  This woman is a beautiful, fragile, perplexing puzzle. She only seems to say what she’s truly thinking when she’s drunk on tuma tea. Yet it would not be safe for me to keep her in that state.

  "You have nothing to fear from me," I assure her.

  “Why should I believe that?” I can hear her pulse racing. “You looked like you were going to kill me. Or…something.”

  "Again, I apologize. I was deeply asleep, and I forgot that you were here. I usually wake up alone, not with someone crawling over me—" I frown at her. "Why would you crawl over a sleeping male?” In my sleep, my body registered her presence, hovering over me, as a threat. But once I was awake… “That is a surefire way to either get mated or killed.”

  “I—” She frowns. “Which of those were you intending?”

  “You moved aggressively and you smelled like a woman.” Of course I was going to fuck her. I thought that’s what she wanted. “Why did you crawl over me?”

  "Because you were draped over me like a blanket," she says. "And because you drugged me.” She tugs her shirt down to cover the strip of stomach it has ridden up to expose, and she glares up at me with accusation like daggers in her gaze. And suddenly I understand the truth.

  “You were going to leave.”

  “I was going to escape.”

  “From me? Yesterday you begged for my assistance and protection.”

  “And then you fucking drugged me, and I woke up in your bed! What did you do to me while I was asleep?"

  “I did nothing."

  She huffs, skepticism sharp in the sound. "Right. You’re hard every time you look at me, and then you drug me, but you did nothing while I was unconscious and vulnerable next to you.” The distrust in her gaze wounds me. More than I would have thought possible. “Why the hell should I believe that?"

  "Because it's true. And because I don’t even understand what it is you suspect that I did.”

  “Well, my clothes are still on, and I don’t feel like I’ve been…violated. But—”

  I mentally access the word. Only a few of the definitions make sense in this context. “Breached. Desecrated. Assaulted.” My frown deepens. They’re words for mating, but in a context unfamiliar to me. A disgusting, malicious context. “You think I would try to mate with you in your sleep? Is that done, among humans? Because for my people there would be no point in mating a woman who cannot show you how much she is enjoying your cock. Who cannot tell you how deeply she wants you to sink into her. How hard she wants to be taken.”

  “I—” She bites off the rest of her response, and her face flushes. A sudden, delicious scent blossoms from her, and my cock hardens almost painfully. She is aroused. She is wet for me, and she’s no longer asleep. Yet she shows no sign of bending over to present herself to me. Maybe women in her culture have a different signal. Maybe I can prompt her into showing me what that is.

  A soft growl rumbles up from my throat and I reach for her, my cock leading the way. But she backs away from me with both hands out. “Stop! What are you doing?”

  I stop. Then I take a step back, growling in confusion. In frustration. The things her mouth is saying are in direct conflict with the things her body is saying. I don’t understand what I’m supposed to do. “Nothing,” I growl. “I am doing nothing. Which is exactly what I did while you were sleeping.”

  “Why should I believe anything you say?"

  “Why do you keep asking me that? I've never lied to you."

  "You gave me tea that knocked me out."

  “I fail to see the relevance. How is that a lie?”

  “I—” She groans, as if the words she wants to say are somehow stuck in her throat. “It means I can’t trust you.”

  I growl again, frustrated by the suspicion in her eyes. By her obvious distrust. I’m the one who has no reason to trust her. Humans are dangerous. They are needlessly violent and duplicitous. “If anything, you should trust me more. I was protecting you.”

  “You—” She shakes her head, as if to clear an unpleasant thought. “You drugged me for my own good? Is that what you’re saying?”
/>   “Of course. I had work to do—work that could not wait—and I couldn’t risk your safety by bringing you with me. Rendering you unconscious meant keeping you from wandering off, or trying to follow me, or being scented or hunted by scavengers or other prey. It was for your own—”

  "Do not say it was for my own good,” she snaps, and I am fascinated by the change in her. When I had her pinned on my bed, she cowered like a scared little mouse, but now that she is angry, she spits like a brusha viper, warning of its deadly bite. And she is still aroused.

