The three weeks my mates spent building our home brought me closer to Soryn more and more each day. Construction required cooperation; passing tools, holding beams, sharing meals when we broke for lunch. Slowly, inevitably, the walls of fear I had built around my heart began to crumble.
I remembered when I had stumbled carrying a basket of clay tiles and Soryn had caught me with his tail before I could fall. The contact had been sudden, cool scales against my ankle, and I had tensed automatically. But he had released me immediately, his eyes searching my face for signs of distress, and something in his careful gentleness had made me ashamed of my reaction.
"Thank you," I had whispered, and meant it.
By the time we finished building our new home, I no longer flinched when his tail brushed my ankle or his hand found my elbow to steady me on uneven ground. I began to notice things I had been too frightened to see before; the way he hummed softly to himself while working, the precision with which he tied knots, the patience he showed when teaching Ravin and Leon’s younger siblings to weave thatch. His humor, dry and unexpected, made me laugh despite myself. His intelligence, sharp and observant, impressed me when he solved problems that stumped the others.
Once I grasped that I no longer feared him, I saw how beautiful he truly was; his elegant movements, fluid and graceful even when hauling stone; his sharp wit, honed by years of solitude; the intricate patterns of emerald and obsidian that decorated his serpentine form, catching the sunlight like living jewels. His hands, pale and long-fingered, were surprisingly skilled, capable of delicate work that belied their strength. And his emerald eyes held depths of loneliness and longing that made my heart ache with the need to heal them.
I was learning to love him. Not the desperate, consuming love I felt for Ravin and Leon, built on passion and time to bond to one another, but something quieter, growing like a seed in fertile soil. Something that promised to bloom in time.
Our new home had finally risen from the earth, three weeks of labor culminating in walls and roof and possibility. With the help of my three mates and the servants from Ravin’s parents’ estate; strong backs and willing hands; we had accomplished what should have taken months in mere days. The beast men worked with a speed and coordination that left me breathless, their strength and skill transforming timber and stone into something that felt like a dream.
I stood before it now, my hand pressed to my chest, feeling the rapid beat of my heart against my palm. It was real. It was ours. And I could not wait to step inside.
I pushed through the heavy wooden door; carved with intricate patterns of lions and serpents intertwined, Leon’s handiwork; and gasped.
The kitchen greeted me first, a spacious room dominated by a stone hearth large enough to roast an entire boar. The counters were smooth river rock, polished to a shine by patient hands. Bowls and pots lined the shelves, each one shaped from clay we had dug ourselves, fired in a makeshift furnace until they rang like bells when tapped. The plates were stacked neatly, waiting for meals we would share as a family. And there, in a carved wooden holder, were utensils; spoons and spatulas and stirring sticks that bore the marks of Leon’s knife, each one decorated with tiny flowers and leaves he had engraved just for me.
I ran my fingers over the wooden spoon nearest me, marveling at the detail. My second mate was handy with woodcraft, I realized, his large paws capable of surprising delicacy when he set his mind to it. I remembered the day I had sketched designs in the dirt, trying to explain the utensils I missed from my home. Leon had been immediately enthusiastic, his eyes lighting up with interest as he studied my crude drawings.
"How can I make this?" he had asked, his voice eager.
"You can carve it from wood," I had told him, explaining the other materials we might use; bone, which required killing and cleaning, or stone, which needed special tools and endless grinding. "Wood is probably the easiest way out of all the other methods. You can find it everywhere, and it shapes quickly with a sharp knife."
Something had shifted in his gaze; a gleam of purpose, of challenge accepted.
He had disappeared into the forest that very afternoon, returning with branches and a newfound determination. The first set of spoons had appeared two days later, rough and uneven, but unmistakably what I had described. He had improved since then, each new creation more refined than the last, until now his work rivaled anything I had owned in my previous life.
"Do you like them?" Leon asked, hovering at my shoulder, his voice tentative.
"They’re beautiful," I breathed, turning to press a kiss to his cheek. "You’re beautiful."
He flushed, pleased, and I turned back to my exploration.
Soryn had proven invaluable during construction, his contribution most visible in the ceiling above. With his serpentine lower body, he had been able to rise to heights that required ladders and pulleys for others, his coils lifting him effortlessly to secure beams and thatch roofing. He had worked tirelessly, his tail anchoring him to supports while his hands tied and hammered and secured.
