Conquering His Queen: A Sci-Fi Alien Romance (Zalaryn Conquerors Book 1)

by Viki Storm

He shrieks and tries to back out of it, but I hold his arm tight. Pain compliance is what the master weaponsmiths call it.

  “Don’t hurt him,” Bryn appeals to me. “He didn’t mean it.”

  “He didn’t mean it? Didn’t mean to enter into our royal bedchamber uninvited? Or he didn’t mean to insult the King of this planet? Didn’t mean to imply that I was holding you against your will and abusing your virtue? What didn’t he mean?”

  I know I am yelling, but I don’t mean to. I am not mad at her. I am not even particularly mad at Yar. He was just trying to do his duty to protect his Queen.

  I suddenly realize that’s why I am enraged: I don’t want it to be another man’s duty to protect the Queen.

  That’s my job.

  “Next time,” I say to Yar as I walk him out, “I will not be so kind. Other Zalaryns, other humans—other Kings—would view your behavior as treason. Consider this your only warning.” I shove him forward, but he gets his footing before his head crashes into the cold stone wall.

  “Begging your pardon,” he says, but his eyes show no remorse. I can tell that the only thing he’s actually sorry about is not drawing his weapon faster and plunging it into my chest.

  The old woman’s shack is outside of the capital city walls, and we have to slog through a mile of mud to get there. I venture outside the palace so rarely now that I never remember how cold it is. The wind gathers and blows through the flat land, rustling the low scrub that the cattle graze on. The vegetation is unpalatable, but the cows don’t seem to mind, and the chemists claim that there’s an acid in the tough stalks that help the animals produce sweet milk and tender meat.

  “How much further?” Vano asks. It is a struggle to keep up with him. His long legs make long strides, and he is unencumbered by the layers of garments befitting a Queen.

  “A few more minutes,” I say. “Aren’t you cold?”

  “Zalaryns run hot,” is all he says, and I’m not sure what that means. Their tempers? Their lust? Their actual core body temperature? Probably all three, if my experience with Vano is any reliable indication.

  “That’s it, right there,” I say as we crest a small hill. “I remember once when I was young, my sister and I came out here and she dared me to go up and pick a flower from the old woman’s garden.”

  “Did you?”

  “I did,” I tell him. The memory threatens to bring tears to my eyes. It was so much simpler then, when I was just a princess, the youngest daughter of the King, and the possibility of my having to rule seemed nonexistent. When my sister and I could run free between our lessons, before my father started insisting she be at his side during Council meetings and petitions so she could learn how to effectively rule this planet.

  “And?” he asks.

  “I was so scared,” I tell him. “The children told so many tales about her. She was a witch. She was an alien. She ate her first husband and his flesh gave her immortality.”

  “I like that last one,” Vano says.

  “We were standing right here on this crest,” I say. It’s so hard to believe that fifteen years ago these same feet of mine stood on this same heap of dirt. That my sister’s feet stood here, too. Is some of her still here? Did her presence alter the geography somehow? I doubt it, but sometimes I wonder. She’s been gone all these years, yet somehow I don’t think her dead. I’d like to think that if she was dead, I’d feel it.

  I shake my head, clearing away the thoughts of the past. “And my sister said that she thought I was too much a wimp to run down and pick a flower. I denied the allegations, but of course that only invited her to challenge me to prove her wrong. I worked up all my nerve, but I couldn’t make my legs do it. It’s like when you’re going swimming and you know the water is going to be cold and you can’t force yourself to jump in.” He just looks at me. “Maybe you don’t know the feeling. Maybe that’s part of what makes you a warrior.”

  “They whip that out of us at a young age,” he says. He must see horror in my eyes, because he adds, “not literally with a whip—though that might be kinder. We have similar trials to make us face our fears. To erase hesitation and doubt. Our training is intense and starts very young.”

  “What sort of training?” I ask.

  “Not today,” he says. “That was a long time ago and mostly a blur in my memory. Finish your story. What flower did you pick?”

