The Taming

by Imogen Keeper

  She made a production of straightening her skirts and checking her hair as the hover landed, fussing over her plant like it was a newborn baby.

  “Give us a minute,” Tor said to Gaspart, and his brother hopped down. He held Klym back.

  In about three minutes, she’d meet his entire family, and they would not be warm and accepting, and she’d probably find out that somewhere between fifteen and thirty women thought they were going to marry him, which was something he really should have told her. But every time he thought about explaining that in addition to the regioship, he’d inherited his brother’s harem, his cock decided it would rather play than fight.

  “I...” He stared at her.

  “You what, Tor?”

  I don’t know. He frowned.

  “Everything okay?” the pilot asked.

  The growl built in his chest. “Migane. Go away.”

  The pilot backed off.

  Klym stuck out her chin.

  His mouth opened, but under the onslaught of her eyes, glinting with fury, he didn’t say anything.

  “You needn’t give me any more warnings or threats or spankings,” she hissed. “I’ll keep my end of the bargain—at least in public—but don’t you dare touch me again and then boast like I’m some prize.”

  “That’s not why I did it.”

  She made a face of dubious disdain. “And don’t you dare use whatever you and Gaspart were talking about as an excuse to rub your stink all over me again. You can tell everyone I have an obsession with water if you like, but you won’t use that to get close to me.”

  Wrong. He was absolutely going to use it as an excuse. “Not an option, amiera. It’s the perfect excuse to rub my stink all over you, and rub it I will. From this day forward, you won’t leave my side without my stink all over you.”

  Her chin trembled.

  “Stop making that damned face.” He slapped his hand down on the seat back. She shoved her plant at him and turned toward the pilot.

  He looked down at the plant in his hands. The stupid weed had quadrupled in size. The flowers were nearly as big as his palm. It would probably spread across Tamminia like a vine and destroy the local flora, and it had cost a small fortune to import the thing, but she had too few possessions to start abandoning them.

  He scratched his jaw. “I—”

  Klym reached for the pilot’s outstretched hand. It was the pilot who helped her down to take her first step in her new home.

  It should have been him.

  The sunlight passed through her dress to make lacy patterns on the lightstone cobbles.

  For just a moment, he wanted to take it all back, pull her into the craft, tell the pilot to turn around, reclaim his ship, and take off. Go back to Araa-Ara maybe, live in the hotel there, hunt evil birds by night and fuck by day—just the two of them. She was right. She didn’t belong here on Vesta. The people here were harder, crueler. They would change her.

  She glanced back at him, gray eyes as cold as glass.

  I wish you’d stop looking at me like that.

  She was killing him.

  She’d already changed.

  He’d changed her.

  An hour ago, he’d have said he’d changed her for the better, but now, he wasn’t sure. She’d been bright and bubbly back on Araa-Ara and then Frigorria. And now...

  He took a long breath. He wanted the old Klym back. The happy, fighting one who’d kicked him and thrown noodles in his face. Not this beaten-down, formal one.

  I wish I’d done this differently. Maybe that’s what he meant to say. Or maybe I just wish I’d asked you first. He’d still have taken her if she’d said no, but maybe he’d have gotten lucky, and she’d have said yes. Now they’d never know.

  I wish you’d give this a chance.

  Wishes were for jackasses.

  He’d make her give him a chance.

  He hopped off the craft, stupid plant in tow, and moved to her side.

  His childhood home stood before them, shining in the sun. The weather was perfect. The doors and windows were open, leading into the dining hall.

  In the darkened interior, a sea of faces stared back at them. Klym’s back straightened, her shoulders pulling back, her chin taking on the customary elegant tilt.

  His mother stepped out, looking exactly as she had when he’d last seen her a decade ago, eyes stern, mouth rigid.

  His brother Jeor stepped out beside her. He’d grown taller, rangier. And he’d grown a beard.

  The shadows behind them shifted, and as if moving in slow motion, felana after felana stepped out to join them. Ah, shit.

