Chosen One

by Kim Knox

  The clack of a flat boot against stone jerked her out of her thoughts. The paladin stood right next to her, studying Kriska’s file.

  Her heart thudded, pumping anxiety-filled blood to her fingers and toes as the desperate need to run filled her. She focused on the guards standing to attention no more than a few meters away. If she ran, they would cut her down. Not a third option she was looking for.

  “And now you.” His voice, smooth, deep with a hint of hard authority, broke into her panic. Dark eyes fixed on her and her heart squeezed. “Candidate Ceta Lars.”

  Chapter Two

  Ceta bit hard at the inside of her cheek to stop herself acknowledging him. Candidates stayed quiet, didn’t speak, didn’t move while the paladin assessed them. They had to show him the utmost respect. He was the representative of the sovereign, after all. The firm rules twisted around her panicked thoughts.

  She stared at him instead as he read her file. She’d thought him beautiful from the gallery, from the rendering in the simulator, but close up, standing in front of her…he was stunning. His scent, dulled by the ice-thick air, still slid deep into her lungs and she almost sighed. Spices, blended with the alluring mix of leather, burnished metal and the warm heat of male skin, made her chest hollow. To taste him, run her tongue, her mouth over every inch of him. Blood rushed into her cheeks. Yes, she could see why Mirari put his face into the simulator and why she’d done the same. Though even that advanced tech couldn’t recreate his unique scent.

  He looked up and the impact of his gaze had her breath short. She felt his look down to her toes and her flesh clenched. She’d been too long without a living, breathing man, not one built with tech and drawn from her imagination.

  His mouth thinned and something shifted in his dark eyes, something she couldn’t quite read. Her heart pounded in her ears as the endless moment stretched, his gaze boring into her. He had her flesh aching and she couldn’t explain way. It would be so simple to lift her hand to the smoothness of his jaw and cover his mouth with her own.

  Her chest tightened and she clenched her pussy against the sudden wetness soaking her. It didn’t help. Only heightened the pressure…and her imagination.

  His tongue would be hot and ruthless. He’d drop the data sheet—the device shattering against the hard stone—and wrap her in tight arms. His hands on her ass would tug at the tightness of her coarse robe, exposing her nakedness to everyone, everyone would see as he took her, thrusting his cock deep within her, displaying— The paladin snapped his attention back to the sheet and Ceta almost sagged, her unsatisfied need pounding through her. What the hell was she doing? She was supposed to be solemn, professional, not fantasizing about the man as he stood in front of her. For a brief moment, she let herself close her eyes. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Candidates, even those not chosen, had to prove themselves worthy. If she failed, then she wouldn’t qualify as a trainer, and all simulator privileges would be forfeited. That threat held her attention.

  Ceta forced her eyes open and found the paladin watching her. Silent curses ran through her thoughts. She couldn’t read his eyes and that forced her desire to jump him fade. He could deny her right to train others. Shit.

  He turned and strode back to the temple attendant, who took the data sheet from him with another low bow. She walked toward the dais set in the center of the great hall. Her flat boots clacked against the stone, the only sound as no one dared to breathe.

  Light cast shadows over her lined face as she studied the sheet. Her spine straightened and the attendant lifted her chin. She pulled in a breath, making ready for her voice to boom around the hall. “The most honored lord paladin has made his choice.”

  “Praise be to the sovereign.”

  The crowd spoke as one. The words swept over the galleries and their intensity pricked Ceta’s skin. Her stomach turned over and she forced her breathing to slow. She had to pay attention.

  “His choice from the candidates is…Ceta Lars.”

  A hot wash of disbelieving panic shot down to her toes. The attendant had just said her name…hadn’t she? Why the hell had he chosen her? It had to be a mistake. She had to have misheard. That was it—she’d projected her name over the real candidate in some masochistic haze— The paladin striding toward her cut through her rambling thoughts as they chased themselves around her brain. The serious expression on his face, the purpose in this stride… She wasn’t a mistake. Oh, shit.

