Moon Struck

by Heather Guerre

“I haven’t done—”

  “No,” she cut him off, her expression earnest. “Really. You’ve done more for me than anyone else in my life ever has.” Her gaze slid away from his, and he sensed a sadness in the words.

  “That can’t be true. What about your parents?” He thought of his own parents, and felt an uncomfortable pang.

  Hadiza shifted uneasily. “They were… well. I mostly had to fend for myself.” She shrugged.

  “They abandoned you?”

  “No. They were there. But it’s hard to be poor on Kepler—and we were poor. So they worked a lot, barely getting by. As soon as I could walk, I started earning money by collecting scrap metal. It helped keep food on the table. I enlisted in the military the day I turned sixteen—and even my pitiful income as a private was more than my parents were making combined, so I sent a lot of money back to them. I just… nobody ever really took care of me. It feels like it’s always been my job to take care of other people.” She lapsed into silence, punctuated with a shrug. After a while, she stirred. “Anyways, that’s my sad story. What about you? How did your childhood irrevocably damage you?”

  He smiled wryly. “I don’t know where to begin.”

  “Well, obviously, with your parents. Scaevens are an exclusively male species. What is your mother?”

  Errol’s expression flattened. “She was Yiruban.”

  “Was?”

  “My parents died in a shuttle accident. Airlock failure.”

  Hadiza’s eyes softened with sympathy. “It’s a fast way to go,” she said gently. “Probably painless.”

  Errol nodded. “So I’ve been told.”

  “Do you miss them?”

  Errol hesitated. “Do you miss your parents?”

  “Mine are still alive.”

  “That doesn’t answer the question.”

  Hadiza looked down, quiet for a moment. “No,” she said finally. “I don’t have any negative feelings about my parents, but I don’t feel particularly miss them, either. Growing up, I always knew I was a burden to them. And then, when I was no longer an anchor around their necks, they’d become a burden to me. When I started sending money home, they never thanked me. Only asked for more when it wasn’t enough. I couldn’t even be mad about it because I knew how hard it was to get by. And it used to be me who depended on them for survival, so it was only fair that I repaid them. My entire life, our relationship has just been an exchange of debts.”

  Errol frowned. “You aren’t indebted to your parents for survival.”

  Hadiza shrugged. “It’s your turn to answer the question.”

  “What question?” Errol hedged.

  “Do you miss your parents?”

  “I miss my father.”

  Hadiza leaned into the silence. “But not your mother?”

  “No,” he said flatly.

  Hadiza said nothing, but he felt her gaze prickling over his skin.

  After a long beat of silence, Errol relented. “She thought I was a monster. She thought all Scaevens were monsters.”

  “That’s horrible. Her own son?”

  “She had her reasons.”

  Hadiza frowned. “Was she trafficked?”

  Errol shook his head. “I won’t say that females of other species are never taken against their will, but it is rare. Scaevens interact freely with the Ravanoth, the Bijari, the Yiruba, and the—” he caught himself at the last moment, remembering that the Ljark had also hidden themselves from humanity. “Because of the matebond, most Scaevens make a formal agreement with a female before risking pregnancy. There are even agencies on Scaevos who broker such arrangements between females seeking the stability of a Scaeven mate. My mother was one such female. I never learned the details, but over the years I gleaned that she’d fallen on hard times, and had decided the only way to survive was to agree to a Scaeven mate. So she accepted my father’s offer, and bore me. But…”

  “What?”

  “She hated my father. She hated me. She hated Scaevos. She thought we were all violent brutes and rapacious conquerers. And even though she’d agreed to the matebond with my father, she considered her hand forced, and her life with him—and me—as an unfair imprisonment. But my father couldn’t let her go.”

  “Why would he want to keep a woman who hated him?”

  Errol sighed. He’d tried explaining the Scaeven matebond to creatures of other species more than once. The Bijari, with the high value they placed on affection, came the closest to understanding, but none of them could ever grasp the true depth of it. “Losing your mate is like losing yourself. He couldn’t let my mother go any more readily than he could carve out his own heart and continue to live.”

