by Emma Alisyn
She struggled not to take a step back. The neutral voice suddenly darkened with the faintest hint of menace, and eyes she’d thought implacable were now flat, like a snake.
“What don’t I understand, Adekhan?”
He smiled. Her stomach clenched, and not in a good way. “That is,” he said, “the wrong form of address. I have retired my commission due to these unexpected circumstances.”
“Oh… shit. My bad?”
Ithann stepped forward, forcing her to retreat, and grabbed her around the back to prevent further withdrawal. “Don’t back away from me—it’s beneath the dignity of an Bdakhun.”
“What does that word mean?” she asked, voice quiet. “Someone else called me that—well, a variation. The base word isn’t in my translator.”
“No. You must learn the language, Gayle. It’s poor form to rely on mechanical things when the power of your intellect is superior.”
“Maybe. That’s probably not the point right now, though.”
“No.” His hands moved from around her back up her arms, wrapping around her with gentle pressure. “You’re mine now, legally. Otherwise, they would have sent you back to Earth, and your father was angry enough to… do something rash. I have my family legal counsel delaying things while what I did processes.”
“What did you do, Ithann?”
He didn’t answer, instead stepping back and lifting a hand. The panel slid open. “You’re released to my care. Come.”
He hadn’t answered her questions. Any of them, really, walking silently at her side. After a few minutes, she shut her mouth, especially since as they passed, a few—not all, but enough—of the Yadeshi would move subtly to the side and make the kinds of polite social gestures of obeisance she’d seen given to diplomats from minor royal families.
Understanding that she was on precarious ground, she stopped trying to argue with him in public and allowed her mother’s training to take over, adopting Ithann’s elegant cool and impassive face. She could cuss him out in private—but she wouldn’t make a spectacle of herself trying to climb all over him to get answers.
But as soon as the door panel to his suite opened, she… well, hell. She would have immediately turned around and begun bombarding him, but it was clear as soon as she entered, Ithann at her heels, that despite the general sameness of the corridors they’d walked down—they were not in human guest quarters anymore.
Wide panels revealed the universe, the view of distant stars breathtaking and obviously reserved for people who could afford it. The suite boasted three sitting areas, and a dining dais with a long conference style table partially enclosed in an embossed, monochromatic white screen. Art panels on the wall, digital panels that changed every few moments, and physical tapestries with embroidery that looked hand done.
“Would you like to refresh yourself before we talk?” Ithann asked.
What she wanted was answers. But, a shower did sound good. And Gayle hated to start a fight—or a negotiation—until she’d had time to prepare, and think. She glanced at him, noted he refused to look at her, crossed the room to get as far away from her as possible, shoulders stiff, radiating tension.
“Yes, I’d like that.”
He nodded, pointing where the bedroom and bathroom combo were located. There were no corners and even the bed was round, the floor-to-ceiling view carrying on into the bedroom. No blankets on the bed, which meant the use of air comforters she’d heard ships favored, as they were economical and more efficient.
Gayle took her time in the shower—real water, not sanitation rays—and toyed with the various moisturizing sprays available. When she exited the stall, a section of the wall had peeled back to reveal a selection of clothing. Gayle chose a two-piece dress—crop top with short sleeves and deep scooped back, and a floor-length skirt with a wide waistband, both in a rich cream.
The scent of food greeted her when she stepped back into the living area. Ithann stood at the window, staring out, his reflection in the panes. He turned immediately, approaching to take her hand and lead her to the long table.
“I ordered a selection of human and Ngandan morning dishes,” he said. “We tend to prefer light, nutrient-dense meals.”
Oatmeal? When he said light and nutrient dense, she thought of oatmeal. And she hated oatmeal. But what she tried first was a kind of flaky whitefish covered in a citrus cream sauce, on top of toasted bread. The pieces were appetizer sized and paired with slices of cold… egg? The eggs were the right texture, but they were beige, and slightly nutty.
