by Carysa Locke
It wasn’t like being comforted by someone else. There were no feelings of sympathy or understanding. Just a coldness that was oddly calming.
I would kill them all.
She lifted her head and looked up into eyes the cold blue of a Killer.
“I know.” That was also comforting, in its way. Not that more killing would make all of those deaths right. That wasn’t the right path. But knowing that Dem would do it if she asked, for some reason that defused her anger and assuaged her guilt. “More death isn’t the answer. If we’re going to save your people, you need Veritas.”
His face didn’t change expression. The lines remained coldly chiseled, the eyes ice pale.
Sanah reached up and cupped the side of his face. Dem kept his chin clean-shaven, but she felt the prickle of stubble under her hand. It had been a long day. “Where else are we going to find the Talented women you need?”
Shock moved over his countenance. Color slowly bled back into his eyes. “What are you suggesting? That we steal their women?”
Sanah felt her lips curve into a smile. “Well, as you once told me. You are pirates.”
A hint of amusement warmed her insides. Dem’s mouth twitched in the barest hint of a smile. Sanah became aware that they were standing intimately close. The warmth she sensed from him, she realized, wasn’t all amusement. That had burned away the killing cold, and something else alighted in its wake. Without looking away, Dem reached up with one hand, and unfastened the clasp at his neck. Her eyes followed the movement. His collar opened, revealing an expanse of dark skin, down his chest, across the breadth of his shoulders. His suit jacket, she realized, was already off.
He set the clasp on the bureau bolted against the wall, and reached down to release a sleeve cuff next. First one, then the other. Her mouth went dry. Dem, she realized, was undressing for her. Slowly, so she had plenty of time to stop him, and tell him to leave.
But she wasn’t going to do that. “Nayla’s, um, staying in the infirmary.” Her voice came out husky. She was ridiculously pleased that she’d chosen to don the more feminine, sexy underclothes in her wardrobe earlier. Not that she’d expected this to happen, but some part of her had hoped. She couldn’t tear her eyes away as he opened the front of his shirt, revealing a hard, sculpted torso. Shadows and light played over muscular lines, dips and curves she wanted nothing more than to touch and taste.
“Sanah.”
“What?”
“Come here.”
She was already close enough she could feel the heat radiating from his body. He smelled of the sort of soap men used, woodsy and masculine, with a hint of sweat from the day’s activities. She leaned closer, daring to touch him, splaying both hands against his chest.
He lifted a hand and fingered her hair, brushing it back from her face before cupping the back of her head with long, sensual fingers. You should know, he said in her mind, sex with me will have political consequences. Especially so soon after your arrival here. Some may give up. But others will see this as a reason to be competitive.
Unfortunately for them, I’m a one-man kind of woman.
With his hand on her, that blankness he normally exuded was gone. Satisfaction, primal and possessive, flowed from him into her. He pulled her to him and put his mouth on hers. His tongue was a warm rasp over her lips before sliding smoothly between them. Need uncurled inside of her, and then her hands were on him, fumbling with his shirt, shoving it down his shoulders. She felt herself rise off the floor and knew he was lifting her with his telekinesis again. He tasted faintly of alcohol, his tongue sliding, entangling hers in a desperate sort of heat. It made her ache with wanting.
With his shirt off, his chest was hers to explore, the hard planes and ridges of muscle, the puckered scars that marred the perfection of smooth dark skin.
You’ve been hurt.
I live a dangerous life.
How many scars do you have?
I thought you didn’t want to talk.
His mouth moved down her throat, and he bit down gently over her pulse, where it beat at the base of her neck. She gasped, arching into him. His tongue flicked out, and she shuddered. Her fingers slid over the naked skin of his back, up his neck to cup the back of his head.
Dem’s fingers worked at the tabs of her shirt, deftly releasing them. He shoved it off her shoulders, and bent to kiss her collarbone, while pulling the garment free of her arms. He went still for a heartbeat, and she realized he was staring. A flush warmed her body. Not of embarrassment, but pleasure. Feeling Dem’s stunned response to the sexy scoop of lace she’d encased herself in almost made her sorry to take it off. One by one, the clasps to her frilly corset came undone, and invisible fingers laid it open. Cool air rushed against her breasts.
He stroked his tongue over one of her nipples, before closing his mouth over it. Sanah moaned, her head falling back. Every tug of his mouth, or rasp of tongue sent an echoing throb throughout her body. His hand closed over her other breast, his thumb stroking in a lazy, deliberate rhythm that had her twisting in his arms, gasping his name.
He used his Talent to slowly pull her slacks down over her hips, so his hands remained free to stroke her skin as it was bared. The garment dropped to the floor beneath her feet, leaving her suspended in the air, naked to him. When she felt pressure on her thighs, she allowed them to open. His fingers stroked up the inside of her thigh, feather light. Then they slid over the silken heat of her slit, back and forth, her body already slick with moisture, never quite touching her clit.
Dem.
He drew his hand away, and she tried to close her thighs instinctively, to recreate the pressure that had just vanished.
Trust me, Sanah.