  He stopped in front of her, his height shadowing her. “Come with me, Ceta Lars.” He took her hand, his fingers sliding warm and dry to her wrist. His touch burned under her skin and her breath hitched. Ceta held his gaze, but nothing, no similar awareness flickered in his eyes.

  It squeezed her heart. The cold weight of a thin band circled her wrist, the mechanism giving a soft click before he released it. It fell down against her wrist bone, prickling her skin where it touched. A silver chain bound her to him and connected to the manacle around his left wrist.

  “Are you ready, Ceta?”

  Something about the way he said her name had her stomach in knots. It burned soft, dark, filled with promise. She fixed on his mouth, wanting to taste her name as he said it. Did every candidate have this overwhelming need to jump him?

  She realized with a start, that she hadn’t answered his question. “Yes.” She swallowed, almost flushing at the croak in her voice. He was smooth perfection. Her? She sounded like a choked amphibian. “Yes, lord, I’m ready.”

  His left hand slid into hers, strong fingers pressed against her cool skin. Ceta made her eyes stay open and cursed the fact that simply his touch had her weak-kneed. Yes, she’d spent far too much time with simulated flesh rather than the real thing.

  “Good.”

  He turned toward his transport and Ceta stumbled after him, her bare feet slapping against the cold stone. She glanced around the galleries and caught Mirari’s surreptitious wave, a huge grin cutting her mouth. Ceta wanted to feel the joy that gripped her friend, but fear, anxiety and the unexplainable arousal the paladin caused in her, held sway.

  Ceta forced strength in her legs so that she could keep pace with him. Her gaze darted up to his stern face, edged in gold from the blaze of the torches. She bit at her cheek to keep back the questions that scorched through her mind.

  Guards moved in to flank them and she blinked, refocusing on the sleek transport squatting in the courtyard. Chill air wrapped around her, bringing with it the intoxicating scent of the man who held her hand. Damn, he really did smell good and she’d trained for years to appreciate a fine scent.

  He stopped at the steps and looked down at her. The instinctive need to move closer, to push herself against the intricate patterns on his breast plate, to tease her fingers over her leather straps that tied it to his body, pulsed through her. “Understand, you belong to the sovereign now,” he murmured. His fingers tightened their grip around hers and the pressure, the intensity of his dark gaze dried her mouth. Shit, she had to listen to what he was saying, not just the smooth, delicious timbre of his voice. “You are his to do with as he pleases.”

  The words sank into her and uncertainty flared. “To do with as he pleases, lord?”

  “It is the rule for us all.”

  “Even you?” Panic shot under her skin at the impertinent question, but the paladin’s expression didn’t change. He turned his face to the open door of the transport and pulled his hand from hers. His fingers pressed against the small of her back, the chain clinking together and against her thighs.

  “After you, Ceta,” he murmured.

  The rough grips of the steps dug into her bare feet and she focused on putting one foot in front of the other. The entrance to the ship swallowed her, her ears buzzing as the confined space dulled her senses after the echoing emptiness of the hall. The paladin guided her to the right, taking her to the rear of the craft. His guards followed, tramping up the steps and into the ship in their heavy utilitarian boots.

  “Sit,” the paladin said, point
ing to a padded seat.

  Ceta did and organic tendrils snaked over her body to hold her to the soft leather. She breathed, trying to hold down her revulsion at the slide of the vines across her breast and over her waist. Her fingers dug into the armrests, the silver manacle pressing hard against her wrist.

  “Relax.” He dropped into the seat beside her, the chain linking them falling into the narrow darkness between the chairs. Tendrils eased over his chest. “The transport means to keep you safe.”

  “Yes, lord.” Her heart pounded and her gaze flicked around the domed rear of the transport. The unexpected scent of open fields filled her, eased the panic and she found deeper, more calming breaths. Soft lights lit the smooth walls and she watched a dark panel slide across, cutting off their section of the ship from the rest of the craft. Light washed over the panel, highlighting myriad patterns…until Ceta realized she was tracing out veins in a thick membrane. “This ship is living.”

