Chapter Five
Starr
Torg’s shoulder dug into my stomach like a rock. A broad, hard, masculine rock. He loped through the snow at a speed I couldn’t have matched on my best day in the fairest weather. My toes hurt from the cold, and I couldn’t stop shivering, but I hammered at his backside to get him to put me down. Although being slung over his shoulder like a sack of genetically engineered potatoes did lessen the intimacy, the close contact disturbed me for many reasons: despite his seeming ease at carrying me, I was too heavy; I’d made a point of standing on my own two feet; I wasn’t sure I wanted to go where he was taking me; and he’d turned out to be nothing like what I’d expected.
His barbarian chivalry was making me like him.
Not part of the plan. I had to go back. Besides, chemistry mattered. A guy should be so besotted he tripped over his own feet. Torg wasn’t. He bounded through the snow like a gazelle or a kel or whatever. Yeah, yeah, we’d only met a couple of hours ago. But I’d seen disappointment in his eyes at the lodge dome place. Shock at first sight. He’d masked it, and he’d treated me courteously since then, but I couldn’t forget. If he hadn’t arrived late and been stuck with me, he wouldn’t have chosen me, either. On a planet desperate for women, not a single alien picked me.
I’d been told I had pretty eyes—striking, most people said—and I’d secretly thought I had nice hair, so it had to be my weight. Aliens didn’t take to curvy girls. What else could it be?
“Put me down.” I punctuated another token protest with a light slap.
If he complied, I’d be in trouble. My cheap synth shoes offered little protection or warmth. Water had soaked through them. Wearing them was little better than going barefoot. Needles of pain stabbed at my toes and feet. My legs had gone numb. Without the coats, we would have perished from hypothermia. I wondered how Andrea and Tessa were faring.
“Not until we get to camp,” he replied to my relief.
The continued “camp” reference worried me. I hoped the implant had mistranslated. On Terra One World, people spent days or weeks in wilderness areas called camps for the sole purpose of making their lives difficult. They called it “roughing it.” You slept on the hard ground in makeshift, inadequate shelters. It was dirty and dusty. You were either too hot or too cold. Insects bit you. If it rained, you got wet. And that was on a civilized, advanced planet.
Roughing it on Dakon? I shuddered.
“We’ll be home soon.” Torg must have read my mind.
“Tell me about your home,” I said. “What is it like?”
“It is one of the nicest tribal camps. Other clans would claim it in a heartbeat if they could. The caves provide natural shelters and are much better than anything manmade.”
“Did you say cave? A hollowed-out chamber in the rock?”
“That’s right. But there are many tunnels going deep into the mountainside.”
More than a straw that broke the camel’s back, this was the log that crushed the animal and finished it off. I’d been falsely convicted of a crime, exiled to a frozen remote planet, preventing me from participating in my appeal, wrapped in a stinky animal skin, handed over to an alien who’d found me lacking—and now I had to live in a cave during an eternal winter?
Since I hung upside down, the tears trickling from my eyes froze on my forehead. I cried harder. Uncontrollable sobs shook my body. Not only was I fat, ugly, and weak, I’d been reduced to a basket case.
“Starrconner, what is wrong?” Torg stopped and slid me off his shoulder. Instantly I missed his body heat.
“N-n-nothing,” I stuttered.
His frown held concern and confusion. “Your translator must not be working. This”— he gestured at my tears—“does not mean nothing. Why are you crying?”
“Because.” It was all too much.
But mostly, for some strange reason, I wanted him to like me—and I didn’t want to live in a cave.
A touch to my shoulder became an awkward pat, and then I found myself enveloped in an alien bear hug, my face pressed to Torg’s massive chest, covered by the animal hide. It stank, but he smelled good. And felt good. Rock solid. Like the kind of man you could lean on. For so long, I’d had only myself to rely on.
I hiccupped and sniffed, trying to suck back the snot. From his pouch, Torg withdrew a swatch of, what else, animal hide, and dabbed at my face. “It will be all right, Starrconner. I promise.”
The blending of my first and last name into one showed he still didn’t understand Terran naming structures, but in his rough, gravelly alien voice, it sounded so sweet and so charming, I cried harder. In another time, in another place, I might have wanted him. Maybe I did anyway.
No, I didn’t. I planned to clear my name, go home where I had real buildings, transportation, and the ’net, and resume my regularly scheduled life free of the Carmichaels.
Didn’t I?
Torg scooped me up, but rather than sling me over his shoulder, he carried me cradled in his arms.
* * * *
I could have walked in, but Torg had to duck to enter the cave, and as soon as he did, the temperature jumped, warming more as he moved farther into a cavern lit by flaming torches. Our shadow, huge and hulking, crept along stony walls as we burrowed deeper. He hadn’t been kidding about the tunnel. “You can put me down, now.”
“Not yet.” He tightened his arms.
A second shadow appeared and then a big brute of man came into view. Dark hair fell to his shoulders. He resembled Torg, although younger and less handsome. “I expected you much earlier. You’re late.”
Torg’s mouth twisted. “My usual state these days.”
“I was getting worried.”