He dropped to his knees before her, drawing his tongue across the same path his fingers had followed. He stroked again and again, his hands running over her body while his telekinesis cradled her. She twisted and writhed, her fingers finding his shoulders and digging in.
His shields were completely down. She felt his need to give her pleasure, his desire for her, how it heightened with every sound she made, every shuddering response. Feeling his emotions only sharpened her own. It was unspeakably erotic.
Finally, he used his tongue and teeth on her clit, relentlessly teasing her to orgasm. She came sobbing his name, physically, mentally; he continued to stroke until her convulsions stopped, her cries fading to ragged breaths, and her body going languid and soft.
He stood and stripped off his pants, the only piece of clothing he still wore. Faintly, over his sexual need, she felt concern.
Dem, what is it?
I don’t want to hurt you.
Understanding dawned. She was a small woman; he was a large man. We’ll take it slow. Please Dem, don’t back off now.
Stepping forward, he pressed himself between her parted legs. He rubbed his length against her, hot, slick strokes as he buried his head against her shoulder. The friction felt so good for both of them; Sanah thought she might come again from that alone. But it wasn’t quite enough, and she grasped at his arms, tugging.
Inside me, Dem. The tip of his cock touched her, parted her, and he stopped there, a frustrating and stubborn hesitation. Even with her demand, he was unsure. She rocked her hips up, taking more of him in. She could only go so deep while he stood totally still, but she managed to rock herself against him, over and over, until his control finally broke.
He buried himself inside of her in one long stroke that left both of them still and gasping, clinging together while her body got used to his size, relaxing around his length. Sanah wrapped both legs around him as he planted his hands on either side of her, using his gift to support them both. He kissed her, slowly, thoroughly, and began to move inside of her with the same languid rhythm. Her hands grasped his shoulders, her fingers digging into his skin as the tension began to build.
Every stroke brought him pleasure that spilled over into her. She usually required stimulation to her clit in order to come, but after
a handful of thrusts, she was biting her lip to keep from screaming, bucking her hips against him to try to quicken the pace.
Dem…please…how can you wait?
His mouth trailed to her neck, her ear, his teeth nibbling at the lobe. She made little whimpering sounds in her throat.
I am patient. Controlled. I want to experience every…last…moment of this…
Sanah placed her hand on his chest, opening that place in her mind that felt emotion. She let him in as though telepathically joining with him. But it wasn’t telepathy—it was empathy. And the instant she did, his careful pace vanished into fast, frantic strokes.
His eyes closed. Her nails bit into his skin. Pleasure built between them fast and powerful until it reached an inevitable crescendo, and her body shuddered as she came, his name falling from her lips while he said hers over and over in his mind. The intensity of her pleasure sent the first spasm through him, her body tightening around him until he cried out, spilling himself inside of her.
They stayed like that for a long time, aftershocks occasionally rocking them, wrapped together and breathing heavily, their passion spent. Dem was the first to speak.
“Sanah.” He felt uncertain. “I know it’s only been a few standard days—”
“Stop,” she said, her voice husky. “What does time matter? People can think what they like. I don’t care.”
He was silent for a moment. “I was going to say,” he started again, his voice muffled against her shoulder. “I know it’s only been a few standard days, but I haven’t felt the same since I met you. I would kill for you, or die for you.”
“I know.” Wasn’t that exactly what he’d done?
“I don’t want to push, but you may have noticed we’ve fallen under desperate times.”
“I may have, yes.”
“Become my consort.”
She didn’t say anything. She went still, cradling the back of his head in her hands, utterly shocked. Consort meant a lifetime commitment. Here, especially here, it would mean a family. Children. A life together.
“You don’t have to answer now. Just think about it.” I worry. I’ll probably kill any other man who tries to touch you.
Dem, I can hear you.
I know.
“Oh.”
“Does it frighten you, my…Killer side?”
“A little. But not enough to keep this from happening.”
Worry and fear eased into hope.
“I’ll think about it,” she said.
“All right.”
“Now…can we go sleep in the bed?”
Epilogue
“Veritas is still out there,” Cannon said, as he passed glasses of Bennethan rum around the table. Nayla eyed hers, half excited, half cautious.
You’ll want to sip carefully, Sanah warned. Nayla didn’t have any experience with alcohol.
Treon took his, raising the glass in his hand to contemplate it. He hadn’t said much since coming into the room, and Sanah sensed actual uncertainty from him. It appeared Treon was nervous about confronting the sisters of the man he’d killed.
She’d asked Dem if he struggled with it at all, but he’d merely blinked at her and asked, “Why would he?” Perhaps that was a conversation better left for her and Treon, in private.
“We didn’t get much from Niall before he died,” Dem said. “But we know they are powerful, they control vast sections of the Commonwealth, and they want to see us destroyed.”
Cannon tilted his glass, quirking a smile at its depths. “In some ways, it’s reassuring to know the face of our enemy.”
“We also know there are more like us out there,” Treon said, “men and women.”
Cannon’s green eyes were sharp. “Yes. We are not so depleted in population as we thought. For all the good it does us. They are our enemy.”
