The King's Claim

Life seemed to fall into a steady, normal routine for Willow. Well, as normal as life could be when you follow behind a Yautja, and not just any Yautja, but the King himself.

Willow sat on the platform bed, her fingertips brushing the now-healed raised scar left behind from the bullet wound. Three months after the lab, she was left with a nasty scar, a sore shoulder that seemed to grind bone against bone if she rolled her shoulder wrong. Her fractured ribs had also healed. It took the better part of two months for her to breathe without the stabbing pain there.

Even now, she watched The King; he had his back to her. Staring out as the double suns set on the horizon. The bone ribs from his shoulders casting long shadows over the flooring,almost resembling teeth that were ready to snare her. The dynamic between them only seemed to grow even more intense. The confidence from The King was a stark reminder of the differences between the two.

He could look at Willow. Stare at her. While she struggled to maintain more than three seconds of eye contact before her face grew a bright shade of crimson and she had to avert her attention to the floor or the background behind him. Since returning to the Prime, no new youngbloods challenged him, nor her place here. It seemed like things were somewhat peaceful.

Willow had witnessed hunters returning from successful hunts; their trophies looked like they belonged to beasts that made the worst horror movies she had ever seen seem like a walk in the park. The King remained here, with her. Since Willow had brought up that humans crave companionship, a life partner, things seemed to be awkward. Not on The King’s end but on Willow’s side.

The King finally turned from the setting suns, his heavy gaze locking onto Willow before she could look away. The air in the chamber seemed to thicken, a physical pressure that always accompanied his undivided attention. He didn’t move like a creature that followed a code; he moved like a force of nature that owned the ground it walked on.

“You... touch... the... mark... again,” his voice rumbled, a low vibration that Willow felt in her own chest more than she heard it.

She pulled her hand away from her shoulder as if the scar had suddenly burned her. “It... it just aches sometimes. When the air changes.”

The King crossed the distance in three silent strides. He didn’t ask for permission; he simply reached out, his massive, clawed hand hovering near her neck before his thumb settled against the edge of the scar. His skin was always warmer than hers, a reminder of the predator’s fire burning beneath that bronze hide.

“The... Salt... World... was... weak,” he growled, his eyes narrowing as he traced the ridge of the healed wound. “They... sought... to... break... what... was... mine. They... failed.”

Willow felt that familiar heat crawl up her neck. It was the “Little Thing” or “Spark” comment—the way he phrased it. He didn’t say they shouldn’t have hurt you. He said they shouldn’t have touched what belongs to me. It was possessive, dark, and utterly intoxicating in a way she knew she shouldn’t enjoy.

“I’m not a trophy, you know,” she whispered, her voice trembling just enough to betray her. She finally forced herself to meet his eyes, pushing past that three-second limit.

The King’s mandibles flared slightly—a Yautja’s version of a dark, knowing smirk. He leaned in closer, his scent—ozone and something metallic—filling her senses until she felt lightheaded.

“No,” he rumbled, his other hand coming up to cup the side of her face, his thumb grazing her jawline with surprising gentleness for a male who slaughtered for sport. “A... trophy... sits... on... a... wall, Little... Thing. You... you... are... the... fire... in... the... Mountain. And... the... Mountain... does... not... share... its... fire.”

The awkwardness Willow felt wasn’t just about the “partnership” talk she’d tried to have. It was the realization that he wasn’t looking for a partner in the human sense. He was looking for something to consume, to protect, and to hoard away from the rest of the galaxy.

Willow pulled her gaze from him finally, her eyes fixating on her trembling hands. The King waited for a heartbeat for her gaze to return to him before he hooked a claw under her chin and forced her attention back to him. The collar around her neck vibrated, sending chills up her spine as she stared up at him.

“Do... not... hide... in... the... shadows... Little... Thing.”

“I’m not hiding.” She retorted quickly, clearing her throat before continuing. “I just-”

Her words trailed off; she didn’t know how to explain anything to him. Why her heart was racing just from his gaze, why her skin seemed electrified from his touch. She tried to deny it. Since she first felt that pull towards The King, she did everything she could to ignore it. But there was no ignoring this, whatever it was. Willow knew it wasn’t love, that much she was sure. But that was the only thing she knew.

“I just don’t understand what this is. For you.” Her voice cracked; she couldn’t keep her emotions from flaring up in her tone.

The King didn’t pull away. Instead, he leaned in until the heat from his skin was a physical weight against her own. His mandibles clicked softly, a rhythmic, guttural sound that seemed to vibrate through the claw forcing her gaze.

“You... seek... a... name... for... the... fire,” he rumbled, his breath fanning across her lips. It wasn’t a question. “Your... heart... speaks... louder... than... your... tongue... Little... Thing.”

He closed the distance, resting his forehead against hers. Never breaking his crimson contact with hers. The contact made Willow’s breath hitch. Her face felt almost as hot as his body temperature. Her heart was racing in her chest so hard it was almost painful.

“I can’t explain it. You wouldn’t understand. It’s a human thing.” She admitted.

The King let out a low, vibrating huff against her skin, his mandibles brushing her cheeks as they flared. He didn’t care about the “human” definition of the fire; he only cared that it was burning for him. He could feel her pulse under his claw, a frantic rhythm that contradicted her attempt to pull away emotionally.

“I... do... not... need... to... understand... the... Salt... World... to... know... the... hunt,” he rumbled, his voice dropping to a near-whisper that made the collar at her throat hum in sympathy.

He stayed there for a heartbeat longer, just breathing her in, before he abruptly pulled back. The sudden rush of cooler air made Willow shiver, the loss of his contact feeling like a physical bruise.

“Rest... little... thing.” The King watched her.

Willow blinked for a moment before looking out to the balcony, the suns had just passed the peak. “It’s still early.”