  A whole godsdamned army of them. Klym’s gaze drifted briefly to his.

  Two sisters, about as tall as his knees when he’d left, moved in beside his mother. And seven half-sisters from his father’s secondary felanas, of which there were nine. They were all there.

  But Dillan’s wives, his own would-be felanas, were there too, all of them, the whole harem decked out in vibrant gem-studded dresses like a flock of gaudy tropical birds.

  It made for a hell of a lot of women. All of them staring at him.

  He wrapped an arm around Klym’s waist.

  “Who are they?” she asked.

  He’d tell her tonight, before someone else told her. “That’s my mother, in red. And my sisters beside her. And my brothers.”

  She nodded. “And the rest?”

  “Felanas.”

  She took his hand and, moving with her customary dancer’s grace, lifted one corner of her gown and dropped into the deep Argenti curtsy he’d seen in vids. It had to take a hell of a lot of thigh muscle to perform, not to mention balance. In her white gown, with her pale hair, she stood out, as regal as a queen.

  No one spoke.

  Klym breathed deeply beside him, and he couldn’t imagine what she must be thinking, but no fear showed on her face. Her back stayed rigidly straight, her neck long and a warm smile spread across her face.

  Gaspart moved to stand somewhere in the middle.

  “Mother,” Tor said when she came close. “This is Klymeni Merona na TaKarian, my selissa.”

  Everyone held their collective breaths.

  “Selissa?” His mother’s eyes widened, and her gaze drifted lower, down over Klym’s hips, toward her feet and up again. “She’s an offworlder.”

  “That a fact?”

  His mother’s mouth tightened. “Not a felana.”

  “But she doesn’t sme—” Jeor didn’t finish his sentence.

  His mother and all his brothers and sisters sniffed the air, smelling for proof that wasn’t there.

  Tor gritted his teeth. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been this embarrassed. It was a problem they would have to deal with. Soon.

  Gaspart shuffled his feet. “Evidently the lady likes to bathe.”

  His mother’s eyes hardened as they had every time he screwed up since he was a kid. He resisted the urge to shuffle his feet or cross his arms. He wasn’t a kid anymore. He met her gaze. This time, he hadn’t screwed up.

  “It’s good to be home,” Tor said, pulling Klym close so his mother couldn’t ignore her.

  Everyone stared at Klym, their gazes drifting up and down her body.

  Klym, for her part, didn’t disappoint, all gorgeous honey-skin softness, with golden-haired elegance, and rigid stillness. She withstood the scrutiny with aplomb, her snobby brows raised high, a placid smile on her face.

  His mother’s eyes darkened and landed on Klym. “You risk war over this.”

  “I would. But it won’t come to that.”

  “Wife-rite is nothing more than a law. They can change laws.” Her eyes were grave, but there was something there. A plea, maybe. Or a warning. “The Alliance is not what it was when you left. It’s grown more desperate.”

  “I’m counting on it.”

  20

  I want to see

  your exuberant blood

  KLYM STRUGGLED not to fidget under Tor’s mother�
��s scornful eye.

  Rather than risk making some sort of breach of manners, she offered a vapid, non-threatening smile that she hoped conveyed nothing more than polite curiosity.

  His mother turned away. “Dillan would never have done something so rash.”

  “I’m not Dillan.”

  “I know.” The way she said it made it sound like Tor was something less.

  Klym held her breath.

  Historically, Tor had responded to discord by kissing her, tying her to his bed, reaching between her thighs, spanking, threatening or bellowing. None of which was an appropriate reaction to his own mother. She hoped.

  His unbound hair fluttered around his shoulders in the breeze, gleaming under the dying sun as he wound a trailing vine from her plant around his finger. “Fair enough, Mother. I did leave. And you know why.”

  A tiny muscle clenched beneath his mother’s right eye. “That is all over. Your father... had weaknesses. I can admit that now, an—”

  “Don’t do that.” Tor’s voice was quiet, so quiet his words were snatched up by the wind. “Don’t defend what he did. He’s dead now. We can all admit the truth about him.” He turned toward the massive, rambling fortress in front of them, soaring into the dusky sky. “Let’s eat. The selissa is hungry.”

