By right of kill.

By law. By code.

And yet, he felt smaller than all of them.

“You grow quiet, Dek,” Elder Kra’thun rumbled from his place near the fire. His voice was old stone and smoke. “A leader should speak.”

Dek lifted his head slowly. He did not bear his mandibles. He did not posture. He had learned long ago that trying to appear larger only drew attention to what he lacked.

“I am listening,” Dek replied evenly.

A murmur moved through the room. Some approval. Some doubt.

Kra’thun tilted his head. 

“You listen often. You act well. You hunt well. But you stand alone.”

Dek felt the words settle like a blade between his ribs.

“I am clan leader, I am not alone.”

“You are unmated,” another Elder said, this one sharper, impatient. “You have no younglings. No future bloodline.”

Dek clenched his fists slowly, claws biting into his palms. Memories of his brother filled him. Of his father and childhood. 

“I have not been chosen,” he said simply.

The silence that followed was louder than mockery.

Every Yautja in the hall understood what that meant.

He was smaller than average. Leaner. Faster, yes. Precise. Deadly in ways that did not involve brute force. 

But Yautja females looked for mass, dominance, and presence.

Dek had skill. But he did not have appeal.

“Choose. Take a mate. The clan requires heirs.”

Dek lifted his gaze. 

“No female will accept me.”

A few warriors shifted uncomfortably. No one contradicted him.

“You are leader,” one of them said at last. “They should.”

“They will not. Not willingly.”

The Elders exchanged looks.

“Then the clan will arrange,” Kra’thun said.

Dek rose to his feet.

The room stilled instantly.

“No,” he said. His voice was calm, but it carried. “I will not bind a female who does not want me.”

That drew attention.

Respect. Surprise. Disapproval.

“You challenge tradition,” Kra’thun warned.

“I uphold it. A mate is not prey.”

Before the Elder could respond, the hall doors opened.

A scout stepped inside, breath quick. 

“A clan approaches. Bearing gifts. Requesting welcome.”

Kra’thun straightened. 

“Who?”

“Their leader is named Thra’kai,” the scout said. “They come from the eastern systems.”

Dek frowned slightly. He knew the name. Thra’kai was old. Respected.

“Let them enter,” Kra’thun commanded.

The doors opened wider.

The visiting clan entered with measured steps. Warriors first. Then their leader.

And then Dek saw something that made his breath stall.

A human.

She walked beside Thra’kai, close enough that her arm brushed his. Not restrained. Not frightened. Her head was high. Her expression was calm. At her side, a smaller figure followed.

A child.

Youngling.

The hall erupted into low murmurs.

“A human,” someone hissed.

“With younglings,” another said in disbelief.

Dek stood frozen.

Thra’kai stopped before the Elders and inclined his head. 

“We greet you in honour. And bring offerings in peace.”

Kra’thun’s gaze flicked briefly to the human, then back. 

“You bring… companions.”

Thra’kai’s mandibles flexed in what could only be pride. 

“My mate. And our offspring.”

The human woman glanced up at him. He placed a clawed hand lightly at her back. Protective.

Dek felt something twist in his chest.

Later, when the formalities were done and the hall buzzed with uneasy conversation, Dek found himself standing beside Thra’kai near one of the fires.

“You claimed a human,” Dek said bluntly.

Thra’kai turned to him, studying him with sharp, assessing eyes. 

“Yes.”

“They accepted her.”

“They accepted me,” Thra’kai corrected. “And then they learned to love her.”

Dek hesitated. 

“Why?”

Thra’kai was quiet for a moment, but he understood Dek's real question. 

“Yautja females are strong. Proud. Sharp like blades. I wanted softness. I wanted kindness. I wanted a mate who chose me without measuring my worth in scars.”

Dek swallowed.

“Humans are gentle by nature. They submit not because they are weak, but because they trust.”

Dek looked across the hall at the woman. 

She laughed softly at something one of the children said, her hand resting on Thra’kai’s thigh without fear.