“The... stars.. call.” He glanced at the sky for a moment before returning his attention back to Willow. “We... leave... before... the... light... returns.”

“Leave? Where are we going?” Her brow furrowed in confusion.

He didn’t respond as he removed the bone ribs from his shoulders. The click of him pulling them away filled the silence for a moment before the rattle of the bone tendrils followed behind it. He always removed the bones before he lay beside her. When he stepped back towards the bed, Willow started to scoot back to give him room. The King scooped her up off the platform. Adjusting her as he too climbed into the furs.

“King? Where are we going?” She asked again, pushing off his bronze chest to look at him.

The King let out a short, sharp click. “The... Mountain... needs... to... hunt. And... where... I... go... you... go.”

He sat her down with a terrifying gentleness, before lying on his back. He turned his head to look at her. Willow stared at him, her eyes widening at the thought of another Malakor. Another planet that not only wanted to kill him, but wanted to kill her as well.

“Wait- why? Why are we going to another hunt? Malakor almost killed you. If you die, I die.” She argued, her heart racing for a completely different reason now. “Why would you continue to put your life on the-”

“Rest.” The collar commanded.

“Answer my question.” She narrowed her eyes, gripping the furs in her fists. “I don’t want any more blood spilled. I don’t want my blood, your blood, or any living creature’s blood on my hands again.”

The King didn’t move. He lay there, a mountain of bronze and scarred muscle, looking at her with an intensity that made the air feel thin. He heard the tremor in her voice, felt the way her fists were white-knuckled against the furs, and he didn’t offer a single word of comfort. Comfort was a lie. The hunt was the only truth.

He reached out, his hand moving slowly until his palm covered both of her clenched fists, pinning them—and her—to the bed. He didn’t use enough pressure to hurt, just enough to show her that her resistance was a flicker against a gale.

“Blood... is... the... price... of... the... crown,” he rumbled, his voice so low it was a vibration she felt in her teeth. “You... seek... a... world... that... does... not... exist... Little... Thing.”

He shifted, pulling her down until she was forced to lie beside him, her head tucked into the crook of his neck. The heat from his skin was overwhelming, a reminder of the life-force that required the very violence she feared.

“Malakor... did... not... kill... me,” he clicked softly, his mandibles brushing against her temple. “It... made... me... yours. And... I... will... not... let... the... Mountain... grow... cold. If... you... fear... the... dark... then... watch... me... kill... it.”

He didn’t answer her question about where they were going. He didn’t have to. In his mind, the destination didn’t matter—only the fact that she would be there to witness his dominance.

“Rest,” he whispered. “The... stars... wait... for... no... one.”

Willow didn’t argue anymore, but she couldn’t sleep. Not with now knowing the morning would bring blood. She stared off, her eyes blurring slightly. She knew she couldn’t change his DNA, the way Yautjas seemed to worship a hunt, like it was their only reason to live. But The King had said it. That she was in some way she didn’t understand important to him. That he wanted to keep her.

So why? He couldn’t leave her unattended on Prime. So why continue to hunt? A sharp sting in her heart caused her to wince. The realization this was her life, a life she chose. There would always be hunts, there would always be times when she would be in danger. Willow knew The King would protect her, but when the hounds attacked on Malakor, he was wounded enough that she herself had to react. She could still visibly remember the way the hound leaped for her, the way its own blinded rage impaled itself on The King’s spear.

Willow forced her eyes to close as she told herself she wouldn’t come back to the Prime free of blood. That was if they returned. She would either be killed or be the one doing the killing just to stay alive.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Willow woke to a heavy hand on her shoulder. Squeezing her eyes closed, she shifted in the furs. Her sleep was restless, and she felt more exhausted than she had in months. Finally, she cracked open an eye to see The King looking down at her. Mumbling under her breath, she frowned.

“I feel like I slept only an hour, and it wasn’t even good sleep.”

He moved his hand from her shoulder to the back of her neck, his thumb tracing the edge of the collar. It was a grounding touch, firm and possessive. He could feel the residual heat of her sleep-muddled skin, but he could also feel the tension still radiating from her small frame.

“The... fire... is... cold,” he rumbled, his voice like the first roll of thunder before a storm. “Wake... Little... Thing. We... walk... the... path... of... the... Shadow... now.”

Willow groaned, burying her face in the furs. The scent of The King filled her senses as she spoke into them. “Right, the hunt.”

She pushed herself from the furs, looking up at The King. He wore the rib bones again, the tendrils on his back rattling as he moved his hand to straighten. He watched her as she brushed her hair from her face, her fingers catching a knot as she did. She would deal with the rat nest she called her hair later.

“I’m up.” She rubbed her palms over her face as she stood. “But when we get to the ship, I’m going back to sleep. It’s too early for humans.”

The King chuckled in the way Yautjas did. The sound seemed to vibrate through the floor and up to the platform. He lifted her from the bed before setting her down on the floor. She looked up at his massive height. Almost nine feet of bronze and bones. He turned then and headed for the door.

Willow followed behind him, yawning as she did. The stone floor was ice-cold against her bare feet, a sharp contrast to the furnace-heat of the bed they’d just left. The King didn’t slow down; he never did. He moved with a purpose that made the very air seem to scramble out of his way.

As they reached the threshold of the chamber, Willow glanced back at the platform bed one last time. The furs were still tossed and messy, holding the lingering shape of their bodies. A part of her wanted to run back and hide in that warmth, to pretend the Stars weren’t calling and the blood wasn’t coming.

But then the King stopped at the door, his massive frame blocking out the faint light of the corridor. He didn’t look back, but he held the door open—a silent, dominant invitation to follow him into the dark.

Willow took a breath, the stagnant air stinging her lungs, and stepped out behind him. The routine was over. The hunt had begun.