“Not all,” Dem said, his hand closing over Sanah’s under the table. She sent him a smile.
“Some, like Nayla and I, might not be so loyal to Veritas and their ideals.”
“We can only hope,” Cannon said.
He turned his attention to Nayla, smiling over at her just as she risked her first sip of rum. She inhaled wrong and choked, coughing on the powerful fumes. Carefully, she set the glass down. “I think Doc might be right,” she managed, her eyes watering. “Medicinal purposes only.”
Cannon grinned. “And how are things in the infirmary? Doc tells me you’re settling in nicely. Haggerty is making a full recovery, and Leanne…?”
“She’s doing surprisingly well.” Nayla smiled. “The baby is healthy, and Doc doesn’t believe she’s suffered any permanent injury.”
“That’s good news. I also hear there’s been a recent upswing in superficial injuries?” Cannon raised an eyebrow. “Have you noticed?”
Nayla flushed. “There do seem to be an unusual number of complaints. Food poisoning, headaches, sprains, even some broken bones.”
“Indeed.”
Sanah sent Dem a questioning feeling. Broken bones?
The young men are…enthusiastic, in wishing to meet Nayla.
She’s sixteen!
Yes. Don’t worry. Doc and I have discussed it. Between us, the problem will be dealt with.
Dealt with how?
Once word gets out that anyone suspected of injuring himself will be refused treatment, they’ll soon stop those tactics. It also won’t take them long to realize—anyone wanting to see Nayla will have to go through me. Or Treon. That will put a stop to all but the most determined.
Good. She had to struggle not to laugh; she almost felt sorry for the young men in question.
“Oh, I almost forgot,” Nayla said suddenly. “The baby’s a girl.”
Everyone looked at her.
“I had wondered,” Treon said from his place at the end of the table. “I visited Leanne myself just yesterday. I couldn’t determine gender, but the child is Talented.”
“One in twenty,” Cannon murmured softly, shaking his head in wonder. “Well, that is cause for celebration.”
He lifted his glass, and four more rose with his, even Nayla’s. “To the future. May it be brighter than our past.”
Sanah met Dem’s eyes over her glass.
Yes, she rather thought it would be.
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Acknowledgments
This has been, in many ways, a thirty-year journey. I know every author says things like “a lot of effort from a lot of people went into this book”, and they are right. Always. Even if I discount those early years of scribbling terrible fiction into spiral-bound notebooks as a middle school student, or the later years writing and posting fanfic online, or the many, many years of querying agents and submitting short work to anthologies, collecting rejection letters – even if all of that is in some way meaningless to this book, a whole lot of effort from a whole lot of people still went into it.
But I can’t just discount all of that early stuff. It got me here. I still remember the moment, when I finished an epic 5-part fanfic series I was posting online, when I put it all together in my head and realized “Hey, this is like a book. A real book. I can write and finish something this long.” So I did. I wrote a 110,000 word dark fantasy novel about vampires and gypsies, and I started querying with it. I abandoned a multitude of unfinished manuscripts, and I stopped writing short fiction for a long time.
I knew I could write novels then, and that was what I wanted to do. While I was querying that dark fantasy novel, I started something new – telepathic space pirates.
But here is where I back up, and I tell you about my co-author. My co-author has been my friend for twenty years. We have spent much of that time playing tabletop roleplaying games. Like D&D, except we (largely) made up our own worlds, and we had an all-girls group we played with regularly, because unlike the standard group I still participate in with my husband, the girls’ group added an element often missing from the other – romance. We gamed out not just overarching story plots of adventure, but also how couples ended up together. For years. We did this in Star Wars games, in Vampire games, in worlds based on our favorite books and television shows, and finally, in worlds we created. My co-author was the best at creating these worlds. Gradually, she became the one always running the games. Sometimes, I would co-run with her, but she was usually the one doing the lion’s share of creating the world and characters. When I initially told her I wanted to write in one of her gaming worlds, she was excited and pleased. She told me she just wanted me to acknowledge her creation if I ever published. A few years later, I realized this was crap. Maybe I would never make any money at all writing these books, but what if I did? How would I feel, knowing I had used her worlds and many of her characters, and all she got was a “thank you” in the front or back of the book?
I mean, sure, writing is hard work. How stories play out in a roleplaying game do not always make for a neat book, or a book at all. I have a lot of work I have to do to take that inspiration, and write a book or a series with it. Not everything you read in this book (or the others to come) happened in our games. Or, if it did, it didn’t happen exactly that way. To say nothing of writing the original draft, rewriting, revising, editing, and on and on.
But she puts a lot of work into creating these worlds and characters, too. I went to her and said “I don’t want to give you an acknowledgement. I want you to be my co-author.” And that’s what we are. When I don’t know what I want to do with a storyline or a character, I call her up and we talk it through. We have meetings and lunches scheduled just for world building, storytelling, and planning for future books. This is on top of our regular gaming. We are both creative inputs to this series. I am just the hand wielding the pen – or keyboard. Hence we decided to publish under one name, a pseudonym. But we also decided to be totally upfront and transparent about who we were behind the name.