Beth's Stable

by Amanda Milo

Before I drift off, I feel a ghosting of lips on my temple, and I’m filled with a gooey-soft warmth all night long.

  CHAPTER 24—BETH

  BETH

  DAYS LATER...

  My uncle had this miniature bull terrier, Zeebolt. Except for the absurdly exaggerated shape of his face, he was a normal enough dog—until you walked out and left him alone during a storm.

  Separation anxiety, storm phobia; whatever you want to label it, that dog lost his shit and became a wreck when thunder rolled. Now suddenly, that’s me—I’m a mess of anxiety and nerves until my ‘owners’ return to me.

  Another crash almost drives me to my knees. It sounds—and feels—like the loudest, closest lightning, unbelievably powerful. But it’s not lightning at fault—it’s a firefight.

  The guys are trapped in their mark’s ship again.

  They weren’t exaggerating when they told me that most of their raids are silent and uneventful. Normally, they are completely silent and uneventful. It’s unreal how they can clamp onto another ship, like some sort of hybrid ghost shark-lamprey. Normally, they manage to sneak on and sneak off without a hitch; no alarms raised, therefore no danger.

  Today is not one of those runs.

  The blasts that our ship is experiencing are awful. My teeth clench with fear as I try not to imagine what the guys are encountering over there as they fight their way out.

  Each shock wave from the enemy ship when it fires on ours makes the floor rock under my feet, makes all the stuff that's bolted and strapped to the wall shake and clatter. It’s scary. Even if it wasn’t, after nonstop immersion in their company and camaraderie, it’s too quiet without them horsing around. I miss the guys. I’m worried about the guys. To have them go off to get potentially captured, shot at, attacked… I’m scared, and I feel so very, very alone.

  Although I’m not truly all by myself. There is one pirate left on this ship.

  Sickness-wise, I’m in the clear. And physically, up until the guys left, I was feeling great. Now my nerves are frayed raw and the anxiety is making my stomach pitch. I need a distraction.

  But do I really want to risk an unfriendly one? Qolt is like The Beast from The Sandlot. I’ve never seen him, but I’ve heard nothing but warnings to stay away from him; therefore, I shouldn’t seek him out. Of course, it all turned out great in The Sandlot when the boy hero does cross The Beast (aka Hercules)—plus, there were S’mores—but experience tells me that life rarely imitates movies so nicely.

  Another explosion rocks everything hard—me included—and uncontrollable tremors shiver through my body. I drop to a crouch, which is unholy hell on my back. Grimacing, I put a hand on the floor to keep myself steady, and start rubbing along my spine, right up until the next ear-splitting, thunder-quaking crack reverberates through the ship as our forcefield absorbs a hit.

  Unbidden, I yelp in fear.

  Just like my uncle’s storm-phobic dog.

  I’m going to lose it. I can’t take much more of this. Shooting to my feet, I find I’m more unsteady than I thought, and have to catch my balance on the wall before I bang into it, or fall. I heave out a breath. Chewing on my lip, I try to brace my weight instead of nervously hopping from foot to foot.

  I’m more or less standing just outside the command center. Neutral space, basically. The rest of the guys are going to be back soon, if I can just wait it out. They’re going to be fine.

  After all, I didn’t make them promise to return to me safe. That’d be such a rookie mistake—everyone knows that getting this promise is the quickest way to guarantee the death of the vow-giving characters.

  It’s a movie trope that never fails. I sure as heck wasn’t testing it on my guys.

  But they’re pros. They’re going to be okay. They have to be. I haven’t known them very long, but if something happens to them…

  My throat develops a you’re-about-to-cry lump and the backs of my eyes do the oncoming-tear-warmups; stinging, heating up, getting all puffy and swollen, no doubt. I slap my hands over my face and soundlessly growl. Stop freaking out, Beth! Baby hormones, phobias, whatever the cause and case, I need to get a grip. I could use something to take my mind off of what’s going on around me.

  You’re like twenty steps away from the mystery guy. Do it, Do it, DO IT!

  Nope, don’t do it; if he’s mean and he makes you cry, you’ll feel like crap and still be scared.