He watched her eat for several minutes, then spoke. “I hope you won’t be displeased with me.”
She picked up a strawberry from a small bowl of sliced fruit. “I suppose I don’t have much standing on which to be displeased. Tell me this, though—is my paperwork actually messed up, or did my father mess it up for me?”
“There was some difficulty in that quarter. But his authority does not rival mine, especially since… how do humans say it?” He smiled pleasantly. “Possession is the law.”
“Nine tenths. Not the. Just nine tenths.” She stared at him, uneasy. “So, what’s the possession?”
“You are not, of course, a possession.” His eyes narrowed, as if his internal thoughts contradicted his words.
Her fingers strummed on the table. “Ithann, I’m not in the mood for word games.”
“We’re married.”
“Excuse me?”
He flicked his hair over his shoulder, raising an eyebrow to give her his prissy look. “Should I use different words?”
“I wasn’t consulted.”
Ithann rolled his eyes, crossing his arms. “I do not beg your pardon if my solution to your imminent prosecution for illegal ship boarding isn’t to your satisfaction.”
“So, what you’re telling me—” She made sure the sarcasm in her voice was thicker than the hated oatmeal. “—is that when faced with a minor bureaucratic difficulty, you leapt to the wonderfully non-dramatic conclusion that marriage was the solution? To a paperwork error?”
He examined his fingernails. “I simply ensured that any countermeasures he took to my countermeasure would be firmly rebuffed. A marriage simply cuts out weeks of political jostling.”
“You killed a spider with a brick.”
“You’re a little ungrateful. I hope this isn’t a sign of what kind of wife you intend to be.” His expression darkened. “Don’t be a—”
“If you say bitch, we are going to fight.”
He paused. Smiled nastily. “Infant. As if you could beat me in a fight.”
She leaned forward, far enough that her cleavage threatened to spill from her top and their noses all but touched. His eyes dipped, predictably. “If I can’t beat you in a fight, that should say something about your training.”
He snorted. “An Adekhan isn’t always to blame for the quality of his aja’eko’s attention span.” Ithann rose from the table. “You’re welcome to file for divorce.”
She blinked, nonplussed, nearly at a loss for words. “That… easy?”
“I didn’t say you would be allowed a divorce. I simply said you may file. If it will enable you to… feel better.”
Gayle stood. “Why, you patronizing son of a bitch.”
Ithann laughed. “I can’t wait until you meet my mother.”
He rose and left the living area. Gayle followed him, prepared to harass him some more—dark thoughts of how she could make his life as unpleasant as possible until things went her way.
He pulled his tunic over his head, back to her. Gayle stared, watching the play of his silky hair over broad, sculpted shoulders. There was really no word to describe Yadeshi skin in the English lexicon. Blue didn’t cut it. The color was as if a sapphire was crushed with the finest rainbow pearls and rose to become a living, breathing demi-god.
He ignored her, though Gayle could tell from the subtle angle of his body as he moved that he was aware of her presence. He slipped out of his pants, the movement a slow tea
se, powerful thighs and tight ass flexing. Arms rising above his head, he stretched.
Now she knew he was preening.
Gayle crossed her arms, mouth dry, as he entered the bathing area. And after a moment followed him in. He hadn’t said she couldn’t, and she might as well enjoy the show if he would put one on for her.
He’d turned on the water shower, and stood in the stall, a hand braced against the wall in front of him as water poured over his head.
Oh… fuck. She was a goner. Her clit throbbed in anticipation, the kind of biological response to a sexy, naked male and female would have. She couldn’t help herself.
His nostrils flared and he raised his head, eyes bled to their white heat.
“Come here, Gayle,” he said.
There was no command in his voice, he made no move to force her to comply with his will.
But he didn’t have to. She approached, eyes traveling down his body and snagging on his erect cock. As thick as her wrist, veins in stark relief and proof he felt the same desire—even more.
