by Jory Strong
The momentum landed them inches behind the leader.
Another powerful thrust and they were neck-and-neck.
It was enough.
Within yards of the finish line, the green-gold water horse slowed with fatigue, losing by less than a snout’s length.
Exhilaration swept through Karena. She savored the thrill of victory, the golden moments when her gift gave her purpose, a value on Qumaar. Her heart swelled with pleasure and pride and happiness, with gratitude and appreciation.
She stroked Cloud’s neck, praising him verbally as well as mentally. Conveying her emotions to him until dismounting and turning his care over to a stableboy.
She left the water, climbing onto a boat with the other jockeys and accepting their congratulations as they were taken to the dock. The warm glow remained with her as she weighed out.
It peaked again when she was officially declared the winner, and was joined by relief and euphoria at now having enough money to escape Qumaar. Heady emotions that lasted until she saw her father, with Melor at his side.
“I’ve got good news for you,” her father said as she stepped out of the ribboned area set aside for jockeys to weigh in and officials to confirm the racers’ order of finish.
Fear replaced the emotional high that had come with winning. Her earlier worry returned.
“What news?” she managed to ask.
“Melor has agreed to a marriage between the two of you.”
The icy shock of having her nightmare confirmed froze her in a place, saving her from revealing anything of her thoughts or feelings, or her now solidified intention to escape Qumaar.
Melor’s glance slid over her small breasts and settled between her thighs, where her clit pressed against the material of her outfit like a tiny penis. “It’s time I got an heir.”
Revulsion filled her at the idea of lying with him, of having his hands on her and his cock in her. He licked his lips but she had no sense he was seeing her as anything other than a body he might be able to pretend belonged to another gender, at least long enough to get aroused so he could plant his seed in her. The way he was looking at her—not lifting his eyes above her waist where he might glimpse the swell of her breasts, or see a face that was clearly feminine—made her sure only prepubescent boys interested him sexually.
Nausea left her mute. Self-preservation tightened her throat to keep her from speaking ill-advised words.
“Since you have no other suitors,” her father said, “and Melor is a man who knows his own mind and what he wants, there seemed little point in delaying or spending money on some elaborate affair. The marriage contract has been signed and filed, the banns read. You’ll be wed in three days time as the law allows. Your mother and sisters are packing your belongings now. All but the most essential things will be transferred to Melor’s home before the race day has ended.”
His voice was full of good cheer, as if he spoke of a joyful event, but Karena wasn’t fooled. Sharp eyes assessed her, gauged the risk she’d somehow thwart his plans and cause him to lose whatever benefit he’d gained from the arrangement with Melor.
She nodded, as though in acceptance of the match and quick marriage. He turned from her, slapping Melor on the back and saying, “A drink is in order to celebrate the impending nuptials.”
As they walked away, Karena could no longer suppress a shudder. It was the only outward sign she gave and she hoped none of her father’s cohorts had seen it.
She headed toward the transport waiting to take race officials and those associated with the stables back to the starting area. Along the way she picked up a race program and bowed her head as if studying it while she walked, as if thoughts of marriage held no interest when compared to the prospect of perhaps getting another ride.
The escorts waiting at the other end of the harbor had probably been given orders to bring her home immediately once she changed into her gown, and to watch her closely as they traveled. She knew her father believed she’d been involved in Arabella’s disappearance, though she’d claimed otherwise.
Imprisonment loomed in her immediate future, either in her own home or Melor’s. The reason for hastily packing and moving her belongings was obvious. Her father feared she might find a way to slip out of the house and pawn her small collection of jewelry so she, too, could disappear.
Against the threat of ending up Melor’s wife, of forever being bound to him by a child she wouldn’t abandon, the loss of her things was inconsequential. Only escape mattered now. First from the harbor, and then from Qumaar.
Her father wouldn’t expect her to make a run for it dressed as she was, though she thought she felt his eyes on her, watching as she climbed onto the open-bodied transport and took the end seat on one of the benches.
Her heart pounded in her ears. Her fear was evident in the rapid, panicked pulse in her throat.
She couldn’t return to the race staging area. But dressed to ride, she’d be very noticeable in the city streets.
There’d soon be trackers after her. She couldn’t know for sure there weren’t hidden guards watching her now, in Melor’s employment if not her father’s.
Her fingers tightened on the race program, to still their shaking as much as in fear. She couldn’t risk returning to the dressing room. She had to take her chances now, when she stood at least a small chance of escaping the future her father had arranged for her.
To further hide her intentions, she turned so she faced the ocean, her back to the open side of the shuttle. She initiated a conversation with the jockey next to her, forcing herself to slip into an enthusiastic discussion of the horses and riders in an upcoming race.
It was a smart move. Out of the corner of her eye she saw her father in the crowd, and found she hadn’t imagined his eyes on her. He continued to watch until the horn tooted and the transport lurched forward. Then he turned away, seemingly convinced of her compliance.
It took discipline to remain seated. Her mouth went dry even as her palms grew wet as the shuttle picked up speed, enough of it so jumping would most likely result in an injury.
