The Ugly Dukeling

by Bex McLynn

  A disgruntled growl rumbled from him as he strode away from Naosim. With the tray balanced on one hand, he used the other to pull his farsimi from his hip pocket and checked his tracker. The demon bird was right where he’d expected him to be, settled in the study along with Cisnetta.

  Apparently, Cobbs was as aware of Atrates as Atrates was of him. Because when Atrates opened the study door, Cobbs stood there, blocking the entrance like a sentry.

  To which Atrates pulled a sardine from his pocket and waved it until Cobbs tracked its movement with serpentine sways to his head and neck. Then Atrates tossed the temptation down the hall.

  Cobbs squawked and waddled after it, his wings spread in his enthusiasm.

  “Every damn time, you fucker,” Atrates muttered as he slipped into the study and eased the door closed with his foot.

  His victorious smile dropped from his lips when he caught a glimpse of Cisnetta.

  She sat on the couch as she slowly turned the pages of her ledger. Her hair shimmered in the sunlight that streamed through the window. Her shirt hadn’t been fastened to the top button and the tail hung untucked. Her bare toes peeked out from beneath her crossed legs.

  Seeing her enticingly tousled had his half-mast cock kicking against his latest dose of synten.

  Bloody hell. He knew what this was. The dichogamous Otar had no gender. Their gonadal designation biologically resolved during a breeding assessment, where a pair wishing to mate agreed to wrestle. The breeding drive wasn’t congress to force submission. Rather, to the pair’s immense satisfaction, they established the roles that would best serve their unified efforts. One would be the protector. The other would be the vessel.

  However, in order to mirror Gistheans, the hybrids had been grafted as either male or female. Although the Otar had given them stagnant gonads, they had not removed the instinct that triggered after bonding with a mate, an intense urge to determine their breeding roles.

  God, Cisnetta had no idea what her appearance did to him. With her hair down and her clothing disheveled, she looked like she’d gotten thoroughly tousled during a mating match.

  He wanted to tumble in a bed with her.

  She heaved a befuddled sigh. “How many times do I need to document, measure, and double-check? I thought I was being thorough when I was actually being redundant.”

  She glanced up and he braced for a startled reaction at his sudden appearance. He assumed that she’d simply been voicing her perplexed thoughts aloud. But she didn’t flinch upon seeing him. Instead, she greeted him with an imploring shimmer in her eyes, as if he were the one who held the answers.

  She shook her head and her voice wavered under the heaviness of defeat. “I, mean, I’d argue for a higher wage, but I also made half of what I do unnecessary.”

  Entirely untrue. His brother had the right of it. Cisnetta was very necessary.

  He set the tray on her desk and retrieved from behind his back an Otaric farsimi tablet that he’d tucked in the waistband of his pants earlier that day. He handed it to her.

  Her eyes widened as she slowly reached out and gingerly accepted what he offered. Once she had the tech in-hand, the device recognized her biosignature and powered up, unlocking the screen and displaying the preloaded functions and data.

  She gasped, her lovely mouth dropping open in shock. Her gaze batted between the ledger, now discarded on her lap, and the tablet that she gripped. Then she raised her gaze to him. She smiled and her whole being shone on him with gratitude that seeped under his skin, warming him like afternoon sun rays.

  He lunged for her, sliding one knee onto the couch to keep himself from crushing her. Looming over her, he cupped her cheeks and tipped her startled face upward. He descended upon her with a possessive kiss, claiming her lips with a groan that he hoped conveyed his admiration and desire, not his pathetic gratitude that not once in their acquaintance had she truly sneered, jolted, or shrieked at him.

  He broke the kiss and sought out the warm, pulsing divot beneath her ear. Nosing her hair aside, it thrilled him to catch only the faint day-old tracing of magone lotion on her skin. He latched his mouth onto her neck, and the taste of her—reminiscent of the tanginess of her cunt that had burst on his tongue and had coiled his loins for his own release—carried a sweetness that had his hands trembling as he restrained the impulse to crush her to him. To keep her always.

  “Atrates,” she whispered as she obligingly tilted her head, easing his access to the column of her neck, “are you on your synten?”