Gayle reached past the air curtain into the shower and wrapped her fingers around him. His head arched back, elongated fangs flashing as he hissed. The expression on his face… it was as if he was helpless underneath her touch. And it was just the slightest of touches.
Uncaring of her dress, Gayle stepped into the shower, bumping him backwards. Water cascaded over her body, a steamy warmth providing the most exquisite of blankets as her mouth closed over his cock.
He checked his hoarse cry, thighs flexing, both hands now braced against the wall. She looked up at him as she moved up and down the salty length of his cock. Met eyes slightly widened, a face stark with hunger and need.
She had to open her jaws wide to take him fully inside her. Took her time sweeping her tongue along the texture of his heated skin. Played with his satiny head, licking the beads of precum from the tip. His hips began to surge inside her and she met him with each thrust, working him with an eagerness to see him lose control.
When he cried out, hot seed spurting into her mouth, she swallowed the cum, continuing to lap him, thinking dark, erotic thoughts of the things she would do to him, with him. In the proper time.
When his trembling ceased, Gayle stood, her own legs a little shaky, and braced herself against the wall with a hand.
“Since we’re married, I should practice being a good little wife, shouldn’t I?” she asked, her voice cool, a small, insolent smile hovering on her lips.
He stared at her, eyes narrowing. “Don’t anger me, Gayle.”
His voice was still rough; a deep, uncontrolled timbre so unlike his usually smooth, modulated tones.
Her brow rose and she stepped out of the shadow. “And why not? What are you going to do about it if I do?”
10
“Be still, Abigail. If she sticks you with a pin, it will be your fault.”
Gayle halted the twisting of her hips and turned her head to scowl at him.
The princeling.
How had her blue alien warrior with a bad attitude morphed into this spoiled autocrat? She’d refused to speak to him the rest of the day, instead accessing her files with a code he provided and pouring over legal jargon—with more understanding than either Ithann or her father probably gave her credit for—to figure out a way out of her mess.
Then, as her blood boiled, Ithann had showed up to announce she needed, of all things, clothes, and marched her to the private tailoring room of a premium boutique. As if she couldn’t have entire closets of clothing shipped from her home on Earth.
“No, Gayle, you’ll need our clothing. And this is just to get you started while my mother contracts a designer for you.”
“Are you insane? What do I need with a designer?”
“You’re a Bdakhun, a princess of the Rykesha Province. The Doshen House has ruled its City-State for over a millennium. It’s your duty to contract a designer. A tradition.”
All the Proper Nouns gave her a headache.
But once he’d explained her patronage could possibly skyrocket some deserving young ingénue’s career—evidently fashion was fashion, whether human or Yadeshi—and that his mother had been pining for years for a female of their house to play dress-up doll with, (okay, her words, not his) Gayle grudgingly agreed to stand still for several hours and allow the on-ship stylist to drape her in hastily replicated fabric swaths and then use actual needle and thread to put together a few gowns.
“Where is the rest of the cloth?” she asked when the seamstress pronounced the straight, sheer panel on her body done.
The beadwork was lovely, and the way the bodice was wrapped and tucked to make strategic pleats, clever. A bit much for underwear. And then she realized it wasn’t underwear. Because Ithann was smiling; his dark, nasty, bad-attitude smile.
“This is the latest fashion, Abigail. The fuck me now fashion.”
“Would you stop calling me that? And the latest fashion is nudity?”
The seamstress pursed her lips. “Hmm. Some of the ladies prefer a bit more coverage, but with your muscle tone—and the enthusiasm of the Bdahn—it would be a shame.”
Gayle looked down. The fabric over her groin was a deeper shade of creamy bronze, but the outlines of her nipples could be seen without squinting. Something cool touched her neck, a thick gold band of metal placed on her collarbones, inset with polished stones.
It all looked vaguely like an X-rated Hollywood video on ancient Egypt.
The seamstress lifted one of Gayle’s braids. “The color is a bit bland. Why not a plum, or a lovely bronze shade?”