“And the child,” Dek said. “He is… healthy.”

Thra’kai’s voice softened. 

“They are everything.”

Dek looked down at his hands.

For the first time in his life, he allowed himself to imagine something different.

Not dominance.

Not obligation.

But peace.

The fire pits outside the great hall burned low, casting long shadows across the stone courtyard. Most of the clan had retreated to their quarters, leaving only guards and the visiting warriors scattered in quiet conversation.

Dek stood near the edge of the light, arms folded across his chest.

He should have returned to his chambers. He knew that. 

The Elders would expect him to rest, to prepare for tomorrow’s discussions, for negotiations, for more reminders of what was expected of him.

Instead, his gaze kept returning to one figure.

Thra’kai sat apart from the others, his massive frame relaxed as he sharpened a blade. The human woman was nearby, seated on a woven mat with their child, speaking softly to them in a language Dek did not recognise. Thra’kai watched them as he worked, attention split effortlessly between steel and family.

Dek inhaled once, steadying himself, and approached.

“Thra’kai,” he said.

The older Yautja looked up immediately. 

“Leader Dek.”

“Walk with me,” Dek said. Not a command. A request.

Thra’kai nodded and rose, setting his blade aside. They moved away from the fires, into the cooler shadows where the sounds of the clan faded into the night.

For a moment, neither spoke.

“You spoke earlier of softness.”

“Yes.”

“You spoke of wanting it. Why?”

Thra’kai’s mandibles flexed thoughtfully. 

“Because I grew tired of always being sharp.”

Dek frowned slightly.

“To lead is to cut paths. To kill rivals. To make decisions that leave blood behind. I did not want my home to feel like a battlefield.”

Dek considered that. 

“Yautja females are taught strength. Aggression. Pride.”

“They are. And many are excellent mates. But they expect dominance. Contest. Constant proving.” He glanced back toward where the human sat. “My mate does not test me. She trusts me.”

“Trust,” Dek repeated quietly.

Thra’kai stopped walking and turned to face him. 

“Do they choose you?”

Dek stiffened. 

“No.”

The word came out flat. Honest.

“They look at me and see what I lack. They see size. They see that I am not imposing.”

“They focus on the wrong things. ” Thra’kai said.

“They see what matters to them.”

Thra’kai studied him closely. 

“And what matters to you?”

Dek opened his mouth. Closed it again.

“I do not know. I know how to fight. How to lead. How to survive.” His claws flexed. “I do not know how to be chosen.”

Thra’kai was quiet for a long moment.

“My mate chose me because I waited.”

Dek’s head snapped up. 

“Waited?”

“Yes. I did not take her. I watched her. Learned her. When I approached, I did so without weapons. I offered protection, not ownership. And then I gave her a choice.”

“A human would not fear you?” Dek asked.

“She did. At first. Fear is natural. But fear fades when kindness remains.”

Dek felt something shift in his chest. 

Uncomfortable. Unfamiliar.

“And your clan? They accepted her?”

“They resisted. Then they watched my home grow peaceful. They watched my hunts remain strong. They watched my offspring thrive. Strength silenced their doubts.”

Dek looked down at the ground.

“You are leader now. And yet you are still measured by old standards.”

“Yes.”

“You do not want a contest. You want a companion.”

Dek did not deny it.

“Humans value gentleness. Attention. Protection given freely. They do not demand you prove yourself every day.”

Dek’s breath slowed.

“I did not know such a bond was possible,” he admitted.

Thra’kai placed a heavy hand on Dek’s shoulder. 

“You are not too small for love, Dek. You are simply built for a different kind.”

Dek swallowed hard.

They stood in silence for a moment longer before Dek spoke again.

“Your mate. Is she happy?”

Thra’kai turned, looking toward the light, toward the woman who was now helping one of the children settle for sleep. His voice softened. 

“She is my peace.”

Dek closed his eyes briefly.

When he opened them, something had changed.

A thought had taken root.

Not wild.