Her father wasn’t a devoted fan of racing, wasn’t a bet-maker or odds-maker’s spy, both of whom tended to study everything, including the jockeys as they left one race to possibly ride in another. He didn’t know the internal rhythm of a race day as intimately as she did, the ebb and flow of the audience. It was still early, and the day pleasant, inviting casual observers and families with children to come to the harbor. Karena hoped fervently that today would be no different than a usual day, in which the transport would almost always have to stop ahead, at a crosswalk.
Relief poured into her when the driver began braking. She turned in her seat to see several couples stepping into the street. They strolled, forcing the transport to slow almost to a complete stop.
“I forgot something,” she said to the jockey next to her as she left the vehicle.
She resisted the urge to run, knowing the act would become gossip and reach the ears of her guards, cutting her lead time in the process. She pretended to head back in the direction of the finish line, scanning the crowd for her father or one of his cronies.
Sweat mixed with the water on her skin but she kept her attention focused forward, as if she was merely a jockey intent on race business. She walked quickly, easing closer and closer toward the streets branching away from the harbor, and mentally mapping the route she would take to Gabo’s Tavern as she did so.
It was through Gabo that Arabella had escaped Qumaar. And now Karena was glad she’d decided to trust him with her race winnings.
She’d slowly accumulated the money necessary to pay a smuggler by sending Gabo instructions on which races to bet and how much to wager. He took a percentage for holding her money, for managing it as she instructed. And whether she lost her nerve and requested all of it back, or told him to arrange for her escape, he’d take yet another slice of it for services rendered. But if she hadn’t trusted him her money would be gone, discovered a
nd seized as her belongings were packed and sent to Melor’s home.
Revulsion crawled through her again with the thought Melor being able to touch her at will, of his being able to demand that she spread her legs and take his cock inside her. It made her fully committed to attempting escape, regardless of the danger and uncertainty.
She reached a less-traveled street and turned onto it, heading away from the harbor. Running now because there was no avoiding attention, not dressed as she was, and no point in delaying.
Gabo wouldn’t welcome her into his tavern, and if she led either her father or the authorities to him, he’d just as likely surrender her. Or perhaps kill her to keep her from revealing he was a conduit to the smugglers.
It didn’t slow her, though as she ran she looked for a chance to steal clothing off someone’s wash line, and it came blocks away from the harbor. Not a woman’s outfit, but a boy’s faded and patched trousers, a boy’s frayed, stained work shirt.
She darted up the stairs and stole them, donning them before leaving the sunlit porch. Guilt assailed her at taking from those who had so little, but that emotion held no purchase against the fear of what awaited her if she didn’t escape Qumaar.
The best she could do to right this wrong was to ask Gabo to leave money at the house anonymously, to replace what she’d stolen. There’d be no way to know if he did it or kept the money for himself, not if she was successful in escaping, but it was the only salve she could apply to her conscience.
The outfit made her less conspicuous. The shirt was loose enough to help conceal her breasts. Her braided hair, doubled back on itself several times to form a queue similar to what many servants wore, and her small size aided in disguising her gender though she kept her head ducked, not wanting her face to interfere with the masquerade as a boy.
She detoured through alleyways, doing her best to muddy her trail to Gabo’s Tavern. When she reached it, she went around back, to the door a messenger boy or kitchen worker would be required to use, and entered as if expected.
Her luck held. Gabo was in the small office, doing his account books, possibly updating them with the most current racing results.
He looked up and saw through her disguise, immediately understanding its importance. “Get in here, boy.”
She went into the office, head lowered and shoulders hunched, acting the part of one of the downtrodden with no psi talent, someone desperate not to offend a man who might offer work.
Gabo closed the ledger and locked it in a desk drawer. He stood, frowning. “I’m not sure you’re up to the task, boy, but I can’t spare the time to find someone else.”
He pointed at a small cask. “Pick it up and let’s get going. Drop the barrel and it breaks open, then you’ll be paying for damages.”
Karena nodded, barely managing to heft the cask onto a shoulder. Knowing he was serious about the cost despite his playing a role for the benefit of anyone who might be questioned later.
They left, with her trailing three steps behind.
Despite the weight of the barrel, and the ache that soon came from carrying it, she was glad for Gabo’s quick thinking. The cask hid her face and made it unlikely anyone would take notice of her.
Blocks passed. She guessed he was taking a circuitous route, making sure she hadn’t been followed and also ensuring she wasn’t part of a trap set for him by the authorities.
Karena’s thoughts went to Arabella. She imagined her friend making this same trip, feeling this same sense of fear and desperation, and perhaps a small measure of hope.
Only when Gabo was sure of the situation did he speak again, and even then it was in a low voice. “A rumor reached me earlier today, about banns being read. When I heard the name of the groom, and then the bride’s, I thought you might be making an appearance. I’ve already set things in motion though you’re earlier than anticipated, and wearing stolen clothing I’d wager.”
“I couldn’t risk returning home. I fled between races and stole clothing from a wash line. I’d like to arrange payment for them.”