"Leon still built the servants a ladder," Soryn mentioned dryly, slithering up beside me, his tongue flickering with amusement. "Apparently my method was too slow for some."
"It was not too slow," Leon grumbled from across the room. "It was just... more efficient with two methods available."
I laughed, the sound echoing in our empty home, and moved to explore further. The ladder had been my idea suggested after I explained what they were for back in my homeland. Leon had built it immediately, and it had proven its importance many times over during construction.
The bathroom was next, and I approached it with particular satisfaction. When I had requested an indoor space for personal relief, my mates had looked at me as though I had grown a second head. Indoor? they had asked, bewildered. But the forest is right there.
Now I stood in the small stone room, examining their compromise. It was not modern; there was no running water, no plumbing, no porcelain throne. But they had built me a seat, a wooden bench with a hole carved through, positioned over a removable bucket. When business was concluded, we would take the bucket outside and dispose of the waste. It was primitive, it was earthy, it was exactly what I had needed to feel some semblance of my old life.
"I told you," I said firmly, when Ravin moved to lift the bucket from beneath the seat, "I will throw my own waste. It is embarrassing enough that you all know when I relieve myself. I will not have you cleaning up after me like I am an invalid."
They had protested, of course; all three of them insisting that it was their duty, their honor, their pleasure to care for me in all ways. But I had held firm, my face burning with mortification, until finally they had nodded, understanding that the conversation itself was causing me distress.
The stone tub sat against the far wall, large enough for two; three, or maybe even four, if we were friendly; and filled by heating water in the kitchen and carrying it bucket by bucket. It was not perfect, but it was enough. It was privacy. It was dignity. It was home.
Finally, I toured the bedrooms, and my breath caught in my throat.
Each room was a sanctuary. Each held a bed large enough for sprawling, covered in furs and soft woven blankets. And on each vanity; carved from wood, polished to a shine; sat my things. The combs I had made from bone. The small pots of lotion I blended from herbs. The pretty stones Leon had gifted me, the shells Soryn had collected from the river, the flowers Ravin brought me daily. They had distributed my belongings among all four rooms, ensuring that no matter who’s bed I slept in, I would still be surrounded by my own possessions, my own comforts.
"You put my things in every room," I whispered, tears pricking my eyes.
"Leon suggested it," Ravin said, his hand finding my waist. "He said you should feel at home wherever you are. That none of us should claim you more than another."
I turned to look at my mates; my three beautiful, devoted, complicated mates; and felt overwhelmed by love. This house was more than wood and stone. It was a promise. A future. A place where we would grow together, fight together, love together.
"Thank you," I said, my voice thick with emotion. "Thank you for building me a home."
Soryn slithered closer, his hand taking mine. "It is our home," he corrected gently. "All of ours. Together."
And for the first time, I truly believed it could be.
---
The whole day we spent moving our belongings from the old den to our new home, carrying furs and clay pots and woven baskets through the village while curious eyes followed our progress. By late afternoon, my back ached and my feet throbbed, but the satisfaction of seeing our possessions fill the empty rooms gave me energy I did not know I had.
Ravin returned from the hunt as the sun began its descent, trailing a massive mournbull behind him. The creature was enormous, a shaggy, hulking beast with curved horns and a thick coat of coarse brown hair that reminded me of a bull in my world except hairier? If it had "bull" in its name, I reasoned, studying the muscular hindquarters, then it had to be beef. The thought made my mouth water instantly, my pregnant body craving iron-rich meat with desperate intensity.
Ravin worked with practiced efficiency, skinning the creature and butchering it into portion-sized cuts that he wrapped in leaves. He sent a generous portion to his parents, gratitude for their support during the construction, and set aside half for our dinner. I watched him work, my mind already racing through possibilities, and made a decision.
"I am making dinner tonight," I announced.
Three heads swiveled toward me; identical expressions of concern etched across three very different faces.
"You are pregnant," Ravin said slowly, as though I might have forgotten this fact. "You should rest. We can prepare the meat."
"I want to make something special," I insisted, my mind fixed on a memory that suddenly ached with homesickness. "Something my mother used to make. A soup from my homeland."
I described it to them as best I could; the Salaw Machu Kreung Sach Ko, a Cambodian sour soup that had been the comfort food of my childhood. I explained how the lemongrass-based kroeung paste created a fragrant base, how morning glory added delicate texture, how the lean meat provided sustenance without heaviness. I spoke of its nourishing properties, the vitamins and antioxidants, the way it supported digestion and hydration. I did not tell them that in my world, we had eaten it during illnesses, during celebrations, during ordinary Tuesday evenings when the rain fell soft against the windows and my mother’s kitchen smelled of home.