  “Something red,” I say. “That was the first one I saw. It pricked me with a thorn and I had a swollen red itchy spot on my palm for a week. As I was leaving, I heard the door open. I’m not sure if it was my imagination, but I swore I felt icy fingers at the nape of my neck and the breath of her whispered hex.”

  “Did it come true?” he asks. “The hex?”

  “My sister was taken,” I say. “Is that hex enough?”

  “I guess it is,” he says.

  We say nothing else until we are at her door. He knocks, sensing that I would not have the strength to do so.

  “Oh,” the old woman says as she opens the door. She looks as ancient as I remember, and I have a wild thought that maybe she did achieve immortality—if not from her husband’s cooked flesh, then from something else. “To what do I owe this pleasure? To be graced by the magnificent presence of the King and Queen?”

  “What were you doing in the palace last week?” Vano says. He is wasting no time, and I appreciate that.

  Vano has made some inquiries about the murder of the stable boy the day of the invasion. It was hard to sort out the rumor from truth, but he heard from more than one credible source that the old witchy woman was seen lurking around the palace that day. No one knew her name—and I’m not even sure she has a name—but they saw her.

  And it was no coincidence she was at the palace the day the stable boy was murdered.

  “The palace?” she says. Her ancient face is subsumed by a network of wrinkles as she smiles. Her teeth are as yellow as her thick fingernails. It might be my imagination, but they look just a little bit sharp. “Why would an old woman like me be at the palace? I didn’t receive a royal invitation, unless the courier lost it? Then again, if the Queen herself is inviting Zalaryn raiders into the royal bedchamber, I suppose anything’s possible.”

  “Stop wasting my time,” I say. I am not sure where my courage is coming from. The sight of her has turned me back into a shivering girl, afraid to run down and take a flower, but I manage to find my regal presence and at least pretend to be indignant and powerful. “There is a dead stable boy in the churchyard waiting to be buried tomorrow. We need answers.”

  “Does every murder warrant a royal inquiry of this magnitude?” she croaks. Her voice is like a rusty hinge on a splintered gate. “Every time a stable boy bleeds out in the west wing corridor, the Queen herself knocks on doors and demands answers? Or did you just come to pick another lovely red heartsweed flower from my garden?”

  I freeze, unable to respond. She remembers that day when I picked the flower from her garden.

  “Don’t toy with us, hag,” Vano says. He unholsters his weapon, that big blunt stick that can turn a human being into a sack of bones with the touch of a button. He slides a switch, and I can feel the electricity in the air as he charges it up for a blast.

  “And don’t be hasty,” she says. She shows no fear, looks him straight in the eye. Either she is a miserable old woman with nothing to lose or she knows he won’t press the button. “If you kill me, my secrets die, too. Maybe I was in the palace. Maybe I would tell you if you made it worth my while.”

  “To let you keep your miserable old life would be more than you deserve,” I say. I do not like being toyed with. I do not like the way she makes me feel small and scared. The only thing giving me strength is Vano by my side. And not just because of his anankah—it’s because I want to make him proud. I want to have iron in my spine and be the sort of powerful ruler that would make a Zalaryn proud.

  “I assure you that my life is not worth much,” she says and lets out a throaty cackle that
stills the roiling in my guts. “So offering that to me is not very motivating.”

  “Then what would motivate you?” Vano asks. “If the fear of death is not enough?”

  “I would like to see one of those cows,” she says. “One of the dead ones.”

  “How do you know so much?” I can’t help but ask. I know it is not what a powerful Zalaryn leader would ask, but she’s surprising me with her knowledge.

  “I know everything,” she says. “Like how your sister’s still alive.”

  Before I know what I’m doing, I have taken her throat in my hands and started to squeeze.

  “Stop it, Bryn,” Vano says as he pries my fingers loose. “She is toying with you. You’re letting her win.”