  “Yes.” He let his head fall back against the headrest. “All of the sovereign’s ships are grown, birthed by the large vessel stationed above the temple.” His dark gaze slid to her and it had to be a trick of the golden light that glinted a spark of amusement there. “It took me time to get used to it, and I was born onboard.”

  The rumble of the ship beneath her feet and through the frame of the chair negated her need to answer him. Which was almost a relief. Ceta didn’t know whether she could talk to him, whether he expected a reply and it had a tightness banding her chest.

  She sank back into the chair, pressure forcing her into it, and a soundless cry broke from her mouth.

  “Just lift off,” he said, shifting in his seat, the soft leather rubbing against him. “We have a few minutes.” He ran his thumb over his other palm, causing the chain between them to stretch. His gaze fixed on the rub of his hand. “I chose you for your abilities. Your trainers are very impressed with your palate.” He snorted, and Ceta stared at him, not expecting something so natural from the man. “After all these years, it’s still an odd thing to say.”

  Ceta swallowed and willed out her question. “How many years, lord?”

  A brief smile touched his lips and the effect was stunning. Ceta’s heart missed a beat. In the flesh, he was beautiful, incredible, and she felt the heat rising in her face again. “I’ve been the sovereign’s paladin for eleven years.” He straightened and the smile faded. “I choose a woman from the temple for the sovereign’s protection.” He let out a slow breath. “Every year his ship produces a milk which he must ingest to continue his bond with the ship. As a part of the ceremony, you as his taster, must try it before him.” His mouth thinned and a line furrowed his brow. “The ship creates an ornate…dessert…for his consumption. Three of them. Once you’ve sampled it, the sovereign and his favored ones are free to enjoy it.”

  “That’s it?”

  “The ceremony can last up to three days, the full time we’re in orbit around Schedir-prime.”

  “Is the dessert poisoned?”

  The paladin’s eyes narrowed on her and their intensity had her mouth dry. She stopped herself from twitching in her seat. “No one would want to harm the sovereign,” he murmured. “As my title implies, I am his most loyal soldier. My job is to remove any threat. Your tasting of the dessert is simply…tradition.” His tongue wet his lips and Ceta stared at the sheen of moisture, wanting to lick it from his skin, to taste him, tangle her fingers in the smooth blackness of his hair. “Ceta…?”

  It was almost as if the seat grew behind her, pushing her toward him, urging both of them closer together. She didn’t fight the strange, unreal sensation. They were only a few centimeters apart and her heart hammered. What the hell was she doing? She couldn’t— His mouth covered hers in a soft, melting caress that pulled a moan deep from her chest. His fingers traced her jaw, light, exploring, and she opened her mouth under his, their tongues teasing. His satisfied hum curled down to her toes.

  Ceta’s thoughts spun. It had to be real. She wasn’t trapped in the simulator with one of her programs running. She wasn’t, because she’d never dared to go so far with him. “What’s your name?” She had to ground herself, find something solid in the spiraling madness.

  “Iason Barros.”

  The kiss deepened and flickers of his fierce hunger had her flesh tight and aching. The arms of their seats thinned and only thin padding separated them. His hand ran over her shoulder, easing under the loosened vines to cup her breast, his thumb circling a hard nipple. Ceta gasped, arching into his sure touch.

  “What’s happening here?” he muttered against her mouth, his teeth biting at her bottom lip. Ceta pulled at his breastplate, holding him against her. She wanted his mouth for things other than talking. “I have never…”

  “Lord, we are about to dock.” The voice resonated around the room and Iason crushed his eyes shut.

  He pulled back and wiped his hand over his mouth. “Understood.” He stared down at the thinned seats as they flowed back into their usual shape, turning them, putting a wider gap between their bodies. “The ship wanted it,” he murmured.

  Ceta pressed a palm to her mouth, still tasting him, feeling the imprint of his palm, his fingers around her breast. She eased out a slow breath. “Wanted it?”

  He snorted. “Believe me, I don’t normally grope a candidate on the transport back to the ship.” He ran a hand over his hair, smoothing it. “Seems the ship likes you.”

  “It likes me?”

