Chapter Two: Ronan
Ronan carefully inserted the thin needle into his vein. The cool liquid that he injected burned slightly, but he could instantly feel the effects as his muscles relaxed. His heart rate evened out, and the building frustration and desire to kill all but vanished. The aggression of the false onset of musth was difficult to control. He knew that if he hadn't taken the enzyme at once, he would have ended up losing his temper.
As the perijan swept through his body, he took a careful look around. From here he could see his ship. He hadn't really taken the time to scope out the area, too desperate to do the injection. Workers bustled to and fro, using their hover carts to move large amounts of cargo through the docks. He happened to have found a little alcove to take his perijan, mostly blocked from the views of the workers.
The most effective way for perijan to take hold in a T'shav body was through an internal microprocessor, which would help the liver produce the enzyme naturally. Ronan had had one implanted when he was a child and first diagnosed with Cilaze, a disease that suppressed his natural production of perijan. Over the years, however, he had been in so many fights and without regular medical checkups that it stopped working. Since returning to his birthplace to have a new one implanted was out of the question, Ronan had to give himself regular injections to keep his body in balance.
Without these injections, his brain would think that his body wasn't getting the oxygen he needed, making his heart rate increase to the point where it triggered a self-induced heart attack. That perijan naturally dropped low during a T'shav's musth also meant that whenever the enzyme dropped too low he would enter the beginning stages of musth. A very unpleasant experience. Fortunately, he was able to keep a supply of perijan on hand. Usually.
Ronan brushed a hand over his sweat-slick red skin as his breathing returned to normal. Well, that would last him for a standard day.
"Hey!"
The T'shav looked up to see a blue-skinned Aphrosian wearing a United Species uniform marching towards him. Ronan finished his injection and put the needle back into its case before slipping it back into his pack. He stepped out of the little alcove, trying to appear unthreatening. Not that he could really help it. As a T'shav he was quite a bit bulkier than most species. Plus, the devil-red skin of the T’Shav led many other cultures to believe they were demons. Add to it that his toe claws were larger than normal, and he usually found himself being accused of intimidation even when he didn't mean it.
Although his appearance certainly helped in interrogations.
"Is there a problem?" Ronan asked the USC officer.
"I should say there is." The Aphrosian pointed at the small trickle of blood running down Ronan's arm. "What were you injecting? Kinsing? Cakehi?"
Of course. The officer assumed he was doing drugs. It would be amusing if Ronan wasn't so sick of law enforcement officials assuming that he was up to illegal activities for merely breathing. His hands clenched, the increased musth hormones in his system telling him to just break this Aphrosian and be done with it. The perijan might help calm him down, but it didn't erase all the aggression instantly.
"Perijan. I have Cilaze."
"I have never heard of that," the Aphrosian sneered. "I wonder what the scans will say when I take you in."
Ronan rolled his eyes. Aphrosians were stronger than they looked, with their skinny arms and bodies, but that didn't mean that they would stand a chance against a T'Shav like himself. The USC officer pulled a set of energy cuffs from his belt.
With one quick motion, Ronan grabbed the Aphrosian's arm. He twisted it around sharply until he heard a snap, then slammed his fist into the officer's face. The Aphrosian shouted in pain, lashing out. Ronan ended the fight with a rabbit punch to the forehead. He let the officer drop.
Pathetic.
Leaving the officer moaning behind him, Ronan headed back to his ship. No doubt the Aphrosian would call some more of his idiot friends. Best to leave. Ronan didn't feel like killing anybody. Not today, at least.
His comm was flashing when he got to his ship. Ronan checked it and saw that there was a message from the Planchet bridal-ordering service he had signed up for. He rose a brow, his newly-evened pulse picking up again. They had found him a mate who met his requirements already?
Ronan tried not to get his hopes up. It was probably a hideous old spinster desperate for children. Well, he wasn't going to take a mate who wanted children. He wanted a woman he could rely on to get him through the worse of musth, who would have a strong body that could take and enjoy the intensity of his passion. He doubted that the bridal service would actually be able to give him that.
Still, as soon as his ship was in orbit, Ronan pulled up the information about the bride that had been matched with him.
Erica Chase, Human.
Ronan stared at the holographic image projected before him. Brown-haired, skin a peculiar shade of rose-talc. The image was static, but he could see all he needed to from it. She was beautiful, with more curves than he would know what to do with. His loins tightened at the thought of the pleasures she could give him. In the red Suesue wedding dress she wore, she looked perfectly sweet, perfectly submissive.
The kind of woman he needed. One that would do what he wanted when he wanted it, and would never stab him in the back.
"Well, Erica Chase," he muttered as he sent an acceptance of her. "No more waiting for your perfect match. I'm coming."