  He looked back to her, and she must have made a face because his eyes crinkled up like they did when he was laughing at her. “And her plant needs water.”

  His mother’s flinty eyes settled on her.

  “And a table.” Tor gestured for her to precede him, but a girl of seventeen or eighteen stepped up beside her, and Tor’s mother moved in beside him, and somehow, they were separated.

  The girl—one of his sisters, Klym learned—guided her into the dining room. She was tall, with hair in long, spiraling curls that fell below her waist. She introduced herself as Janna and chattered so much Klym’s head spun.

  Janna led her to a chair in the center of the long banquet table, while Tor’s mother led him to an enormous throne at the head. Servants whisked away the linens at her seat and replaced the golden platters and goblets with austere efficiency.

  Seventeen diners separated her from where Tor now sat.

  His mother raised an exultant brow from her seat on Tor’s left.

  He turned away from Gaspart, looking around him before scanning the room and settling on her, a dark scowl forming between his brows.

  He rose from his seat, but she held up a hand to stop him.

  He was farther away than he’d been since they’d left Frigorria. She chewed on the inside of her cheek, annoyed at how uneasy that made her.

  Only sickening logic could justify her finding comfort in the proximity of her captor. But after so many days in the close confines of his ship, the distance yawned and stretched like a time warp.

  The room brimmed with the noise of hundreds of people, men in short white dresses that left one side of their chest and shoulders bare, and women wore loose, colorful pants and skirts. Music and incense, chatter, brisk servants, the tinkle of glassware.

  Janna smiled and left her alone.

  Klym lifted her water goblet to her lips.

  The woman on her right leaned in so close that her breath, with a scent like roses, brushed hotly over her upper arm. “What kind of lover is he?”

  Klym managed, just barely, not to spit water over the table, but it was a near thing. She turned to look at Tor at the head of the table. Amidst all the men in their short dresses, he looked more dangerous than ever, like a predator hiding among the flock, in the black shirt that clung to every one of his muscles. There was something about him. It was as if he were lit from within. A study of contrasts, black hair and pale skin, black eyes, white teeth, black tattoos curling and twisting over hard planes.

  The woman on her other side leaned in closer. “We’ve been so curious. Waiting for him to come back.”

  Klym lowered the glass. Waiting?

  Waiting for what?

  His gaze was hard upon hers, eyebrows low. His hand wrapped around the armrest of his chair.

  “What do you mean you’ve been ‘waiting’?“ she asked.

  The woman slanted a coy glance, sending dark hair cascading over her shoulder. “He left so long ago. Before I even came of age. I loved Dillan so much. He was so patient during my heat cycles.” She stared down the table at Tor, her face positively lusty.

  Klym’s fingers tightened around the goblet.

  “He’s so different from Dillan,” said the woman. “His brothers are nothing like him.”

  “No one is anything like Tor,” Klym whispered, still staring at him.

  Heat cycles… Tor had mentioned that felanas needed Primes for breeding, and that they went through cycles when they needed a Prime. He’d failed to mention that they expected such servicing from him.

  The thought made her irrationally angry. She sipped her wine, glowering down the table.

  He raised a brow in silent question.

  The other woman leaned in closer. “Elliara and Tiava say he’s very... what word did they use, Kiana?”

  “Exuberant,” said Kiana, nodding sagely.

  “Exuberant?” Klym echoed. Oh, she’d show him exuberant.

  “They say he’s very exuberant in bed. Is that true?”

  It hurt. A sharp stab. She traced her fingers along the golden filigree charger.

  Why did she care if he had slept with women she’d never heard of, long ago? She wasn’t really his wife. Ten years ago, she’d been back at the Institute. And evidently, while she’d been learning pirouettes and flower arranging, he’d been sleeping his way through all of Tamminia.

  “And Sylese says he made her climax three times in a single round.”