The herb storage in our new home held most of what I needed. I had been collecting and drying plants since my arrival, recognizing lemongrass and galangal and kaffir lime leaves among the "medicinal herbs" the beast men used for poultices and teas. They thought them remedies for fever and wound, not ingredients for food. I was going to change their minds, slowly but surely, one meal at a time.
Of course, my mates were against me cooking. They surrounded me as I gathered my supplies, voices raised in protest, hands reaching to take tasks from me.
"Just tell us how to make it and we will make it for you," Ravin said, his brow furrowed with worry.
"You are heavy with child now, Krys," Leon chipped in, his hand finding my elbow as though I might collapse at any moment. "Let us do all the duties. You should be resting, not standing over a fire."
"I agree with them," Soryn added, his tongue flickering as though tasting my exhaustion in the air. "The heat cannot be good for you. Or the cub."
I looked at each of them in turn; their concern genuine, their love evident, their protectiveness smothering. And I felt my stubbornness rise, the same stubbornness that had carried me through life working two jobs, that had kept me going after Hyunwoo’s betrayal, that had allowed me to survive falling between worlds.
"Look," I said, my voice carrying the weight of finality. "I appreciate all of your concern. Truly, I do. But I am not so weak that I must lay down all day and do nothing. I want to cook this food. I need to cook it. If you want to help, that is fine. I welcome it. But I am cooking."
They exchanged glances, some silent communication passing between them, and finally Ravin nodded. "As you wish."
Ravin helped first, his large hands surprisingly gentle as he cut the mournbull meat into bite-sized pieces, checking each cube against my approval until I was satisfied with the uniformity. Leon gathered the herbs I needed from the storage, bringing them in bunches that filled the kitchen with their sharp, clean fragrance. And Soryn, who preferred cool shadows to roaring flames; built up the cooking fire and hauled water from the well, his face flushed with heat he clearly found uncomfortable.
"I am sorry," I told him softly, as he set the heavy pot beside me. "I know you do not like the warmth."
He met my eyes, and something soft flickered in his gaze. "For you," he said simply. "I would walk through fire."
We worked as a team, my mates and I, falling into a rhythm that felt surprisingly natural. I directed and stirred and tasted, adjusting seasonings from memory, while they handled the heavy labor and the tedious preparation. When the soup finally simmered, rich and fragrant, I allowed myself to be guided to a chair, my legs trembling with exhaustion I had not wanted to admit.
Soryn knelt before me immediately, his cool hands finding my calves, kneading the sore muscles with surprising skill. Leon moved behind me, his thumbs digging into the knots of my shoulders, working tension from my neck with patient pressure. And Ravin stood at the hearth, stirring the soup occasionally while he prepared rice in a separate pot, his golden eyes watching me with warmth that made my chest ache.
"We are a team," I murmured, more to myself than to them.
Soryn’s hands paused. "We are," he agreed, his voice quiet.
I tasted the soup one final time, adjusting the sourness with a squeeze of lime, and declared it done. The rich broth was fragrant with lemongrass and galangal, the meat tender, the morning glory wilted to silky perfection. I ladled portions into wooden bowls, hands trembling slightly with emotion, and served my mates.
They ate in silence at first, the only sound the crackle of the fire and the soft clink of spoons against wood. Then Ravin’s eyes widened, and he made a sound low in his throat; appreciation, surprise, pleasure. Leon followed, his dark eyes closing as he savored the unfamiliar flavors. And Soryn actually smiled, a rare, genuine expression that transformed his sharp features into something breathtaking.
"This is..." Ravin searched for words.
"Amazing," Leon finished.
"Like nothing I have ever tasted," Soryn added, his tongue flickering as though trying to capture the lingering flavors. "Complex. Bright. Warm."
I watched them, these three males who had built me a home, who protected me, who loved me in their different ways, and felt something settle in my chest. The joy on their faces, the pleasure they took in something I had created from memory and love, soothed a part of my soul I had not known was wounded.
I loved that they enjoyed the food I had grown up on. That a piece of my old world, my old life, could find purchase in this new one. That through soup and rice and shared meals, we were becoming something more than individuals thrown together by circumstance.
We were becoming a family.