Gayle grimaced. “Do you know what I had to go through to turn my hair blue?”
The seamstress sniffed. “Nonsense. It wouldn’t take more than an hour, and I’m sure you need a re-texturizing as well.”
“We’ll wait on my mother’s opinion,” Ithann said and the woman bowed her head.
They argued back and forth about the dress, finally agreeing to a long sheer duster to add an extra layer of fabric. Gayle twirled in the full-length mirror, enjoying the way the duster poofed around her. And she didn’t mind the see-through dress—she’d worked damn hard to maintain an athletic but feminine physique, without medical enhancements. But a girl had to leave a little something to the imagination.
Ithann approached her behind the mirror, hands settling in the air just above her shoulders, hovering, but not touching.
“This dress is a torment,” he said.
She turned. “Why don’t you do something about it then?”
“Your mood seems better.”
“Don’t be an ass and ruin it, Ithy baby.”
His lips quirked. “We still need to finish our talk.”
She sighed. “Just like a man. Always wanting to talk.”
He took her to a restaurant, one reserved for high-level officers and dignitaries and their… companions. It was spacious, with enough area between the tables and booths to allow for maximum privacy. The light was dim as well, the conversation muted. Music like the crystal tinkling of bells and water played in the background.
“You’re sure you don’t mind how sheer this dress is?” she asked, plucking at the fabric.
“Males may be fucking you in their minds, but I’ll be fucking you on my floor tonight.”
She inhaled abruptly, coughed. “Okay, then.” She cleared her throat. “Are any of those women actually their wives or mates?” Gayle asked. “There’s some pretty fancy-looking—”
“Don’t be crude, Abigail. And, of course, these women are wives and mates—or long-term companions. No male of class would entertain a paid female here.”
She rolled her eyes. He wasn’t even being ironic when he told her not to be crude. “Well, la-dee-dah. Glad to know—hey. I’m a wife, right?”
“It’s a little more complicated than wife, but—”
Gayle turned, glaring at him. “Ithann.”
“Let’s be seated, Gayle, and if you’re done with your snit, I’l
l finally explain everything.”
She opened her mouth to argue but an attendant approached with an ingratiating smile and led them to table in the middle of the room.
“Do we have to be right in the middle?” Gayle asked when the attendant left.
“It’s for the entertainment of the other diners.” Ithann’s voice was amused. “We’re the ship’s current scandal.”
“Great.”
Ithann introduced her to more dishes from his province, the heavily spiced evening offering taking her by surprise because breakfast really had been light. It was like two different food cultures had merged.
When she mentioned this, Ithann looked thoughtful. “That’s an astute observation. We were a caste system thousands of years ago, the breakfasting customs come from the remnants of the high caste, who could afford not to eat heavily because they didn’t engage in physical labor.”
That was interesting, and he promised to load several reading sources on that aspect of the Ngandan City-State’s history into her personal library.
“It’s good to study,” he admitted. “Many of the artisans draw their political views and customs from that time and if one doesn’t understand, you can accidentally offend an influencer.”
God forbid she offend an influencer. Gayle grimaced. Yedahn sounded a lot like Earth—even worse. New York. At least Omaha wasn’t quite as haughty.
Gayle didn’t understand how Ithann could pull off a haughty, sneering lounge when sitting ramrod straight in a stiff-backed chair—but he did. She waited until he’d had several sips of his wine, before nudging him.
“Talk, swain,” she said. “What kind of legal hot water are we both in?”
“Don’t be insulting. None. You’ll need to resign a few documents I forged your signature on. State-level documents, so the sooner you do that the better.”
Her jaw dropped. The current penalty for forging state-level documents was a fine that cost more than her father’s luxury transport and two years in jail. And he spoke about it so casually. She had no idea what the penalty on Yedahn was, but considering how law and order and discipline they all were—she imagined they’d do a bit more than hand slap.