  “That was a rush!” the old woman says, cackling again. “That tickled! I haven’t had that much fun in a long time. The Queen Regent wrapping her delicate white fingers around my neck. How precious! You think you could really hurt me? I bet you couldn’t wring the neck of a tired old hen, could you? You have servants to do that for you. Servants to do everything for you. Everything except service the Zalaryn conqueror here. Too bad you can’t have one of your ladies-in-waiting pull up her skirts and bend over in your stead… Actually, judging by the way you’re turning red as a heartsweed blossom, I think maybe that’s one job you don’t want to delegate to your servants.”

  “Last chance,” Vano says. He prods the end of his weapon into her stomach and holds her gaze. She must see something in it because her cackle dies in her throat.

  “Okay,” she says. “But I want to see that cow.”

  “That can be arranged,” I say. “But the Astronomer has been at the corpse. He might not leave much for you to look at.”

  “There will be more, out beyond the rift. I’m patient. The next time one of the farmers hauls one into the palace to lay at your feet alongside his tale of woe, remember me.”

  “I will,” I say, “but it might not be fondly.”

  “That I can deal with,” she says. “I will tell you now what I was doing there in the palace. I was delivering a package to a customer.”

  “A package?” I ask.

  “A tincture of heartsweed. I had to harvest my entire crop to make enough.” She holds up her hands, and I see for the first time that they’re covered in red welts.

  “What is a tincture of heartsweed used for?” Vano asks.

  “It depends on the concentration,” she says. “It could either cure your headache or stop your heart.”

  “And the concentration you prepared?” Vano asks.

  “The latter. It was the most potent draught I’ve ever concocted. A few drops would be enough to take down a huge slab of muscle like you. But not right away, oh no. That’s why it’s so perfect.” A smile spreads across her face, revealing one blackened tooth. “The poison is thorough and takes three days to work. By that time, you will have forgotten who gave you the drink you foolishly accepted.”

  “The stable boy bought it?” I ask. “How did he afford such a potion? I assume it wasn’t cheap.”

  “He bought it, technically. But on behalf of someone else. Twenty-two coins I charged. That’s more than he’d make all winter. But he was eager enough to act as the courier. Said that his master needed something to—and I’m merely quoting the poor lad—something to ‘take out the invading Zalaryn bastards.’”

  I think of that day when I picked that flower, the itchy welt I had for a week where one of the thorns poked me. Heartsweed. Poison.

  We walk back to the capital, the wind even colder, the sun even lower. I try to think who might have this poison, this little vial of concentrated death. Three or four drops, the old woman had said, is all it would take to stop Vano’s heart.

  The idea fills me with fear.

  Even in such short time, I have gotten used to him by my side.

  I should be grateful for this piece of news. I should be rooting for the unknown poisoner. This would be my chance to end my alliance with Vano and rid the planet of the Zalaryns.

  But I do not want that to happen. He is not quite the brute that I first assumed him to be.

  “From now on, you have to be very careful,” he finally says. “Whoever bought that poison is ruthless. He sent the stable boy to run the errand, then rewarded the boy with a dagger in the back.”

  “What do you mean?” I ask.

  “He sent the boy to fetch it from the hag, then killed the lad so there would be no witnesses to his lethal purchase.”

  I thought about that and had to agree with Vano. Someone now possesses a vial of heartsweed poison, and the only person who knew is going to be buried tomorrow morning.

  “We will find the culprit,” I say. “I will not stand for any attack against my King.”

  Vano smiles kindly and takes my hand in his. “Your pretend King,” he says. “And that’s very kind of you, but no matter what he told the stable boy, that poison is not meant for me.”

  “Then who?” I ask. “Bantokk?”

  “It’s not for any of the Zalaryns,” Vano says. “That poison is meant for you.”

  My little Queen slept fitfully, mumbling and tossing and turning all night long. She finally rolled out of bed early, before the first light, and sat at her little table by the window overlooking the capital marketplace.

  I let her sit for a while. I know that sometimes it’s best to be alone.

  When the sky burns red with the rising sun, I get up and sit next to her. She wears her sleeping gown and nothing else. The gauzy white thing is but a wisp around her curves. Her nipples are clearly hard beneath her gown, and I imagine what it would feel like to glide my hands over it, to feel the thin, softly woven cloth beneath my grasp, her nipples two hard beads under it. It occurs to me that I do not need to wonder at it.