  If she were Fetoji, we would end this argument with a round of rough fucks, growling and nipping at each other until we’ve reached orgasm a few times. Then we would move on, having settled our disagreement. But something tells me that is not how her people work through their disputes. So I resort to more of these exhausting words.

  "But that's the truth, and I have no wish to lie to you. I helped you sleep so I could keep you safe."

  "But you can’t— You can't just drug women without their permission. That isn't fair.”

  "Fair?" Only children speak in terms of fairness. For adults, things are the way they are, and little of it is ever “fair.”

  "Yes. Fair,” she insists. “You can't treat people like—" Her mouth snaps shut. Her forehead furrows as she glances around my den. A den that will become transparent the moment the next human tour group decides it wants to see—quite literally—into my life. "Okay, I can see your point. Considering that you’re basically a live museum display, which, I admit, is pretty fucked up, I suppose your understanding of right and wrong is justifiably skewed.”

  “It is not,” I inform her, and I can feel my mane puffing out from the insult. “Do I look like a small child to you?”

  “You…um…” Her gaze flicks toward my cock again, and when her face flushes, I realize this may be an involuntary reaction. She may actually not be able to control the impulse to ogle my length. Maybe this is the sign that a female human is nearing readiness to mate.

  How delightful.

  “You look neither small, nor like a child.” Her voice is oddly husky with the admission. “So I’m not sure why you can’t understand that you don’t get to make decisions for me. Such as whether or not I get to be conscious.”

  Another growl rumbles up my throat. Her discussion is crafted like a maze that has no exit—each turn I take places me right back at the center. “This argument is growing tedious,” I inform her. “I suggest you spread your legs for me, and we exhaust ourselves with rough sex, rather than angry words. Is that done in your culture?”

  “You—?” She blinks. “Your people grudge fuck to settle arguments?”

  “We expend our anger through mutual release, where such a thing is appropriate.” I shrug. “Where that is not appropriate and an argument cannot be settled with words, we fight.”

  “Well, I’m certainly not going to fight you,” she says, and I’m relieved that she sees how ridiculous that would be. “But back to this grudge fuck to settle an argument thing…” She looks intrigued. “How do you know who wins?”

  I frown at her. “It’s sex. Everyone wins.” That delicious scent wafts from her again, and I groan as my own need for her strengthens brutally. “Would you like to try it?”

  “No.” She presses her thighs together, as if to ease an ache. “No, I would not.” But we both know that’s a lie. “You’re still not off the hook for knocking me out.”

  I growl. I am finished with this argument. “If you had remained awake, you might have gotten hurt. So I did what had to be done, and that is the end of—”

  “Do the Fetoji have the ability to predict the future?”

  I frown. “No. Do humans?” If so, surely she could have avoided her own kidnapping. Also, my net.

  “No.” She sounds frustrated again. “My point is that you don’t know that I would have gotten hurt, if you hadn’t knocked me out.”

  “The odds—”

  “The odds always suck. Give me the evens.”

  “I— What?”

  She rolls her eyes. “It’s a pun. A joke.”

  “But it doesn’t make any sense.”

  “That’s what makes it funny.”

  “Oh. Well then, you must be considered very funny by your people.”

  Syrie blinks at me. “You’re saying I don’t make sense? Ha.” She rolls her eyes again. “At least we’ve established that you do have a sense of humor.”

  I can only frown. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  She groans again. “Okay. You’re right. This is a pointless argument, so here’s the bottom line: you are not allowed to make decisions for me, from this point on. Including whether or not I get to be conscious. Got it?”

  I most certainly do not have it. “You’re giving me rules?” I snarl, and the angry confidence seems to drain from her bearing as uncertainty flickers behind her eyes, at the sound. She moves toward the wall again, putting more space between us.

  “I’m attempting to establish a set of guidelines that will work for us both, while we’re stuck together.” She frowns. “Also, thank you for letting me stay here. In case I forgot to say that.”

  “You’re welcome. But if you get to make rules—”

  “Guidelines.”

  “—than I get to make some too.”

  Another groan. “What guidelines do you want to propose?”

  “I haven’t yet decided, but I reserve the right to implement—”

  “To propose.”