***
The Planchet's space station was named Goddess of Fertility. A little on-the-nose for Ronan's tastes, but accurate. Not only was their bridal service based in the station, but the groom coming for his bride could also purchase an assortment of sexual toys and enhancers to choose from, to increase their pleasure and chances of getting pregnant.
Ronan ignored these various stalls, interested only in Erica. He could already imagine the gentle flush of her cheeks as he undressed her, her soft cries of delight as he took her. They'd build up to the more intense stuff after she got a chance to get used to him.
He found the pickup station quickly enough and signed for her. The Suesue who had processed his claim, a three-horned humanoid with purple-pink skin, gave him a packet of complimentary fertility enhancers and led him to the back to meet his bride. Ronan was surprised at how excited he was. Would she smile shyly at him? Would she be as eager as he was to consummate their mating?
Erica lay on a bed, her eyes closed, her ample bosom rising and falling gently. Ronan stopped to take in her delicious-looking body–and frowned. Dark bruises covered her arms. More were on her legs, and there were even some on her face. And she wasn't just sleeping.
"You drugged her."
"Her transport was attacked by pirates on her way here," the Suesue said. "Poor thing had quite a fright. It's why we've sedated her."
The T'shav glared back. The bruises were only a few hours old. His fist clenched, and before he could stop himself, he let it fly. There was a sick crunching sound as his knuckles collided with the Suesue's head. The alien flew backward, hitting the wall hard.
"Charge an extra fee to my account to cover your medical expenses." Ronan slung Erica's unconscious body over his shoulder. "I trust we're done here?"
The Suesue clutched his face and groaned. Ronan took that as affirmation and carried his bride away, glaring at all the Planchet workers that crossed his path. Erica was his mate now, and anybody who thought they could lay a finger on her would find another thing coming.
He made it back to his ship without incidents. He laid her down on his bed. Her red dress had ridden up to her thighs, revealing a delicious amount of skin. Ronan didn't notice. The bruises were mostly on her arms like she had been restrained, but there were a few offensive bruises on her legs. She must have been kicking and fighting to free herself.
She was human. That meant that the Planchet Corporation didn't need consent forms to sell her as a bride. Had she tried to escape? Ronan smoothed her brown hair back from her face. Well, she was his now. She would never have to be afraid of anything again.
Erica moaned, stirring for the first time.
"Don't worry, you're away from those monsters," he told her, trying to make his voice gentle. "I'm just going to take care of these injuries now."
Her eyes fluttered open, latching onto him as he retrieved a salve from his shelf. Not as effective as a regenerator, but it would help ease the ache from being beat up like this. His curvy wife's eyes widened at the sight of him. Her pupils dilated, and she let out a small gasp. He smiled–clearly she found him just as pleasing as he found her.
"Let's start down here," he said, scooping some of the salve onto his fingers. He reached to spread it over a particularly dark bruise on her thigh—
Her fist collided with his temple.
Ronan grunted in surprise, stumbling back from her. Erica's face reddened as she swung off the bed–only to fall to her knees right away. She swayed on the spot, her hands grasping the bedclothes as her eyes slid in and out of focus.
"Didn't they tell you?" Ronan scraped the salve back into the bottle and corked it. He narrowed his eyes at Erica. Where was the sweet, submissive little wife he had ordered? "I am your husband, Erica Chase."
Erica's head jerked up at that. Her eyes narrowed and she made a peculiar hissing sound. Her legs wobbled, but she managed to pull herself upright again. Ronan moved closer in case she fell again.
She threw a pillow at him. "Stay away from me!"
Ronan stopped. His nostrils flared as he ground his teeth. Did the bridal service offer refunds? Probably not. Especially considering how he had punched the Suesue that showed him Erica. But they had completely misled him before his purchase.
She lunged at him, fists swinging. Ronan grabbed her arms, only just stopping her from collapsing again. She pulled away and staggered back to the far wall. Well, now he knew why she had bruises. She was completely insane.
"I purchased you to be my wife," Ronan growled. "You are mine, and I will do whatever I deem necessary with you, understood? Now get back on that bed before you hurt yourself, so I can treat those bruises."
Erica's knees buckled. She grabbed the bed to steady herself but made no attempts to lie down. Her face twisted, she spat at him.
Spat. At. Him.
"I'm not your wife!"
She swayed again. Ronan darted forward, catching her in his arms before she crumpled. Her brown eyes glared up at him, but her hands lay flat on his chest. He liked the feel of her skin against his more than he thought he would. Maybe having a submissive mate was overrated. A woman with fire and fight in her would actually be able to help him make a living and carry her own weight.
If nothing else, a woman like this would definitely answer his passion with hers. And he had always enjoyed a challenge.
"Maybe you're not mine," he said, grinning. "But you will be."