  The question irritated him. “I took a bloody dose last night.”

  “After?”

  That single word had the memory of her taste watering his mouth, but it also slammed him into stone-cold reality. Yesterday, she had a need for him. Today, well, she looked sated and frenesia-free.

  He pulled back, but remained looming over her, shadowing her like a blackened storm cloud. “After.”

  She continued to study him, unfazed by his snarly replies. “That was impulsive.”

  He knew she referred to his insistent possession of her lips and neck.

  Lips that she very much turned up to him in invitation while tilting her neck to give him access.

  “But not unwelcome,” he shot back.

  He might be an arse, but he knew when a woman endured his touch for self-serving reasons. When all she wanted was either a coveted titled lordling, a dashing military officer, or an exotic alien hybrid.

  Although, Cisnetta unbalanced him by remaining confusingly soft and receptive beneath him.

  “It was certainly welcome.” A smile tugged at her lips as her expression became a mix of concern and amusement. Then she dipped her chin to the Otaric tech grasped in her hands, which were pressed between their bodies. “So, is this a courting gift?”

  Of all the absurd—

  Baffled and agitated, he frowned at her. “No. It’s a tablet.”

  She arched an inquisitive brow. “A courting tablet?”

  “No.”

  She shrugged as she continued to gaze up at him. “I’m fine with it being a ‘whatever-the-hell-this-is’ tablet.”

  All he could do was acknowledge her with a stiff grunt, letting her know that he heard her rather than having understood her. When he’d procured the tech gadget for her this morning, he hadn’t a clue what it was meant to be other than something that she needed.

  As he gazed down at her, he watched as an idea sparkled in her eyes and slowly curled her lips into a sly and damn well sexy smile. “Is it a ‘you-deserve-more-kisses’ tablet?”

  God, she was brilliant.

  That was exactly what it was. A gateway to her deliciously addictive lips.

  He gazed down at her. “Move the tablet.”

  “Moving the tablet.”

  His voice had been gravelly, rougher than he’d intended, but she smartly set the device on the side table without breaking his gaze.

  She lifted her arms, welcoming and receiving him with lust shining in her eyes. Even though she already reclined on the couch, he practically tackled her into the cushions. Sliding his arms around her and plying his Otar-grafted strength, he earned a startled gasp from her, swiftly followed by a gratified groan from him, as he settled over her.

  It was heady. It was provocative. It was so damn satisfying to have her sheltered beneath him.

  He reined in his passion as he gave her face a quick study, hoping that he’d see no trace of fear or disgust. But she burst him wide open when he saw the raw, unbridled desire in her eyes.

  Releasing the reins, he kissed her. Reflexively, he siphoned on her sweet lips as his hips pressed down and thrust between her spread legs. His regretful moan, that her bezeten had run dry, turned into a gratified groan as his entire spine lit up with pleasure. He knew this feeling—the spine-tingling precursors to a mind-shattering orgasm.

  “Atrates!” The alarm in her voice jolted him, tossing frigid water onto his burning desire. “Atrates, stop.”

  He shuddered an e
xhale as he rallied, corralling his impulse to continue their contest, and lifted himself off of her. It was hard. Damn hard. His instincts roared at him to kiss. To possess. To prove…

  He braced himself, anticipating a revolted scathing, but again she astounded him by quickly sitting up and cupping his face with her tiny hands.

  “You’re erect.” She spoke gently, almost soothingly to him. “Your penis is erect.”

  He huffed, ready to snap back that his cock was a fucking engorged battering ram, but she tilted her head as her eyes continued to assess him with worry and sympathy. She hadn’t reacted to the sneer that certainly twisted his mouth.

  He gawked at her. Within a quarter-hour, she thrice astonished him. She interacted with him and said things to him that other women simply—

  Her words hit him. Penis. Erect.

  But he’d injected a fresh dose of synten last night after he took every last drop of her bezeten. He should be sated, balanced, and in fucking control of his faculties.

  With a curse, he glowered in hostile denial at his hard cock and shaking hands.

  Fuck. He was becoming frenetic.