Not cruel.

But calculated.

And once Dek decided something, he did not waver.

---

The hunt took Dek far from clan territory.

Dense forests gave way to low, rolling plains where unfamiliar plants bloomed in quiet defiance of the harsh sky. 

Their petals glowed faintly in the twilight, colours too soft to belong on a world meant for predators.

Dek moved soundlessly through the undergrowth.

He had come expecting conflict. 

A rival. A challenge.

Instead, he found lights.

A structure rose ahead, half-buried into the terrain, metal walls camouflaged to blend with the land. 

Human construction. Temporary. Careful.

Dek crouched and observed.

Humans moved within the perimeter, clad in protective suits, their voices low and calm as they worked. They were not armed like soldiers. They carried tools. Scanners. Containers filled with samples.

Scientists.

Dek felt his grip tighten on instinct alone.

Then he saw you.

You knelt near a cluster of flowering plants, visor lifted, bare hands moving gently through the leaves. 

You spoke softly as you worked, documenting observations into a small recorder. When one of the petals brushed your skin, you smiled.

It was a small thing.

It stopped him completely.

Dek stayed where he was.

Hours passed.

He watched you move through the facility, greeting others with warmth, helping a younger researcher recalibrate equipment, stopping to tend to a damaged plant rather than discard it.

You were careful.

Not weak.

Careful.

That night, Dek did not hunt.

He returned the next day.

And the next.

Only to observe.

He learned your patterns. When you ate. When you rested. When you wandered just beyond the safety line to collect samples others overlooked. You hummed when you worked alone. You spoke to the plants as if they could hear you.

Humans were not what he had been taught.

On the fourth day, the facility’s alarms sounded briefly. 

A power fluctuation. Nothing serious. 

But you froze, fear flashing across your face before you steadied yourself.

Dek’s claws dug into the earth.

Danger had found you.

That night, he made his decision.

When he approached, he did so openly.

You were alone near the edge of the camp, cataloguing specimens by lantern light. 

The forest was quiet, almost too quiet.

You sensed him before you saw him.

Your head lifted. Your breath caught.

Dek stepped into the light.

He removed his mask.

Your eyes widened. Your hand trembled, but you did not scream. You did not run.

“Easy,” you whispered, voice shaking.

Dek lowered himself slowly, placing his weapons on the ground. He spread his hands, claws visible, then turned them palm up.

Submission.

A sign he had learned from watching humans interact with dangerous animals.

“I will not harm you,” he said in halting human speech, words heavy on his tongue.

You swallowed. 

“You… you can talk.”

“I learn,” Dek replied.

Silence stretched between you.

“What do you want?”

Dek met your gaze. Held it.

“You,” he said honestly. “But not like this.”

Your brows knit in confusion.

“I choose you. But you will choose also.”

Fear lingered in your eyes, but curiosity flickered beneath it.

“You’ve been watching me,” you said quietly.

“Yes.”

“That’s… unsettling.”

“I know,” Dek said. “I am sorry.”

The sincerity in his tone startled you.

He reached into a pouch at his side and placed something on the ground between you.

A bundle of soft fur. Clean. Carefully prepared.

“A gift,” he said. “No blood.”

You stared at it, then at him.

“This doesn’t make me your property,” you said.

“No,” Dek agreed. “It makes you my guest.”

You exhaled slowly.

The forest seemed to breathe with you.

The journey to Dek’s land was quiet.

You expected restraints. A cage. A constant threat at your back.

Instead, Dek walked beside you.

He kept a careful distance, close enough that you could see him if you turned your head, far enough that you never felt crowded. 

When the terrain grew rough, he slowed without comment. 

When night fell, he built a fire and positioned himself with his back to you, watching the forest rather than you.

Protection, not possession.

By the time you reached his settlement, exhaustion had dulled the edge of your fear.

The dwelling he brought you to was not a cell.

It was a structure of stone and wood, warmed by hanging furs and lit with soft bioluminescent plants. 