  Hadiza was quiet, her gaze turned inward. “I’ve known human relationships like that,” she said softly.

  Jealousy surged through him, hot and sickening. “Have you?” he growled.

  “Not me,” she said, oblivious to his mood. “But I’ve had friends who clung to toxic, destructive lovers because they didn’t think they could live without them.” Her gaze lifted to his. “I’m sorry for both your parents. But I’m mostly sorry for you.”

  Errol raised his eyebrows. “Me?”

  “To punish an innocent child for your own choices? No matter how unhappy you are, that’s unforgivable.” A pure, righteous outrage lit her big, dark eyes. Errol tried not to be moved by it.

  “She was deeply unhappy. Before she died, we made amends in a way.”

  “You should never have been treated that way. How could she possibly make amends for mistreating her son?”

  “She forgave me for trapping her here. She said she knew I hadn’t asked to be conceived.”

  Her frown transmuted into an expression of pure, fire-bright wrath. “She forgave you?” Her voice was low, dangerously even. She broke into a hissing stream of her native language, throwing her hands up as she ranted through what Errol could only assume was a damning recital of his mother’s character flaws.

  That swelling pressure filled his chest again. His heart staggered as he listened to the incomprehensible sounds of her outrage. He swallowed hard, choking on the strange feeling. Was this what it felt like to be protected by someone else? To be taken care of?

  Her compassion was too much. Combined with her beauty, she was more than Errol could bear. Awareness of her body and the desire to feel her, taste her, began as a simmer in his blood.

  “Errol,” she said, reverting to the Creole. “My parents weren’t the greatest, but they never punished me for merely existing. They were as kind as they could be. They gave me what little luxuries they could. They—” she shook her head, her voice breaking.

  For him? The pleasurable pressure in his chest spread through his entire body. The simmer in his blood heated to a slow boil.

  “Your mother—perra sharira!—had no right to forgive you for anything.” Her voice began to rise. “She’s the one who needs your forgiveness, but she damned well doesn’t deserve it!”

  “It’s long past.” Errol could hardly breathe. Hadiza’s cheeks were flush, her eyes shining. Heat radiated off of her, calling to him.

  “That doesn’t make it okay,” she said, gathering control of her temper with visible effort. She pinned him with her gaze. “You’re not a brute. You’re a protector.” She moved towards him, and he knew that if she so much as laid a finger on him, he’d be lost.

  “Human—” he stepped back from her.

  Some of the heat faded from her expression, replaced by confusion, maybe even hurt. He hated himself for it, but it needed to be done. He needed to get away from her.

  “I have to—” His throat constricted around the unbearable feeling swelling from his chest. “I have to go.” He threw himself at the door, and out of the room.

  The bracing cold did nothing to soothe the heat in his blood. Instead, it was made more acute by the contrast.

  He would do what he’d been doing—wander the market, throw himself into the fighting pits or find a no-holds barred sp
arring club. He’d fight until his strength failed. Until he was weak with blood loss. Until his bones snapped. Whatever he had to do to exorcise the vicious, predatory impulse that made his blood rush beneath his skin, made his pulse pound in his ears like a war drum.

  As he stalked through the narrow alleys of Daalinalikiniri-din-kaal, he could feel an impending sleep phase gnawing at him. He welcomed it. He would wait until he was ready to drop. Only then would he return to the rooms. He’d fall into the cold oblivion of sleep, where he’d be no threat to Hadiza. By the time he woke, perhaps the differential would be ready. He could send her on her way back to the wilds of human territory, and this whole interlude would be nothing but a sweaty, itchy memory.

  The fighting pits of two days ago were gone, replaced by a tent selling live Eiklan rams. He stormed past them, slipping through the twisting streets, headed further east until he found the fight club from that first night—sandwiched between the bilxong kitchen and the smoke parlor. The sweet smell of naptala smoke coasted over him. He inhaled deeply, letting the dizzying pollution fill his lungs, lighten his head.

  If the fights didn’t take it out of him, there was always the naptala to chase him into oblivion.

  Hadiza woke to the sound of the door opening. She turned over and saw Errol staggering into the room, hunched over and soaked with blood.