  “—some, should the need arise.” Her rule—her guideline—was not proposed; it was issued like a decree. But pointing that out would be futile. As, I suspect, would be pointing out the fact that we’re in my home, thus all the rules should naturally be of my making. For such a tiny, timid woman, Syrie is remarkably bold, at times.

  “As for the rest of it, you have my word that other than completing my work, I did nothing but sleep next to you while you were unconscious. And prepare food." I gesture at the gently bubbling pot with one hand. Her gaze cuts away from me to focus on the leather pouch suspended over the fire.

  "It does smell good," she admits. "What is it?"

  "Right now, it is ezaki flank steak, simmering in its own broth. But once I add herbs and vegetables, it will be stew." I turn and take a small bowl from the shelf at the back of my hut. "Would you like a taste?"

  Her gaze flicks toward the leather pouch again, then back up to my face. "I am starving," she admits. "But first I have to pee. How long was I out? The sun looks like it's still up."

  "The sun is up again," I correct her.

  "Again? It's up again?" she demands. "I've been asleep for a full day?"

  “A bit more than that, actually. But I have not." In fact I've hardly slept at all, and conversing with this human woman has proven to be nearly as exhausting as butchering an entire ezaki.

  5

  Syrie

  I've been unconscious for more than a day. The better part of two days, I suspect. How long are the days here, anyway?

  “No fucking wonder I have to pee.” I push myself up from his low bed, and Lohr’s focus finds the soles of my feet. He reaches out for my ankle, and I squeal as I fall backward on the bed, my hips suspended several inches off the fur, with my leg caught in his grip. “What’s happening right now?” I demand, staring up at him from my back.

  "What kind of footwear is this?” He pokes at the clear material coating my sole, and his claw makes a dent, which immediately fills back in. “My people have little need for shoes,” he says, and I believe that. Fetoji have feet similar to the rear paws of a lion, with thick paw pads and claws. “But I’ve seen all kinds of shoes on tourists and guards, from thick, heavy-soled ‘boots’ to rather insubstantial-looking slippers. Yet I’ve never seen anything like this.” He pokes at my sole again.

  I tug on my leg, and when he lets me go, I fall back onto his bed, sprawled awkwardly. "I'm not sure exactly what this is.” I sit up and lift my foot, so I can s
ee the bottom of it. “But it feels like something similar to a temporary coating people put on the soles of their feet when they go to the beach or to the pool. That kind is made of a gel that protects the soles of the feet from rough textures and from heat. This coating feels thicker than that. Longer lasting." I shrug. "I guess whoever threw me out here didn't want me to hurt my feet, yet didn't want to give me shoes, either. Your guess is as good as mine, as to what that means."

  Lohr’s frown deepens. “Someone dropped you into this enclosure—with protective gel on your feet—right into the path of an ezaki. Right into my path. Evidently very near my net.”

  “You think you were meant to find me?”

  “I don't know," he admits. “What if I hadn’t? The beast would have torn you apart. Why would someone who was concerned for the state of the soles of your feet risk letting you be torn apart by an ezaki?”

  “That is only one of many aspects of my kidnapping that make no sense.” My gaze flicks to the broth over the fire again, then I press my thighs together and give him a desperate look. "That smells great, but I really need to pee. Where can I…?"

  "Anywhere you like." He turns to take a soft handful of what looks like ground moss from a pile on the shelf behind me. "Outside," he adds. "Anywhere outside."

  I blink at him. "I feel like I should have seen that coming. I know you guys don't have toilets down here, but…” I shrug.

  "I know the word," he tells me. "I know it's where humans dispose of bodily waste. But I have no mental image to assign to the term.”

  "Well, different cultures have different styles of toilet. And humans aren't the only ones who use them. They can be as simple as a hole cut into a piece of wood, suspended over a trench in the ground or as complicated as a device requiring modern plumbing and sewage sterilization or recycling systems."

  My explanation doesn't seem to do much to fill in the blanks for him. "Well, down here, we have the forest. Or a ditch dug in the ground, that can be buried when it's full. Or, if you're desperate, you could be forgiven for not making it very far from my den. Especially considering how unfamiliar you are with both the area and the process." He offers me the moss and I stare at it as if it might bite me. "For cleansing yourself," he explains.