  Inner me is a wishy-washy piece of work. A definitive answer once in a while would be appreciated—especially if inner me directs me to make good choices. As it is, I have no idea what’s too cautious, and what’s a bad idea. But I’ve already been fighting curiosity about this Qolt. To be this close to someone who could be a comfort to me when I’m in this state is a little like torture.

  The chaos around me is having a profound effect on my state of mind; seeking out his presence seems like a reasonable decision at the moment. It’s possible he could be super, super shy and not say anything to me at all—and that’d be fine, then he wouldn’t be saying anything mean or otherwise. My need would be filled, and I would no longer be alone with this fear.

  ...Just alone with Qolt.

  I’ll only be alone with Qolt until the guys get back—which will be safely and very soon. Until then, at least I won’t be alone-alone.

  Worth noting is my option to amscray. If I don’t like the vibe I get from the mystery pirate, I can always slink back out.

  I have to say though—if Qolt was such a bad guy, he’s had chances to corner me, but he hasn’t. I’ve never so much as seen a glimpse of him.

  We’ve both been warned away from each other, and he’s kept to that directive—which tells me he must not be anything like Ekan. If someone instructed Ekan to stay away from something, I’d give it about thirty seconds before he bubbled over like a vinegar and baking soda volcano and broke the imposed rules.

  But Qolt has stayed all by himself, not even joining us on game nights.

  The ship is big but not that big. He has to hear us laughing and shouting and horsing around. I picture him as Quasimodo—technically sitting in the heart of the city, yet so lonely and removed and isolated.

  That thought has me taking two big steps forward before my rational self shakes me, telling me I can’t afford to romanticize this stranger.

  He could be a man who likes to hurt women, my experience tells me. And he’s going to be very excited to see you all by yourself, with no one around to protect you.

  Heart hammering, I step away from the room, just like the other four times I’ve tried to go in. I hate that I’m scared of a man I’ve never even met—a guy who’s given me no reason to get freaked—but I just can’t quite make myself cross the threshold. I don’t know if it’s my past creeping up on me, or if I’d be this nervous naturally, but I’m unable to walk into that room with the idea that there’s a man in there who could hurt me. So I waver at the edge of the door, close enough that I feel just a sliver less anxious, knowing that just a few steps away, one of my Na’rith crew is there, even if we’ve never officially met. Not all my guys are gone, and the rest of my guys are going to be fine.

  “Hey machaii!” Ekan’s jubilant voice bursts from the speakers, filling the cabin and spilling out into the corridor where I’m huddling. “Put the disengage command into motion: weeee’re back!” he sings, sounding incredibly happy for a man who could have been killed.

  His zaniness sort of makes my lips relax enough to smile.

  I don’t expect the unfamiliar, dark chocolatey-voiced response. “Pleased to hear you’re still alive.”

  What a pretty voice. My ears perk up, and my knees turn weak. I edge a little closer to the doorway because my ears make bad choices. I have a thing for accents, and Qolt’s is close to one of my favorites. It’s almost Scottish. I am in serious trouble if I get propositioned by a Highland serial killer. The guy could roll up in a white panel van, wearing a bloody butcher’s smock, throw open the door and gesture me inside with a red-stained meat cleave
r—and if he spit out an order in a brogue, “Come ohn, lass. GehT En!”

  ...Yeah. I would.

  Stupid ears!

  “Thanks,” Tiernan is the one who answers, voice dry. “We got what we came for.”

  “Did we doubt we wouldn’t?” Qolt returns lazily, almost purring, and my eyes roll back in my head. “Hey, Ekan?” he drawls.

  “Yeah?”

  “The Disengage is commencing, but don’t rush back: I’m catching Beth—and once I have her, I’m going to take my time with her.”

  My ears flood, turning the rest of the transmission to underwater garbles. My head snaps up and I start to scramble back—but it’s too late. Arms band around me, and I’m dragged into a very broad, very hard chest. I’m scared to see, but I force myself to look up into Qolt’s face…

  And I almost scream.

  Unlike the Na’riths I’ve gotten to know, Qolt’s covered in raging scarlet—like he’s bathed in blood. He’s even got blood-red glints in his eyes—but just as suddenly, he turns blue.

