Chapter 5: The Morning After the Claiming
The first day was the hardest.
Elias woke to an empty bed and the smell of sex still clinging to the sheets. His body ached in places he didn't know he had—his thighs, his shoulders, the small of his back. He lay there for a long time, staring at the ceiling beams, replaying the events of the previous afternoon in his mind. The weight of Kachina on top of him. The taste of Ayasha on his tongue. The way Nizhoni had looked at him like she could see straight through to his bones.
He touched the bone charm at his throat.
Still there. Still warm.
He rose and dressed and forced himself to eat. The cabin felt different now—smaller, somehow, like it had shrunk in on itself while he slept. The walls seemed to lean inward. The shadows seemed to whisper. He kept expecting to hear hoofbeats, kept turning toward the door, kept holding his breath.
But no one came.
The second day was easier.
He worked. That was the only thing that helped. He hauled water from the well. He fixed a loose board on the porch. He sharpened his knife and oiled his rifle and mended the fence along the eastern pasture. His hands moved, and his mind went quiet, and for hours at a time, he almost forgot.
Almost.
At night, he lay in bed and touched himself, slow and deliberate, remembering the way Kachina had ridden him, the way Ayasha had gasped against his mouth, the way Nizhoni had whispered you're doing so well in his ear. He came with a groan and a shudder and then lay there, panting, staring at the dark.
Three days.
She'd said three days.
The third morning dawned clear and gold.
Elias was in the garden when he heard them. Not hoofbeats this time—just a single horse, moving slow and steady along the ridge. He straightened up, his trowel in one hand, dirt smeared across his bare chest, and watched the rider come into view.
It was Nizhoni.
She rode alone.
She was dressed differently than before—a simple deerskin dress that fell to her knees, beaded at the hem and collar, her dark hair loose and falling past her shoulders. She looked softer in the daylight. Less like a spirit and more like a woman.
She reined in her horse at the edge of the garden and looked down at him.
"You're working," she said.
"I didn't know when you'd come."
"I'm early." She swung down from the horse with an easy grace, her bare feet landing silent on the grass. "The others will come tomorrow. Tonight. But I wanted—" She paused, searching for the word. "—time."
He set the trowel down. Wiped his hands on his trousers. His heart was beating faster now, a steady thrum against his ribs.
"Time for what?"
She walked toward him, slow and deliberate, and stopped when she was close enough to touch. The sun was behind her, turning her hair into a halo, and he had to squint to see her face.
"Tell me something," she said. "The first night. When Kachina took you. How did it feel?"
He blinked. "I don't—"
"Be honest."
He swallowed. Looked at the ground. Looked back at her.
"Like being owned," he said. "Like being used. Like being exactly where I was supposed to be."
She nodded. "And you liked it."
"Yes."
"You wanted it."
"Yes."
She reached out and touched his chest—the same place Kachina had touched, right over his heart. Her palm was cool against his sun-warmed skin.
"That was the claiming," she said. "The taking. That was what you needed."
"And this?"
"This is something else."
She stepped closer, her body inches from his, and he could smell her—lavender and sage and something deeper, something warm and female. She looked up at him, her eyes soft and knowing, and he felt something shift inside him. Something that had nothing to do with hunger.
"What do you want me to do?" he asked.
"Nothing." She smiled. "That's the point."
She took his hand and led him out of the garden, past the cabin, to a patch of grass near the well. The sun was warm on his shoulders, and the prairie stretched out around them like a golden sea, and for a moment, he forgot to be afraid.
"Sit," she said.
He sat.
She knelt in front of him, her dress pooling around her knees, and began to unbutton his trousers with slow, careful fingers. He watched her—the way her brow furrowed in concentration, the way her lips parted slightly, the way her breath caught when she finally freed him.
"You're hard," she observed.
"I've been thinking about this for three days."
"I know." She looked up at him, and her eyes crinkled at the corners. "I've been thinking about it longer."
She took him in her hand—light, almost reverent—and stroked him once, twice, her thumb circling the head. He sucked in a breath and gripped the grass beside him.
"Nizhoni—"
"Shh." She leaned down and kissed the tip of his cock—a soft, chaste kiss, like a blessing. "Let me take care of you."
She took him into her mouth.