“I’m fine, although my female got chilled.” His possessive, yet objective phrasing should have irked me, but it didn’t. Maybe he liked me a little? “Do me a favor and move a bed close to the fire, will you?”
“Already did,” he answered. “And I have a pot of stew cooking.”
“You think of everything. Thank you. This is my female, Starconner, although she prefers to be called Starr.” Torg met my gaze. “This is my brother, Darq.”
“I’m very pleased to meet you, Starr.” Darq smiled.
“It’s nice to meet you, too,” I replied.
Torg jutted his head. “Lead the way.”
Darq reversed and headed down the passage from which he’d come. He was shorter than Torg, but both men ducked to enter a low opening into a chamber. Inside was so toasty, I had to stifle a moan of pleasure. More torches lit the room, and a fire crackled in a large pit ringed by stone. Something delicious bubbled in a clay pot set over glowing coals. Smoke spiraled upward and out through an opening in the rocky ceiling. As primitive as I’d feared, it was warm and surprisingly homey.
Torg lowered me to a pile of furs near the fire. “We need to get you out of those wet clothes,” he said, and divested himself of his own coat. The removal of the bulky outerwear should have diminished him, but instead it enhanced his size. The breadth of his muscled shoulders could have supported two of me! A broad chest tapered to a flat abdomen and slim hips. A leather tunic and pants molded to his body like a glove, calling my attention to the bulge between his muscular thighs. Impressive, and he wasn’t even hard. I gulped, recalling the conversation with Andrea and Tessa about the aliens’ junk.
He knelt beside me and tugged at my fur. “If you take this off, you’ll feel the heat better,” he coaxed with a smile.
Oh, I felt the heat.
Good gods he was attractive. A scruff of dark beard tinged his face and whitened his already-bright and slightly crooked smile. He had full lips, and, just above and to the left of them, a small devilish scar. Thick, shiny hair dusted his wide shoulders. And, poking through the thick strands, two brownish nubs. Horns. About as cute as cute could be.
“Starr? You should take off the kel,” he repeated.
“Oh, right.” I shook off the borrowed mittens, but my fingers couldn’t seem to work the toggles. How was it possible to be frozen and flushed at the same time?
“Let me help you.” He brushed my fingers aside, undid the kel, and slipped it off my shoulders. “You’re soaked!” he exclaimed.
The synthetic fiber of my clothing had wicked up the moisture so that even the parts not exposed to the elements had gotten wet.
“I’ll get her some dry clothes.” Darq disappeared to return moments later and toss a garment to Torg. “One of your tunics.”
“I did not think to order any garments in her size, not that I would have guessed right. Tomorrow, we will get some from the tanner.”
“Children’s clothing would fit her best,” Darq suggested.
“I think you’re right.”
“Children’s?” I sputtered.
“You are much smaller than our own females. Adult sizes would be way too large for you.” He reached for the hem of my sodden nightshirt.
“No.” I pulled away. I glanced between Torg and Darq.
“What’s wrong?”
“I can’t take my clothes off in front of you.”
“Why not?”
“Because we just met! I hardly know you, and I don’t know your brother at all!”
“What does that have to do with removing your wet clothing?”
“Do you strip naked in front of anybody?”
“If our clothes get wet, and we are chilled, we remove them. It only makes sense.” Torg glanced at his brother, who shrugged as if to say, “You got me.” We’d run into one of those cultural differences.
“Not to me.” I snatched up one of the lighter furs and covered myself, feeling exposed enough under their scrutiny. I doubted I’d ever be ready to reveal my nudity to Torg of the perfect body, and certainly not to his bystander brother who wasn’t involved in this mating deal. Did all Dakonians live with siblings and or families? Darq had kept the fire going, had prepared the meal I hoped would be served soon, and had trotted off to get me dry clothing. He seemed to defer to Torg. Was that typical younger sibling behavior?
“We must remove your footwear, at least,” Torg said. “I must check for frostbite.”
“That you can do,” I replied, and allowed him to tug off one of my ankle-high shoes.
Torg peered at it. The synthetic material supposedly made it impervious to water, but that had proven to be a crock. I hadn’t gone a half kilometer before the shoes had soaked through. His sexy mouth curled with disgust, and he tossed the shoe aside. “Those are worthless.”
Agreed. If he hadn’t carried me, I would have been in deep Dakonian doo-doo.
He dispensed with the other shoe in a similar manner then peeled off my two pairs of socks. With his strong, gentle hands he massaged my feet. “Your toes are like ice.”
Never in a million years would I have expected to have a hunky, sexy alien tending to me, massaging my feet. Unfortunately, it hurt too much to enjoy it. Needlelike jabs of sensation stabbed at my toes, intensifying as my feet warmed.
“Ow, ow.” I grimaced and fell onto my elbows.
“I know it hurts. It will get better.” He peered at a foot. “You’re fortunate you didn’t suffer permanent damage.” He glanced at Darq. “Be sure to get her a pair of boots as well as clothing.”
About the time pain turned to pleasure, he stopped the massage. “Now, your garments.”
I shook my head.
“You’re cold and wet. You’ll be much warmer in dry clothes.”