  I stare up at him, confused, stunned. But then I get it: there’s a light somewhere in the control room—just a light, and it’s flashing colors that are reflecting on him. Whew. Him not being demon-red makes him a skosh less frightening. But where Ekan’s dolphin-greys of carefree and eternal happiness are constantly on display, his brother has hard eyes, hard like oxide-treated gunmetal and just as dark a grey. These are the eyes Ekan might have if he wasn’t a happy-go-lucky sort of soul.

  Qolt is not a happy-go-lucky man.

  I gulp.

  But this moody-dark look? I have to say, Qolt’s rocking it. He’s also drop dead gorgeous. Like, no wonder Ekan considers him a rival. My poor ego-rooster. Ekan’s a beautiful specimen in his own right, but if he stands anywhere near his sibling? He may have all the luck, but he’s the ugly brother.

  “Hi, Beth.”

  Pretty voice! my head sings like an idiot. My insides calm a tiny fraction. Shakily, I return the greeting. “H-h-hi…”

  His smile is devastating. “I’d say there’s no reason for you to be afraid—but I’m the pirate they warned you about.”

  CHAPTER 25—QOLT

  QOLT

  I’ve waited so patiently for her to come to me.

  But she never did.

  And for a span this rotation, she chose to struggle alone with her fear. My decision to allow her the freedom to come to me for the reassurance she needed was a poor choice on my part. She doesn’t know me and she’s afraid of me, so I should have just grabbed her then, like I wanted to. Waiting only gave her more time to work herself into becoming more afraid.

  But she came so close. Beth is curious, she’s so cog-damned curious: I’ve kept count of every time she nearly crossed into my territory—I was sure today would finally be the day she honored me with her attention.

  Instead, every time she started towards me, every time she came near to closing the last of the distance between us and come to me, she’d pace at the perimeter, fretting.

  I’ve been strung tighter and tighter, until finally…

  I stole her.

  I’m so hungry for her, I can barely think straight. And as soon as I hugged her to me—it’s insanity, how good she feels in my arms—Beth’s panic dissipated. Some part of her recognizes me.

  We’re meant to be together too. She already considers this crew as hers—she can’t leave me out from the glow that is her beauty.

  And she is beautiful. I’ve listened to her speaking, teasing and thoughtful. I’ve heard her laugh—it’s incredible—and it rocks my chest from the inside.

  But all of her beauty has been for the others, never me.

  I nuzzle into her mane, and inhale. This makes her freeze in my arms, so I hug her closer. She smells like summer calm.

  But she’s stirring a storm in me.

  Even full of spawn as she is, I’m easily able to carry her. I prowl to my room, absorbing her contact. She’s so soft, and so warm.

  There’s no way I’m letting her get away now that she’s danced this close to seeking me out. I was given warnings by everybody—I’d been ordered to wait for Beth to seek me out, to get close to me on her own terms.

  Was I able to reach out and catch her? Then she came close enough.

  I call to the ship, “Set up a time-lock for deck five. Remove entry permissions on the East-sector for everyone after us until—”

  “Y-you’re locking them out?” Beth asks.

  My eyes capture her gaze. “I’m buying us time,” I tell her.

  The ship’s confused. “Repeat command.”

  Only one of us can talk when the ship needs direction. I shift so that I have a hand free, and I run a finger down her silken cheek before I cover her mouth.

  Her panic is immediate; gritting my teeth against the scent of it, I tell the ship to keep the rest of the crew from interrupting us until I’m damned good and ready to let her go. I already know I’ll never be ready, but the ship isn’t magical. We’re Na’riths: they’ll break in.

  Gusts from her nose warm my hand, filling other parts of my body with heat too, and I rest my forehead against hers, just enjoying her. After a moment, she moves so she can press herself against my chest, right over my heart, making me feel the fiercest flash of possession.

  I’m glad I have some time with her, finally. It’ll take work for the others to break the lock. Plus, Ekan gets sloppy when he gets voked. And this? Oh, he’s going to be voked all right.

  I look down into Beth’s rounded, shining eyes.

  Gazing into their depths, finally getting to enjoy her up close... I smile, and watch her eyes drop to focus on my teeth, which are sharper than hers.