  “Cristo!” She leapt out of bed, nearly tripping over the voluminous gown as she scrambled down the ladder.

  He leaned heavily against the door with one shoulder as he engaged the locks. Blood dripped from his nose, streaking his lips and matting in his dark gray beard. He was holding his ribs protectively, body curled to shield them. His shirt was damp with sweat, and there was more blood staining the front of it, fresh and wet.

  Hadiza hurried over to him, grabbing his arm and peeling it away from his ribs.“What happened?” she demanded.

  He jerked away from her, then hissed in pain, falling back against the wall with a heavy thunk.

  “Errol!” Hadiza grabbed the hem of his shirt. The rough, tightly woven material was completely soaked with blood and sweat. A strange scent clung to him, so thick and cloying it made her throat itch. She lifted the shirt and found his abdomen raked with deep, vividly red lacerations—as if something with massive claws had gotten a swipe in on him.

  “It’s not all mine,” Errol told her in a slurred voice.

  He shivered as her fingers coasted along the injury. His hand closed on her wrist, wrenching her touch away. She looked up and found herself staring into heavy-lidded golden eyes. There was a languorous, uninhibited quality to his gaze that she hadn’t seen before. He continued to hold onto her wrist, continued to stare down at her. There was naked desire in his eyes, and she realized he wasn’t wearing his mask.

  “Beautiful creature,” Errol said in a low growl. He tugged on her wrist, drawing her closer. She stumbled, putting her free hand against his torso to keep herself from crashing against him. Beneath her hand, a wall of solid muscle flexed.

  “Errol, you’re not wearing your mask.” The words came out evenly, which was a considerable accomplishment. Hadiza’s heart was pounding in her chest. She could feel every pulse point in her body. Her wrist burned beneath Errol’s iron grip.

  “Didn’t think I’d need it,” he replied in that same unhurried, growling tone. His gaze slid over her face, down the billowing gown he’d given her. His free hand rose to cup her cheek.

  Hadiza froze, holding her breath. His thumb slid across her lower lip, pausing at her lip ring. A deep rumble emanated from his chest. The sound of it slid beneath Hadiza’s skin, sank into her blood and raced through her body.

  “Errol,” she whispered.

  “Lovely,” he murmured. His touch slid down her jaw, to the sensitive skin on the side of her neck.

  Hadiza drew in a shaky breath. “Errol, what are you—”

  “I shouldn’t touch you,” he said, a faint smile curving his bloodied lips. The white of his fangs stood out in sharp contrast. “But I can’t help myself, can I?”

  His thumb stroked gently over the pulse below her jaw. A bolt of intense feeling shot through her, pulling a small sound from her throat. Errol’s gaze sharpened, his pupils dilating to narrow ellipses. That sudden predatory shift didn’t frighten her like it once had. Instead, it only made the heat in her blood and tension in her spine climb higher, hotter, tighter.

  “Will you stop me, Hadiza?” It was the first time he’d said her name, and the sound of it washed over her like a wave of heat. In his deep Scaeven accent, her name became something new, something rich and foreign. He aspirated the h and rolled the d in a way she had never heard before.

  He slid his fingers into her hair. Her wrist was still caught in his other hand. His big body towered over hers like a cliff, hard and dangerous. She should’ve been frightened, but all she could think was keep going.

  But beneath that was the awareness that something was wrong. Errol had so far always held himself so tightly in check. His reaction to her had only seemed to trouble him, anger him. Why was he suddenly so at ease with it? So willing to play with the boundaries of it?

  Hadiza swallowed, trying to get her throat to work. “Errol,” she said faintly. “Are you drunk?”

  He smiled—a slow, wicked unfurling of teeth and fangs. “Not drunk.”

  Not drunk, but something else. “High,” she concluded. That sickly-sweet, smokey smell clinging to his bulky jacket was some kind of drug.

  “Mmm…” Errol agreed, stroking his fingers through her braids. “Thought it’d put me to sleep… save you from me…”

  She wasn’t sure that she wanted to be saved from him. But he was in no state to make those sorts of decisions, so she stepped back, pulling her hand away from his abdomen. His grip tightened on her wrist.