  “Sit on my lap,” I tell her. “Face me.”

  “Not now,” she says. “I have too much on my mind.”

  “That’s not the proper attitude to have towards your King,” I say. “It’s early, but I know you’ve been awake some time. Now sit on my lap and face me.”

  “Later,” she says. She does not even look at me as she speaks, merely keeps her gaze to the window.

  “No,” I say. “Remember when you pledged obedience? And I warned you. I said that the thrill would wear off and the reality of actual subordination would seem a lot less exciting in daily matters. Yet you agreed. Have you changed your mind? Do you wish to cancel our agreement? You can cancel it any time you want.”

  She lets out a heavy sigh and rises from her seat. This fills me with fury—a sigh, as if tending to me were a laborious chore she realizes she can no longer put off.

  Perhaps for her it is.

  And that does something I’m not prepared for: It disappoints me.

  I feel rejected. Females have rejected me plenty of times, and I never take it personally. But not now. Now it feels as if I’m being betrayed.

  She sits astride my lap, her legs dangling, not quite touching the floor.

  “I was going to touch these,” I say, and I give her nipples a quick, firm pinch. She gasps but arches her back, pressing her breasts into my hands. “I was going to make you feel good. I was going to lick you until you screamed so loud that the window glass shattered in its pane. But you have a bad attitude.”

  “Of course I have a bad attitude,” she says, looking at me for the first time. Her eyes blaze hot with defiance. “The Rulmek are coming back to this planet. One of my own loyal subjects is planning to kill me. I’ve got a horde of idle Zalaryn warriors making trouble in the city. And a planet of humans who are scared witless about what is going to happen to them when they are forced to evacuate the only home they’ve ever known. And to top it all off, the invading captain has an insatiable sexual appetite and demands favors at all hours of the day and night.”

  “We’ve got to do something about your attitude,” I say. I grip her by the hips and before she knows it, I’ve turned her over my knees. She is bent across my l
ap, her bottom sticking up in the air. “You’re acting like a spoiled child, so I am going to treat you like one.”

  “I am the Queen, you can’t treat me like this,” she says, obviously not used to anyone challenging her.

  “If you want me to treat you like a Queen, then start acting like one. Don’t give me sourness when I tell you to do something. You need to trust me.” I run my hand up the back of her thighs and underneath her sleeping gown. Her bottom is plump and firm, and I rub my hand across her smooth cheeks. “You’ve been moping about instead of devising a plan of action. So I say start acting like a Queen and support your King.”

  I lift up her gown to expose her bottom to the cold morning air. I swat her cheeks swiftly with my hand, and the red imprint is clear and instant. “Ouch!” she says. But she does not get up. She does not leave the room or tell me that our arrangement is over.

  “Be quiet,” I say. “Act like a Queen, remember, not like a whining child.” I give her another firm swat, and this time she keeps her mouth closed, instead moaning deep in her throat. She arches her back and sticks up her ass a little higher, wiggling it back and forth, inviting another swat. “You like this, don’t you?” I ask. “I can’t even give you a proper punishment.”

  I swat her again, relishing the way she tenses and winces in anticipation of my hand but then melts into my lap after I make contact. My erection is pressing against her stomach, and I can’t help thrusting it against her as she writhes.

  “Have you learned your lesson?” I ask. I pull my hand back as if to swat her again but wait for her response. She flinches, and I feel myself growing even harder.

  “Yes,” she moans. She pushes her ass higher in the air, and even though her legs are pressed tightly together, I can see the lips of her sex, puffy and swollen with desire. She is glistening wet with essence, obviously enjoying her punishment too much.

  “Stand up and remove your garments,” I tell her. “I think I’m going to take you in the bottom. Maybe then you’ll remember who’s in charge.” I cannot properly mate her—that much I know. Taking her virginity will bond us together, and I can’t do that. But holy Void, she’s making me so damned hard, I have to thrust into her. She responded pleasurably to my finger inside her tight bottom hole, and I know she’d like it if I gave her my cock.