Trophies adorned the walls, but they were placed high, away from where you would sleep.

Dek noticed your hesitation.

“This is yours. If you wish.”

“And you?” you asked.

“I will guard,” he replied.

That first night, you slept fitfully, but nothing happened.

In the days that followed, Dek gave you gifts.

Never excessive. Never bloody.

Soft pelts. 

Smooth bones carved into tools. Food he prepared, offering the first taste to you and watching your reaction before eating himself.

You noticed.

One evening, as you shared a meal, you finally asked. 

“Why do you always wait for me to try it first?”

Dek paused. 

“In my culture, the mate approves what enters the home.”

“I’m not your mate,” you said gently.

“No. But I hope.”

The honesty in his voice left you quiet.

He spoke to you often, practising human words. 

You began to learn his language in return, slow and halting at first. You learned how to say thank you. 

How to say safe. How to say his name.

He listened when you spoke of your work. The plants you loved. The reason you left Earth.

“You care for life. Even small things.”

“They matter,” you replied.

One night, you asked the question that had been weighing on you.

“Why me?”

Dek did not answer immediately.

“I watched you,” he said at last. “You were kind when no one watched. You were careful with fragile things. I am tired of breaking what I touch.”

Your chest tightened.

“I will not force you, if you wish to leave, I will return you.”

You believed him.

That frightened you more than any threat could have.

Because for the first time, you realised you did not want to go.

You sensed the change before he spoke of it.

Dek grew quieter in the days that followed. His movements were no longer relaxed. His attention drifted outward, toward the forest, toward the distant sounds of his people. The calm he had built around you held, but it felt fragile, as if something heavy pressed against it from all sides.

One evening, as you prepared food together, you set your tools down and looked at him.

“What’s wrong?” you asked.

Dek stilled.

“My clan will come. They know I returned from my hunt without trophies. They will ask why.”

“And what will you tell them?” you asked softly.

He met your gaze. His eyes were steady, but something raw moved beneath them.

“The truth.”

Your breath caught. 

“Which is?”

“That I took you. Not as prey. Not as a conquest. But because I wish you to be my mate.”

Silence settled between you.

“You don’t owe them that. You could let me go before they arrive.”

Dek shook his head. 

“I will not hide you.”

Something in his voice made your chest tighten.

“I am leader. If I cannot stand openly for what I choose, then I do not deserve the title.”

The day the clan arrived, the settlement filled with noise.

Warriors gathered. Elders whispered. 

Eyes followed you as you stood beside Dek, your heart pounding, your hands trembling despite your effort to stay calm.

He lowered himself slightly, bringing his head closer to yours. 

“Stay by me. You are safe.”

The Elders approached first.

“A human,” Kra’thun said, disbelief heavy in his voice. “In our leader’s dwelling.”

Dek stepped forward. 

“She is under my protection.”

“Protection is not bonding,” another Elder snapped.

“No,” Dek agreed. “Bonding is choice.”

Murmurs rippled through the crowd.

“She is soft. She will weaken you.”

Dek turned sharply. 

“She has strengthened me.”

That drew silence.

“She does not challenge me. She does not test me with blades. She chooses me without demanding proof of dominance.” His voice did not waver. “I choose her because she brings peace to my home.”

Kra’thun studied you then. Not as prey. Not as an object. But as a presence.

“Human. Do you stay willingly?”

Your throat tightened. You looked at Dek, then back at the Elder.

“I choose to stay.”

The silence that followed was long.

Finally, Kra’thun exhaled slowly. 

“Strength is not always loud. Perhaps we have forgotten that.”

Dek did not move. Did not breathe.

“The clan will watch,” Kra’thun continued. “If you weaken, if your leadership falters, this bond will be questioned.”

Dek inclined his head. 

“I accept this.”

Later, when the settlement quieted, and you were alone again, Dek stood before you.

“They may never fully accept you,” he said.

“I don’t need them to, I just need you.”

Dek’s breath shuddered.