His glance traveled over her, calculating the value of the worn trousers and shirt. “It’ll cost you twice what they’re worth for me to have the task seen to. By the time it’s done, you’ll have barely enough to cover a week’s lodging and food on Z’nyia.”
Z’nyia. The pleasure planet.
Karena shivered at what she might have to do to survive there. But knowing the destination made the prospect of attempting escape less terrifying…
If Gabo spoke the truth. She wouldn’t know what fate her trust led to until it was too late to change it.
“I’d like to leave the money,” she said, naming the street and describing the house.
“There’s no changing your mind from this point on,” Gabo warned. “Are you sure you wish to proceed?”
“Yes.”
He nodded, indicating with a waved hand that she was to enter an alleyway behind several restaurants. The smell of food made her mouth water and her stomach clench painfully. She was suddenly starving, the light breakfast she’d eaten seemed as though it had been consumed days earlier rather than at dawn.
They traveled halfway down the block before he signaled a halt behind one of the eating places. Nearby, several large kegs were stacked sideways on the bed of a hauling sled.
“Keep your face hidden,” he said before pounding on the back door.
It opened and Karena’s stomach rumbled as the scent of fried fish and baked bread wafted by her.
“Special delivery,” Gabo said.
A man grunted in response, then yelled for the dishwasher to take the cask Karena carried. It was lifted from her shoulder and carried inside, the door closing immediately afterward.
“Silence from here on out,” Gabo whispered, motioning toward the hauling sled.
The truth of his earlier statement, of anticipating her desire to escape, became evident when he unscrewed the lid from one of the kegs and indicated with an impatient signal that she was to hurry up and get inside it.
Fear knotted her stomach, the juices created by hunger threatened to become bile. Her only choice was whether she went willingly, or was knocked unconscious and stuffed inside.
She crawled in, suppressing a whimper as the lid was screwed back into place, leaving her in near total darkness. There were small holes cut in the end not visible to anyone walking past the sled, enough to allow for fresh air and a measure of sanity. There was also a flask of water and a thick chunk of bread along with a wedge of cheese.
Time passed. Enough of it that her heart rate slowed and her breathing calmed, her body and mind unable to sustain the intense levels of worry and fear. Enough of it so the knots in her stomach loosened to allow her to eat and drink.
Cautious hope returned that she’d escape marriage to Melor.
Finally she heard the sound of an engine drawing closer. Moments later she felt the jarring of the sled being attached to a vehicle.
She strained to hear voices, something that would give her a clue as to who she’d entrusted her life to. She heard nothing. And made no sound.
With a lurch the hauling sled began moving. It stopped again within a block.
Casks were unloaded and loaded. Business going on as usual. Roles being played, or perhaps the driver and workers had no idea they were transporting a fugitive.
She tried to picture where they were as they made their rounds. It was a futile effort. And finally sleep overtook her, exhaustion and nerves pulling her under, giving her relief from the fear and uncertainty of her future.
Chapter Three
Muted sunshine filtered through the leaves of the date palm with the shifting angle of the sun. It caressed Kaeden’s skin, warming it in a golden flow that matched his contentment as he lay on his side, fingers lazily trailing over Zyan’s chest and abdomen. His gaze following, settling on a cock starting to stiffen again.
What they’d found with each other, what they had together was so good, there were times
when doubt crept in about adding a third. It would change things. It had to.
A woman was not another man, and though the men of the tribe who were joined to one—including his own fathers—expressed only joy at having found their shared mate, there were times when they were left baffled and totally confused by thoughts and feelings that made no sense to them as men.
“You’re worrying again,” Zyan said, covering Kaeden’s hand with his and moving it downward.
Kaeden’s fingers curled around Zyan’s cock and it pulsed against his palm, hardening further as a flush spread across Zyan’s cheeks and his eyes darkened with renewed desire.
“Things will change,” Kaeden said.
“Yes.” Zyan rolled to his side and touched his mouth to Kaeden’s. “But never this. We will always have this between us. Even for a woman and a chance to sire children, I won’t give up the pleasure we share.”
Kaeden’s lips parted. His tongue met Zyan’s, tangled in heated communication as their joined hands slid up and down on Zyan’s length.
Desire swept through Kaeden at hearing Zyan’s low moans. Need had his own cock full and straining, moisture beading on its tip.
With hands and body and the pressure of his mouth, he urged Zyan to his back, moving with him so he was on top in the dominant position, a small shift and realignment away from touching his wet cock head to Zyan’s opening.
The throb of Zyan’s penis against his palm spoke of eagerness. Readiness. “We don’t have to search for a third this day, Kaeden. We can wait until the both of us are sure we want to add a woman to our union.”
The worry that had tightened Kaeden’s chest in a subtle constriction melted away. It wasn’t the first time Zyan had offered to put aside his intense desire to have a woman, but to make the offer now, as they lay together, about to undertake their joining vision…
“No,” Kaeden said, once again touching his tongue to Zyan’s. Twining, rubbing, mimicking the feel and thrust of cock against cock.
Zyan’s thighs splayed wider and his hips lifted off the bedroll-covered sand. “Make love again before we eat the gajaalo fruit?”