It was nothing like Ayasha. Ayasha had been fierce, demanding, all teeth and tongue and hunger. Nizhoni was slow. Gentle. She moved with a rhythm that built and built, her lips sliding up and down his shaft, her tongue tracing patterns that made his eyes roll back in his head. She hummed and the vibration traveled through him like lightning.
"Oh God—"
She pulled back just enough to speak. "No God here. Just me."
Then she swallowed him again, and he moaned, his hips bucking up, his hands tangling in her hair. She didn't choke. She didn't pull away. She just took him deeper, her throat working around him, and he felt the pressure building at the base of his spine.
"I'm close—"
She pulled off with a wet pop and looked at him. Her lips were swollen, her chin slick with spit, and she was smiling.
"Not yet."
She stood, and he watched her, breathless and trembling, as she unlaced her dress and let it fall.
Her body was soft and round, curves that caught the light and held it, her breasts heavy and full, her waist thick, her hips wide. There were stretch marks on her belly, silver and pale, and he reached out to touch them.
"I've had children," she said. "Four. Two alive."
"I didn't know."
"They went to the spirit world. A sickness." She placed her hand over his, pressing his palm flat against her stomach. "You should know these things. If you're going to be my husband."
"I want to know," he said. "Everything."
She smiled and straddled his lap, her thighs warm and firm against his hips. She was wet—he could feel it, slick against his cock as she positioned herself above him.
"Slow," she said. "This time, it's slow."
She sank down onto him, inch by inch, her inner walls stretching to accommodate him, and they both moaned—hers low and thrumming, his sharp and desperate. She paused when he was fully inside her, her hands on his shoulders, her forehead pressed to his.
"Feel that?" she whispered.
"Yes."
"That's connection. That's what I want." She began to move, slow rolls of her hips, her breasts brushing against his chest. "The others want your body. Your strength. Your seed. I want your soul."
He couldn't speak. He could only feel—the warmth of her, the weight of her, the way she looked at him like he was something precious.
"You're beautiful," he said.
She laughed—a soft, breathy sound. "I'm soft. I'm old."
"You're perfect."
She kissed him, and he tasted himself on her lips, and he held her as she moved, his hands splayed across her back, his fingers tracing the curve of her spine. The sun beat down on them, and the grass swayed in the breeze, and somewhere in the distance, a bird sang.
Time slowed.
He lost track of where he ended and she began. Her hips found a rhythm, and his body answered, and they moved together like they'd been doing this for years. She whispered things in her mother tongue—words he didn't understand but felt in his chest—and he responded by kissing her neck, her shoulder, the hollow of her throat.
"I want—" he started.
"I know." She pressed her forehead to his. "Let go. I've got you."
He came with a groan, his hands tightening on her hips, his body shuddering beneath her. She followed a moment later—he felt the flutter of her inner walls, heard the soft cry that escaped her lips—and then she collapsed against him, her head on his shoulder, her breath warm against his ear.
They sat there for a long time.
The sun moved across the sky. The shadows shifted. Somewhere, an eagle circled overhead.
Finally, she lifted her head and looked at him. Her eyes were soft, her cheeks flushed, and she was smiling.
"How do you feel?"
"Different," he said. "Lighter."
"Good." She kissed his cheek and rose, stretching her arms above her head, her body gleaming in the light. "That was the point."
She dressed and helped him to his feet, and he swayed there for a moment, his legs shaky, his heart full.
"What happens now?" he asked.
"Now you eat. You rest. You prepare."
"For the others?"
"For the others." She took his hand and led him back toward the cabin. "But first, you bathe. You smell like the garden."
He laughed—a real laugh, the first one in days—and followed her.
At the door, she stopped and turned to face him. Her expression had changed—softer, somehow, but also more serious.
"Elias."
"Yes?"
"When Kachina comes tomorrow, she will bring others. Not just Ayasha. More of our sisters."
"How many?"
"Twelve. Maybe more." She touched his chest. "They will all want you. They will all take from you. That is the way of our tribe."
He swallowed. "And you?"
"I will be there. Watching. Making sure you don't break." She smiled—a real smile, warm and kind. "But you should rest. You'll need your strength."
He nodded.
She stepped inside the cabin, and he followed, and the door closed behind them. Through the window, the prairie stretched out, endless and golden, and somewhere beyond that, twelve women were preparing to come.
He should have been afraid.
He wasn't.
He was ready.