He reached out, stopping just short of touching your cheek. Waiting.

When you leaned into his hand, his eyes closed.

“I choose you,” he said again, voice rough with emotion. “Every day.”

You smiled softly. 

“Then stay.”

He did.

The ceremony took place at dawn.

Mist curled low across the clearing, softening the edges of stone and forest alike. 

The clan gathered in a wide circle, their presence heavy but respectful. No weapons were drawn. 

This ritual was not about conquest.

Dek stood opposite you, unarmoured.

You wore a simple wrap woven from pale fibres and fur, chosen carefully so nothing felt restrictive. Dek had watched every movement as you dressed, ensuring comfort before anything else.

“You may stop this at any moment,” he told you quietly.

You smiled up at him. 

“I know.”

The Elders began the rite with low, resonant chants. Words older than memory, shaped around choice and bond rather than ownership.

Dek knelt first.

The murmur around the circle stilled.

He bowed his head, exposing the vulnerable line of his neck, his mandibles relaxed and open.

“I stand by choice, I offer protection, shelter, and devotion. I will wait when asked. I will listen when spoken to. I will never take what is not given.”

Your throat tightened.

When it was your turn, you stepped forward on unsteady legs.

“I stand by choice, I accept your protection, your home, and your care. I offer trust, patience, and companionship. I stay because I wish to.”

Dek lifted his head, eyes bright.

The final act was simple.

You placed your hand over his heart.

He placed his over yours.

The bond was sealed not with blood, but with breath.

That night, your home felt different.

Not new.

Settled.

Dek prepared the meal carefully, presenting the first portion to you as he always did. You tasted it, nodded approval, and only then did he eat.

Later, as you lay together beneath warm furs, Dek traced slow patterns against your back.

“Are you happy?” he asked quietly.

“Yes,” you answered without hesitation. “Are you?”

He pressed his forehead to yours. 

“I have never been more at peace.”

In the seasons that followed, the clan changed.

Slowly.

They watched as Dek’s leadership remained steady. 

His hunts were precise. His home became a place of calm rather than tension.

Younglings visited often, curious and unafraid. You taught them the names of plants. Dek taught them patience.

And every time Dek approached the door to your home, he paused.

Waited.

Even after all this time.

Even after everything.

Because once, you had been taken without choice.

And now, every day, he chooses to honour that you stayed.

---

Dek did not let you walk alone anymore.

He never said it aloud. 

Never framed it as a rule. 

He simply moved closer, his presence constant, his attention sharp as a drawn blade.

When you got up from your sleeping furs, he was already awake. When you reached for water, it was placed into your hands before you asked. When you stepped outside, he scanned the treeline long before your foot touched the earth.

“You’re hovering,” you murmured one morning, amused as you adjusted your wrap.

Dek did not look away from the doorway. 

“You carry my future.”

“I can still stand,” you said gently.

“Yes, and I will still guard.”

He had moved the trophies higher on the walls, out of your line of sight. The floor was layered with softer furs. He adjusted the temperature of the dwelling daily, ensuring the air was warm enough for your comfort.

At meals, he watched you eat before he touched his own food. If you paused, he paused. 

If you frowned at a scent, he removed it without question.

One evening, as you rested against him, his hand spread protectively over your abdomen, claws flexing as if memorising the shape of you.

“You are quiet,” you said.

“I listen. Your body speaks differently now.”

You smiled softly.

 “You’re worried.”

He lowered his forehead to yours. 

“I have hunted monsters without fear. This is… different.”

“Are you afraid?” you asked.

“Yes,” he admitted without shame. “Because I love you.”

Your chest ached.

When sleep took you, Dek remained awake long after, one arm curved around you, the other resting where your youngling grew. His breathing stayed slow, controlled, listening for any change in yours.

Outside, the forest remained still.

Nothing dared come near.

And inside the warmth of your shared home, you were held not as something fragile, but as something precious.

Something worth protecting at any cost.

~Masterlist~