  I’ll be sure to take care when I nip her skin.

  As if she can see the plans for us that I’m enjoying in my head, her nostrils flare and her fingers flex where she holds me. Such a light touch, but my body’s reaction tells me everything I need to know.

  I don’t normally go out of my way to cross energy sabers with a luck source, but when I do, it’s got to be worth it. I heft Beth higher in my arms, enjoying everything about her: her smell, her weight in my hands, and the feel of her curves against my hard planes.

  Beth is worth everything.

  By the time I cross the threshold of my berth, I’ve adjusted her arms to fit around my neck. For her part, Beth’s kept them there, tight, and her legs have stayed thrown over my arm, not even kicking at me. As much as I’d wish she’s as excited to be joined with me as I am to her, I’m aware that her reluctance to fight is likely no more than consideration for our spawn.

  I’m considering our spawn too. Supporting her back with my other hand, I bury my nose in her mane, everything inside me roaring with a primal feeling of possession. In a blink, I’ve gained an instant family to care for.

  Keeping my movements slow and careful, I set her down and let her go. “Get on the bed.”

  My eyes narrow when she flinches.

  I wait until she meets my gaze, and I lean in, blocking the light so that she’s wrapped in my shadow. “When I have you, you’re mine. You’re my female. I’ll take care of you, and I won’t hurt you. And when you’re with me, you belong to me—understand?” Running my other hand over the silken swell of her belly, crossing over her leather-bound breasts shown off to perfection in this ridiculous top… I suck in a deep breath, excitement coursing over my body like electricity, tightening my muscles, making them twitch. Ekan is a cog-damned sadist, parading her around in this outfit while we’re all salivating for her. My fingers reach the dip at her throat, and my hand circles her at the base of her neck.

  “Qolt,” she starts. “I don’t—”

  Involuntarily, my eyes slide shut at the sound of her lips caressing my name. I teveking love the way she says my name.

  My fingers cover her mouth. “The only answer I want to hear is ‘yes, Qolt.’ Unless or until you can give me that, unfortunately, you won’t be allowed to talk.”

  Beth�
�s eyes flare wide.

  “I’ve been watching you,” I tell her.

  “Creepy,” she mumbles against my fingers.

  I give her a chiding look that she flushes under. My face crowds hers so I can smell her, touch my cheek to her cheek. “I’ve been waiting for you to come to me.”

  Her breath hitches when my nose traces over hers and our lips brush.

  I pull back and our eyes focus on each other. “And here you are.” Without raising my voice, I repeat a firm, “Beth? Get on the bed.”

  Swallowing hard, she does, but she’s still talking, her entire accent changed, something guttural and rolling which sounds like, “Geht en tae the van, Beth. Good lahss—sownd as fuhck plan.”

  “What was that?”

  “Nothing,” she mutters. And she might add under her breath, “Why do I find the dangerous ones so damn attractive? Why is a little scary a lot hot? I’m okay not panting after Mr. Rogers, but there’s got to be a middle ground...”

  Her movements are slow, as if she’s afraid quick or sharp motion will draw my attention. Pointless—she already has all of my attention.

  Ripping my shirt over my head, I toss it who-the-hells-cares-where and stalk towards her. Climbing up behind her, I pause when she scrambles to the head of the bed, presenting me with her side, hunching on all fours.

  Borrowing on my lesson from earlier—the longer I leave her to grow anxious, the more time it gives her to tremble, and amplify her panic—I reach out, and snatch her by the calf. I start to pull her towards me. However, her hands cling to my bedding, and I’m afraid that if I drag her, her body will stretch until she collapses and falls to her stomach.

  I don’t want to hurt Beth; not her or the spawn-bulge.

  Rearing up, I take hold of her hips, enjoying her unparalleled feminine scent as I lift and reposition her safely, guiding her down to her side.

  I join her so we’re facing one another, and from her shoulder to her hip I start to stroke her until she relaxes by a measure. But when I reach my hand under her skirt, she tries to sit up.

  I push her back down, cupping her pussy, making her gasp. “This is mine. This pussy is mine to lick, to suck, to rut, and to fill. When you’re in my room in this ship, you belong to me, deevy?”