Gayle tumbled onto the bed. There was something about Yadeshi liquor—it didn’t make her sick, but that was about the only perk. At the beginning of the night, the males had come on hot and heavy. At some point, they stopped completely, mystifying both her and Mila. Until Jaron showed up, normally bland expression stormy, incisors flashing. He’d dragged Mila off, with a curt instruction to Gayle to accompany him so she could be seen safely to her room. Since she didn’t want to be alone in a bar with a gaggle of hungry males, she’d readily agreed.

She dozed a few minutes, rousing when her door chimed. Gayle groaned. “Go away.”

It chimed again, and this time the sound of the locking mechanism disengaging and the panel sliding open had her bolting out of her bed as steadily as she could. Two uniformed Yadeshi entered, stopping just inside the threshold.

“What the fuck?”

“Abigail Afolayan?”

“Yeah?” Thank God she’d had the intelligence to use her mother’s maiden name instead of her father’s surname.

“We are here to escort you to the brig. Please comply peacefully.”

“The… what the hell you say? The brig?” She struggled to think clearly. “Am I underage here?”

“Your authorization to leave your planet in pending revocation. You are temporarily classified as a stowaway. The penalty for—”

“Oh, Jesus, stop yammering at me. I get it.” She lowered her head in her hands, trying to think. “Did something not get filled out right? What do I need to do?”

“An immigration official will be in contact. Please comply with our order.”

“Oh, fuck. Do I get a phone call?”

* * *

The short answer was no.

Gayle stared up at the grey ceiling of her cell in disgust. Four plain grey walls, a basic cot and toilet facilities that slid out of the wall, and enough dim light to keep her from going into sensory deprivation. And that was it. Not even a book.

She’d slept the first few hours, her body unable to hold out against the stupefying effects of the drinks she and Mila had guzzled while dancing. After she dragged herself into wakefulness, she’d used the meager sanitation provided to clean herself up as best she could. She refused to wear the jumpsuit. It was baggy, an ugly color, and second hand. No way in hell.

Which, she supposed, was the wrong attitude to have if she was enthusiastically throwing herself into the life of a regular working girl.

Just for shits and giggles, she rose from her cot and crossed the massive six feet to the cell door and banged on it.

“Let me out of here!” she yelled, more to amuse herself than anything else. She’d seen it a few times in old movies, the verbal venting, meant to release built-up energy. No one would hear, of course. They’d be monitoring prisoners from a remote location via vid.

Gayle yelped and jumped back when the door panel slid open. Her jaw dropped when after a second, she recognized the cold, elegant man staring down at her, his black hair a polished braid draped over one broad shoulder.

Her princeling, not her Adekhan.

“Ithann… what in the hell is going on here?”

He stepped into the cell, perforce requiring her to retreat, the panel sliding shut behind him.

Gayle eyed him. “I hope you have authorization to open that thing back up.”

Gone was the snippy warrior-in-training uniform. He wasn’t even the fancy dress prince from the party. He wore all black, not quite the outfit she and Mila had seen a few higher-ranked officers wearing when they’d toured the ship.

“I don’t think black is the right color for people with shades of blue for skin.”

His expression didn’t change. “And yet, as a brown-skinned woman, I frequently see you wearing… brown.”

“It’s a stereotype that dark women can’t wear brown,” she replied, voice haughty. “It all depends on the shade and the quality of the fabric.”

“Abigail.”

He never called her by her first name. Gayle inhaled. “Is there something wrong with my paperwork? Wait—what are you even doing here?”

“That you thought you would be able to leave the planet on a vessel headed for my planet, and I wouldn’t be informed… this tells me you don’t fully understand the situation.”

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 tease, 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?”