  “She,” Iason corrected. “Our ship is alive and has a gender. Remember that.” A fierceness undercut his voice and Ceta realized he was as loyal to the ship as he was to his sovereign. “She is also sentient.” A brief smile touched his mouth before his face fell into its usual stern mask. “She favors a few of us. You should be honored.”

  There was that word again. “Yes, lord.”

  A dull thump and the vibrations running through the flesh of the ship faded down to stillness. The harnessing tendrils broke free and slithered back over her chest, shoulders. Iason stood and held his hand out to her. His touch rioted fresh need through her body and her seat jerked her forward, the paladin having to catch her, his unbound hand coming around her waist to hold her steady.

  Her mouth was so close to his, it would be simple to bite at his bottom lip and draw him into a searing kiss that would most definitely lead to— “It wouldn’t be wise, Ceta.” His hands gripped her hips and held her away from him. “The ship may want us to play, but you have your duty, as do I.”

  Disappointment soured her stomach and her gaze dropped, fixing on her bare feet. “Then why is she doing it, lord?”

  “Our genes are obviously compatible. She likes to breed people.”

  Ceta’s head snapped up. Was that all his attraction to her was, something inspired by the ship on which he lived? Her disappointment sharpened. “So the ship stimulated this need?” She couldn’t admit that she had wanted him for far longer than the short transport flight, that she’d illegally rendered him for her own pleasure. Belatedly she added his title, holding down a wince at continuously forgetting it.

  “Your life follows a very different path from mine.” The dark membrane panel slid back, melting into the smooth wall. Light from the center of the transport cut across his stern face. “Time to take that first step.”

  Chapter Three

  Iason didn’t hold her hand, instead letting their chain tug her after him. Ceta curled her fingers into her palm and tried not to feel saddened at his rejection. A wry smile pulled at her mouth. She’d already grabbed more of him than any of the other candidates. Mirari would be livid— Thoughts of her trainer brought her Iason-obsessed mind back to the ceremony. He’d said she would have to taste a dessert created from the milk of a living ship. Her gut twisted against the idea, but then in her years of training in the temple she’d sampled far more disgusting and disturbing substances.

  The doors peeled back and the steps dropped, opening the transport. Warm air brushed over her, b
ringing with it the fresh scent of grass and open skies, cut with the odors of the many humans living within the ship. For a moment, she paused at the entrance, her nerves made taut by the strangeness of the view. A soft, white light washed down over the smooth, brown walls, carving out a small cavern, domed and veined like the transport. The air pulsed against her skin, almost the slow, slow beat of a vast heart. Their armed guard stood to attention and as Iason stepped onto the bay floor, their chain tugged tight and pulled her after him.

  “You need to change before I can present you to the sovereign.” Iason glanced at her, his gaze then traveling down her plain, rough robe. A muscle jumped in his jaw. It could have been—and probably was—another trick of the light. “This way.”

  He strode off across the cavern, a puckered section of wall pulling back with a dry rasp to reveal a narrow, twisting corridor beyond. Ceta could only jog after him, her bare feet warmed by the soft, leather-dry floor.

  The arched corridor seemed endless and Iason didn’t slow his pace, didn’t speak, didn’t acknowledge her presence. Yes, the ship playing with his libido seemed to have seriously pissed him off.

  He stopped and Ceta caught herself before she ploughed into him. A section of wall opened and he strode inside. She had to follow.

  Warm light flared around the room, throwing into relief a room much like the one she’d left on Schedir-prime. It was simply furnished, a large bed replacing her single cot in the center of the brown-walled space. An archway opened out onto a small balcony and the flare of lights and interesting architecture drew her attention, but Iason had stopped. She focused on him.

  He unbound her wrist, his fingertips warm and impersonal against her skin. “Strip,” he said. Dark eyes held her and she found nothing in them but professionalism. Yet, he wasn’t turning away from her.

  Her heart hammered and she hated that she was so wet for him. She rubbed at her freed wrist before rucking her robe up to loosen it around her waist. Gripping the material, she tugged, wriggling to ease the tight gown up over her breasts and shoulders.