For sure, but undressing in front of them would not happen. “No.”
He raked a hand over his head. Despite the circumstances and our standoff, I wondered how his hair would feel between my fingers. It looked so smooth and shiny. No man should have hair that nice. It wasn’t right. “You’re my female. It’s my job to take care of you. I’m not going to give in on this.” Sexy brown eyes hardened.
I pulled the kel closer to my chin then got an idea. “I’ll change clothes under the blanket.” Waiting for my sodden clothes to dry on my body didn’t appeal to me, either.
“All right.” He passed over the tunic Darq had retrieved.
Wiggling out of multiple layers underneath a heavy animal hide took a while. Torg’s amazement grew with each garment that I handed him. Finally naked from the waist up, I yanked on the tunic, my haste fueled more by habit than fear. I was alone in a cave billions of miles from home with a strange alien, but I was starting to trust him. If he had intended to attack me, he would have done it already.
The tunic, sewn from a soft and supple hide, was warm against my skin. I was getting used to the kel smell; it didn’t bother me as much as it had at first. Modesty secured, I worked on removing clothing from my lower half.
Sodden pants and leggings resisted efforts to peel them off, but I succeeded. My topmost pants had deep pockets on the hips and legs, and into them I’d stuffed my extra underwear.
A pair of briefs fell out of a pocket.
Torg picked it up and rubbed the fabric between his fingers. Caressed it. “What is this?”
Oh great. Now I had an alien fondling my underwear. The best thing to do would be to act natural and unconcerned, but heat flooded my face, and I grabbed the panties and shoved them back into a pocket. “Underwear,” I mumbled.
“You wear them under your clothing?”
“Yes.”
“For what reason?”
To provide extra warmth or to stimulate sexual interest didn’t apply here, and no way was I going to discuss the utilitarian, hygienic purpose for underwear. “It’s something Terrans do.”
He accepted that explanation with a nod.
“Don’t you wear underwear?” It took all my willpower to refrain from checking out his bulge.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“It is something Dakonians don’t do.” His amused grin shot straight to my erogenous zones. Another smile like that and the evidence would show why we wore briefs. I pressed my legs together. Torg rose to his feet and hung my wet clothing over a rack near the fire.
Darq cleared his throat. I’d forgotten he was here. “If you have your female settled, a serious matter requires your attention.”
“What is it?”
“While you were gone, Armax tried to kill Yorgav.”
Torg’s curse didn’t need a translation. “How? They were warded! Surely they weren’t put in the same chamber together?”
Darq shook his head. “No, but jealousy and anger exceeded honor. Armax left his warding chamber, sought out Yorgav, and attacked him while he slept. Yorgav may not survive.”
“Armax must be banished.”
Banishment didn’t sound good. Having experienced the climate up close and personal, I couldn’t imagine being alone out there. I would have frozen to death if not for Torg. Without being told, I knew on a world like this one, numbers provided protection. We’d arrived at camp to a crackling fire and a bubbling dinner because another person had been involved.
“I feared you’d say that,” Darq said. “We’re in the worst part of winter.”
“What would you have me do?” Torg asked. “We cannot allow that level of violence. I won’t have a murderer in our tribe. Banishment is the only solution.”
Guilt and fear lodged in my throat in a choking lump. On the SS Australia we’d been open, even boastful of our crimes. Of course, I was innocent. But would Torg believe me when all the “evidence” contradicted me? I’d been convicted; a court of my peers bought or blackmailed by the Carmichaels had certified my alleged guilt. Would Torg banish me if he found out? In effect, I’d already been exiled once—Terra One World had shipped me to Dakon. But to be kicked out of the safety of the tribe into a frozen wilderness?
How many people had I told of my conviction? I racked my brain. Andrea and Tessa for sure. How many would they tell? To my knowledge, I was the only one aboard the SS Australia who’d been convicted of a violent crime. The rest had been white collar and/or property crimes. A safe bet on Terra’s part. Dakon had nothing to steal. From what I could see, they didn’t have anything of value other than the illuvian ore—which Terra had dibs on—and maybe stinky kel furs. The jury was still out on those.
“You’re right, and you’re clan chief,” Darq said. “It is your decision.”
Torg was clan chief? No wonder his brother deferred to him.
“W-what if, uh, Armax didn’t do it?” I asked.
Darq replied, “He did it. Yorgav’s blood stained Armax’s hands and tunic.”
I’d been splattered with Jaxon Carmichael’s blood after I cracked his head open. “But if Armax is banished, he could die out there, right?” I pictured my cold, frozen body buried in the snow. When the growing season came, I’d still be there—perfectly preserved in ice.
“He could.” Torg nodded. “Unless he can convince another clan to take him in.” He looked at Darq. “My female has a soft heart. Expel him, but give him an extra kel hide.”
Darq nodded. “What about Icha?”
“She stays. We cannot afford to lose a female. Besides, she has made her choice, has she not?”
“I’m not sure if she chose Yorgav over Armax, or if she was trying to make him jealous.”
“Icha has been a troublemaker since she was a girl, but the clan still needs her.”
“What if Yorgav dies?”
“Then she will choose another mate.”