  Chapter 9

  Cisnetta sat on a wooden bench in the fitness studio. Stunned, she watched Atrates work the boxing bag that hung from reinforced rafters. The room originally had been the manor’s ballroom, but Trone had installed the bag in preparation of the move. She’d come into the room only moments ago, but she knew Atrates had been using the facilities for several hours.

  Naosim, who sat next to her, bumped her shoulder with his. “He saved me from unpacking it all.”

  Her friend was referring to the final stage of their relocation that had occurred over the past two days. Cisnetta had spent her time coordinating with the moving crew and Barbotière’s staff, while Atrates had gone on endless runs in Virgate Park. When the lanvans departed for Barbotière, he declined riding in the coach and four with her. Instead, he’d jogged alongside the carriage for six hours. When they’d arrived at Barbotière, Atrates had hauled packed crates into the manor house and set up the fitness studio. Then he’d put himself through the paces of pounding a sand-filled leather bag.

  He was still at it.

  She watched helplessly as Atrates forced his concentration on the bag. He’d discarded his shirt, and his body was in a lather as he repeatedly drove his fists into the leather bag. The telling look in his eyes was heartbreaking. She knew how frenesia could drive someone to a desperate, single-minded mission to remain in constant motion. To stay a league down the road of a frenetic episode.

  Unfortunately, you couldn’t outrun frenesia because the race never ended. Frenesia—the biological need for bezeten—was a lifelong burden that required balance.

  Her heart ached as she gazed at him while speaking to Naosim. “He’s trying to stay ahead of it.”

  “And he needs to be medically supervised,” Naosim added.

  Cisnetta nodded as her attention remained riveted to the cobbled muscles of Atrates’s flank, watching them bulge and stretch as he pummeled the bag, his punches’ impact generated from the twisting of his core.

  Naosim sighed. “He very much needs to be medically supervised.”

  She glimpsed at her friend. The good doctor leaned back against the wall, his eyes tracking his ‘patient’ with an appreciative gleam and a grin tugging at his lips.

  Cisnetta elbowed him. “You can’t have them both, greedy man.”

  Naosim dismissed her complaint with a wave of his hand. “It’s simply… I’ve always been curious, academically intrigued if you will, by the hybrids. I mean,” he gestured at Atrates, whose granite black skin glistened beautifully in the oil lamplight of the room, “look at what the Otar made.”

  Her first impulse was to snap at Naosim, who should bloody know better. People are more than what others disparage them to be. But then she realized that Naosim’s voice had been filled with admiration.

  “You know,” Naosim said in a confidential tone, “my professor wasn’t qualified to teach genetics. Well, the Otar-practiced genetics. When that portion of the course came up, they had Professor Ulem come and instruct us.”

  She knew that name. “The hybrid?”

  All of the hybrids were renowned throughout Mayren, their inclusion in noble families lauded throughout the bon ton. With the exception of the Duke of Andrake, of course.

  Naosim nodded. “Professor Ulem delivered the best lecture series that I’ve ever attended.” Then he quieted for a moment and his gaze became unfocused, lost in thought. “Do you know what stood out the most about the professor?”

  Cisnetta loved when Naosim was like this, inquisitive and unafraid to share his thoughts with others. She gave him an encouraging shake of her head, wanting him to go on.

  A smile curled Naosim’s lips. “He wore Mayreni-made clothes and handed out papers. Actual, made-from-tree-pulp papers. He was the most Mayreni man I’d ever met. No trace of the Otaric accent, either.”

  Ah, that last bit was a shame. She adored Atrates’s deep, resounding notching that he made in the back of his throat. Then again, she knew Atrates spent more time with the Otar than many of the other hybrids who embraced integration with the Mayreni. She blamed the duke for crippling Atrates’s trust in others. Atrates had a well-ingrained belief that because he was different, everyone would reject him.

  “But most fascinating about the professor,” Naosim continued, “was that his hands were always open.”

  In that moment, Atrates pivoted away from the boxing bag and locked his magone-blue gaze right onto her. His hands were balled into fists, hanging at his side, quaking with restrained tension as his chest heaved from his exertion. With his lips pressed into a firm, grim line, he blew hot breaths that flared his nostrils.