  This was getting ridiculous. Just how many women had he slept with? And were they all in this room?

  A platter with an elaborate tower of food was lowered in front of her. Spiky green leaves, mixed with purple berries in a geometric tower. She speared a bite and brought it to her mouth. If it had a flavor, it was lost on her. It lodged in her throat.

  She forced herself to smile gaily. Hundreds of eyes were watching, after all. “He’s very thorough, I’ll give him that,” she said, and the two women squealed happily.

  He wound a tendril of her plant around his finger, the blue flowers standing out amid all the gold and amber of the room.

  “I can’t wait until my next heat so I can find out.”

  Next heat?

  “Pardon me?”

  The other woman stared down the table at Tor, face nauseatingly adoring. “He’s so handsome. All those tattoos.” She sighed wistfully. “He fought at Punt-Rayabad. He was only a boy. They say he killed hundreds. That’s what the tattoos mean, and the scars. They sa—”

  “No. No, no. What did you say before that?” Klym asked, the blood rushing in her veins, making her head swim. “About your next heat?” Next as in coming soon. Next as in sometime in the future. Next as in not the past.

  The woman’s red lips curved. “Now that he’s home, he’ll be able to see us through our heats, just as Dillan did. Once we are all wed, it will be his duty.”

  Duty? Over my rotten, mangled, partially-devoured-by-green-beetles, liquefying corpse. Heat flared up her cheeks. “All?”

  The woman tilted her head to the side, pushing the food around on her plate. “You don’t know? There are twenty-seven felanas in his harem. We’ve been waiting since he left. We are to bear his children.”

  The noise Klym made could only be described as a snort. She’d never made that sound in her life. It sounded like a cough and a sneeze combined, it happened in the back of her throat, and it burned and boiled, just like her raging blood.

  Oh, if they were back on the ship right now, she’d pick up her plate and fling it down the table like a discus. With any luck, it would land squarely between his lying eyes.

  Her fingers tightened around the fork. Or maybe she’d manage to get in one good stab before he overpowered he
r. Right in the thigh. She would love to see his exuberant blood.

  21

  Those glittering eyes

  TOR LOOKED down the table at Klym. Under the rosy light of the starflies, she sparkled. Golden hair and honey skin. His mother had conspired to separate them. He wouldn’t allow it to happen again.

  She should be up here beside him. The ornately carved chair was enormous, intended to seat both the regio and the selissa. He considered moving her, but it wasn’t a bad idea for her to get a little space from him. Have a chance to miss him.

  As he watched, she leaned in close to speak with a felana, their heads nearly touching. Bright spots of color gleamed on her cheeks, and her gaze flickered to his, bright with some emotion. He raised a brow at her in silent question.

  But she shook her head slightly in a gesture that said she was fine. It made him uneasy, her discussing anything with the felanas. It would make her look weak and him look stupid if he stormed down there and moved her now.

  Gaspart leaned in close and jerked his chin at him pointedly. “So, how will you begin?”

  Tor wrapped his hand around the armrest. She’d find out eventually. “As regio?”

  Gaspart nodded, and Tor let his gaze be dragged from Klym’s glowing face and studied him.

  He stroked the plant on the table. “Who do you report to?”

  Gaspart jerked a round shoulder. “You. I’m older than you, and I’m not a Prime. I was never going to be regio.”

  Tor took a long sip of wine, looking around the banquet hall. Dinner on Vesta was always a celebration, one he’d missed after a decade of frozen rations. “Round up the ambassadors and officials, then. I want to meet them.”

  Beating drums and spicy food. He was home indeed.

  Gaspart nodded absently. “I knew you would. I set up a meeting. They’re coming here for a feast. But not for twelve days. You need to solidify yourself first. You’ve been gone a long time. The men will need to be convinced.”

  Tor almost laughed. Twelve days. Klym’s last night. They’d have a celebration. And then he’d make her truly his.

  He sipped his wine and watched Klym take an overlarge swig from her goblet. Her cheeks were flushed, and her eyes glittering. “Who do I start with?”