  “Let go of me,” she said firmly.

  He stared at her. For a tense moment, Hadiza watched as he teetered on the edge of his own self-control. Finally, with obvious effort, he released her wrist.

  “Go sit on the bed. I’ll get you cleaned up so you can sleep.”

  To her surprise, he obeyed. She went into the lav and plucked up a few linens, soaking one in warm water. She returned to find Errol still on the bed, elbows braced on his knees, head down. He’d stripped off his jacket, his hat, and his shirt, kicked off his boots. He was bare chested, wearing only his trousers. Hadiza regarded him for a quiet moment, her gaze traveling over the hard contours of that big body. Even in that slumped posture, he radiated strength, power, vitality.

  He’s not even human, she tried to remind herself. His iron-hard, steel gray skin gleamed in the low light. Charcoal gray hair furred his broad chest, narrowing as it raced down the ridged contours of his abdomen, disappearing into the waistband of his trousers. His arms, huge with muscle, were propped on his knees, his massive hands hanging loosely. The tip of one fang hooked over his lower lip. His golden raptor eyes were fixed on the floor, oblivious to her presence.

  Alien, she told herself, but it didn’t seem to matter. Everything about him appealed to her in such a visceral, primal way. He was big and strong and dangerous, but he was kind to her. He took care of her. What would that massive, powerful body feel like against hers? Would he be gentle? Or would the predator that lurked within the gleam of his eyes take over?

  She shivered as delicious tension pulled tight in her belly.

  Errol looked up suddenly, as if she’d spoken his name. His gaze lit on her, and while he remained in place, she saw the hunter pacing in his hungry gaze.

  Hadiza pushed away from the wall and crossed to him. Without speaking, she used the wet linen to clean the dried blood from his mouth and his beard. She swiped it gently down the column of his throat, cleaning away the film of dried sweat. She moved to his chest, mopping blood and sweat from his skin. She gave into her curiosity, and let her fingertips trail over the thick hair on his chest. It was coarse and sleek, laid over hard, hot muscle. Like petting a horse. Or perhaps a tiger.
She wouldn’t know—she’d never touched either one.

  But touching Errol was lovely and frightening in the same way—he was strong and dangerous, but also wildly beautiful.

  His hand closed over her wrist again, a movement so fast she never saw it coming. She dropped the linen in surprise.

  “Don’t tease me,” he growled.

  She looked up into his eyes. His gaze had turned feral. She traced the tip of her tongue over the curve of her lip ring, a nervous habit.

  “Sorry.” She drew in a shallow breath. “I didn’t mean to. I just wanted—” to feel you. But she couldn’t say that.

  His grip tightened on her wrist, bordering on painful. “You wanted what?” he asked. “Tell me what you want.”

  To be taken care of by somebody strong and capable. To have that person look at me the way you do, want me the way you do.

  She couldn’t say that, either.

  “Hadiza.” Her name in his mouth again. It was a rumble that she felt more than she heard. “Tell me.”

  She shook her head, looking away.

  A big hand caught her chin, forcing her gaze back to his. “Do you want to touch me?” His voice was a ragged growl. “I need to know.”

  It was a bad idea. Not just bad—it was wrong. He’d admitted he was high. She’d be taking advantage. As soon as he sobered up, he’d be angry with her.

  “Yes,” she admitted. “But I won’t do it.”

  “Why not?” His grip on her chin eased, and he stroked his fingers gently down her throat, leaving a trail of heat over her skin.

  “You’re not yourself right now.”

  “I’m very much myself. Dangerously so.”

  His fingers slid beneath the collar of the virginal gown he’d given her and traced the edge of her collar bone. As far as touches went, it was arguably chaste, but a hot shiver ran down Hadiza’s spine. She wanted to crawl into his lap and press her body against his. She wanted to trace her lips over the hard line of his jaw, tease his earlobe with her teeth, slide her hands over all his broad, thick muscles. She wanted to feel that hot, iron-hard skin yield to hers. She wanted to feel the hard weight of his big body, pushing her down, pinning her…