  Naosim slapped Cisnetta’s thigh as he rose.

  She jolted, not at the slap, but that he moved to leave.

  She snagged his shirt sleeve. “Where are you going?”

  “To bed.” He gave her a pathetic frown. “Alone, but duly inspired.”

  “Simmy!” She tugged futilely at his sleeve.

  “Don’t fret. I’ll envision my paramour’s face. Though, the Andrake brutes do brood when aroused.” He overlapped her hand with his, gently extracting the fabric of his shirt. “But there are alternatives.”

  He handed her a capped syringe. He didn’t need to tell her it was synten.

  “Have him pick his poison.” He winked down at her. “I’d pick you every time, Cissy.”

  Then Naosim gave Atrates a courteous nod as he mumbled his apologies and wishes for a pleasant evening before leaving the room.

  Being alone with Atrates had the hairs on Cisnetta’s nape flaring. She wasn’t afraid, simply hyperaware that she shared a secluded space with the most virile man she’d ever met.

  She desired Atrates, and she’d gotten an inkling that he genuinely desired her too. She frankly admitted to herself that she wanted more than sex. She wanted to care for his needs: frenetically, sexually, and emotionally.

  Simply put, she wanted him to be happy.

  As she stared down at the synten dose in her hand, it pained her to think that he would not find his happiness with her. Atrates obviously had high bezeten needs, as demonstrated by his body burning through both her bezeten and his synten in less than a day.

  He needed, but she couldn’t give him what he needed. As much as her heart broke over and over in sympathy for him, admitting her inadequacy shredded what was left of her heart’s broken pieces.

  Her eyes feasted on the beautiful man before her as her heart and soul mourned the loss of him. “How are you feeling, Atrates?”

  He stared at her, his chest rising and falling with his deep, winded breaths.

  Then he strode away, his mouth downturned in a frown. “I’m going for a run.”

  Atrates tore through the back field, startling the sleeping cows as the moonlight lit his way and the Ark twinkled overhead. Two days ago, he siphoned from Cisnetta and had th
e most carnally and intimately satisfying moment of his life. Although he’d drained her, his unsated frenesia spiked his arousal, morphing him into a mongrel who wanted nothing more than to spread her legs and gorge until she cried his name again and then fuck her until she went limp in his arms.

  He could rationalize that his desire to thoroughly possess her ultimately satisfied her need, but it was a pretense. In truth, he wanted. He wanted and wanted until his chest would burst from his desperation to take, to fuck, to claim, to prove.

  Naosim, who wasn’t an idiot, had been goading him in the fitness room. He’d spurred Atrates each time he touched Cisnetta with a bump of his shoulder or listed toward her while speaking in a low voice, causing her to list toward him as well. With their heads close together, Naosim had whispered words that drew smiles and chuckles and delighted gazes.

  Naosim had blatantly flirted with Atrates’s claim. The man was exactly like Trone, tailoring his taunting to garner a desired response. Atrates was already riled and ready for a competitor, whether that be fisticuffs or fucking. He didn’t bloody care which. Since Naosim had slunk away with a gratingly knowing smirk, that only left Cisnetta and his raging lust.

  Well, he wouldn’t rise to Naosim’s baiting. Atrates was a feral fighting cock in the ring, while Cisnetta was untouchably angelic.

  According to society’s asinine opinion, Cisnetta could do no better than snaring Atrates. The bon ton of Zentrale would consider her association with him well above her station. But the bon ton had it ass-backwards.

  If Cisnetta chose him, he’d be elevated.

  He would be welcomed into the heart and life of a woman who’d demonstrated her superior worth over Atrates’s suspicious, sullied character. Cisnetta, with a keen eye, accepted and nurtured without coddling. She’d absorbed the impact of his callous barbs and inexcusable behavior and, amazingly, she’d begun each of their encounters fresh. She’d never hurled back at him a cache of insults.

  God, she flew leagues above him.

  His feet carried him about the perimeter of the property. His farsimi, strapped to his arm, pinged as he passed each security sensor that he’d installed around the grounds.