Things can always get worse. Of course they can. Only those who lead very charmed and peaceful lives think otherwise.
We are making camp for the night. A few of the lads make a fire, while the others organize a hunting party—more for the sport than for the sustenance. Captain Ingzan is erecting his tent, a lavish affair made of buffed suede, his family crest hand-stitched on the flaps.
The rest of us sleep on the floor.
I set out the bedroll in a spot close to the fire. My captive, Aren, must be freezing out here wearing nothing but a few scraps of rags. I didn’t have time to properly clothe her earlier, but I’ll have to do something about that now.
She won’t even look at me. I can’t say that I blame her. I hate that I have to do this to her, but there is no other choice. Claiming her as my property is the only way I can keep her safe.
I need to find something for her to wear. “I will return,” I tell her, but that’s stupid, because she can’t understand my language. She looks up at the sky and I follow her gaze.
The weather is turning bad. I can feel the atmosphere change. The air is heavier, thicker. The wispy clouds in the red sky are yellow and rapidly darkening. There is an electrified thrumming in the air, tensing my muscles—putting everyone on edge.
There have been far more squabbles in camp than are usual. Some of that is owed to the failure of the lads’ first raid. They spent their whole lives in the training yard, dreaming of riches, only to land on Yrdat—where the best they could hope to find today was a sack of moldy grain or a rusty hand-shovel.
It isn’t helping that I’ve got a half-nude female at the end of my leash.
She’s the most valuable thing in Yrdat. And the lads want one of their own. So they press on, hoping the next settlement on this planet will be teeming with young females so they can collar one for themselves.
But now that the big red sun has set, taking with it its scant but precious heat, it’s cold. Seriously cold. And the lads are having a change of heart. I hear them muttering, complaining about the wind, predicting rain or—worse—snow. Few of us have ever seen snow, and the rest of us have no wish for today to be the day.
The tension is thick in the air.
I hand her one of my protein blocks and my waterskin. “Here,” I say to her. I know she can’t understand me, but I have to say something. “Eat. Rest. I won’t let anyone…” I struggle to find the right word. I suppose it doesn’t matter since she does not know the Zalaryn tongue. “I won’t let anyone hurt you.”
I swear I see gratitude in her eyes, as if she understands me. I nod, and then set the controls on her collar to hold. It locks in place, preventing the captive from fleeing. She can sit there, she can eat and drink and she can even turn her head side to side—but that collar is frozen in mid-air, keeping her rooted in her spot.
It will prevent her from running away—but more importantly, it will prevent someone from running away with her.
I will never let that happen. She is my responsibility. I found her. I collared her.
And I did it all to protect her.
Now that I have her, I will guard her with all of my might. That’s what I am: the Captain of the Imperial Guard. I keep things safe.
And I can never have anything of my own.
I’ve sworn an oath never to take a mate. Never to sire offspring. Not that she’d have me—that much is obvious.
It pains me to leave her unattended, but I must have a few private words with the captain. I doubt he’ll listen, but it’s worth a try. He is incompetent to be sure—but most of the time, incompetent people are relieved to be told what to do.
I approach the captain, shivering a little, rubbing my hands together to warm them. Zalaryns are quite warm-blooded and I’m almost never cold—but this planet is frigid, the cold dry winds biting at my skin. I keep my eye on my human, watching to make sure none of the others get any bad ideas.
“Captain,” I tell him, quietly, when he is directing a few of the men to move his tent a little to the right. “Raid leaders traditionally sleep as their men do. Sleeping in a tent while the rest of us are in the cold wind sends a poor message.”
“It sends a fine message,” he says, brushing off my words as if they were no more than idle chat. “It says to the lads, ‘work hard and you might be captain someday, with all the rights and privileges therein.’”
“Fair enough,” I say. I watch as the lads get the poles straight and drape the suede over the top, lashing it down tight. It proves a difficult task as the wind is starting to kick up. “But this weather is foul. We should get back to the ship before morale sinks too low. These boys faced a hard disappointment today. They have never been on a raid. They thought it was going to be like one of the songs that drunkards sing in the taverns. They all thought they’d be up to their armpits in gemstones by now.” As soon as I finish, I realize I have said the wrong thing.
Because I wasn’t just describing the novice youths who are on the raid. I was describing the captain too. Our captain thought he’d be up to his armpits in gemstones. Our captain thought that raiding a settlement was going to be like the songs. The only bright spot in his day was torturing the old woman.
“You presume to dictate our course?” he says haughtily. Zuro looks over at us and ambles over.
“This weather is bad,” I repeat. “Look at the clouds. The dark yellow—”
“Maybe morale would be higher if you shared that little human of yours,” Zuro interrupts. I ignore his comment and try to appeal to his common sense. He’s the only other seasoned raider in the party. He must know what a fool’s errand this is.
“We should go back to the ship,” I say. “If these yellow clouds mean what I think they do, we will all be sorry.”
“Go back empty-handed all because of some yellow clouds?” Captain Ingzan says. “Not my crew. We march until there is nothing left on this planet but ash.”
“There is already nothing but ash,” I say, and kick the toe of my boot into the dusty ground for emphasis.
“What’s the matter?” Zuro asks. “You need a big, warm feather bed so you can roll around with that little creature of yours? A hot bath and a haunch of meat? Clean breeches and a maid to rub the blisters on your feet?”
I grit my teeth. Zuro is not helping. He too is inadvertently insulting the captain—as I’m sure that Ingzan is exactly the sort of male who wants a fancy feather bed, hot food and a servant to cater to his whims.
“This is a waste of our prowess,” I say, trying to appeal to our captain’s ego. Ingzan raises a thoughtful eyebrow and I’m encouraged. “A planet like this is beneath us. We should look at the charts and set a new course.”
“We?” Zuro says. “Last I checked, this is our captain and I am the admiral superior. You are a tired old raider who doesn’t want to sleep on the cold ground.”
“Leave me,” the captain says. “Both of you. I need to retire to my tent and strategize. We march early on the morrow.”
“Void-lover,” I mutter and walk back to my bedroll.
I see her there, nibbling on the block of protein and sipping water. She is a marvelous thing to look at. Her skin is so pale, like khoro milk, rich and creamy and smooth. I’d like to touch her, stroke that slender arm of hers.
Not that I’m going to try. Even if I set her restraints to the highest security level, I’m sure if I caressed her bare skin, she’d find a way to stab me.
I’m pretty sure I like that about her.
She has long dark hair, wild and curly. Like the hair between her legs. Thinking about that sends a jolt to my balls. I can’t help it. I want to run my fingers through it, twining the silky strands around my fingertips. When we grappled in her dwelling, she exposed her sex to me—unintentionally of course—and I can’t stop thinking about it.
I try to purge the thought from my head, but it’s hard. I didn’t collar her for use as my own personal plaything… but that doesn’t mean I can’t think about it.
And thinking is all I will do.
Once I get some useful information on the rebels, I will send the homing beacon back to Zalaryx. Before sending me on this mission, High King Xalax equipped my comm-panel with a homing beacon. Once I send it, he’ll send a stealth ship to come and get me.
Get us. I’ve started to think about us rather than me. Because she’s my responsibility to keep safe. Despite the danger she’s in, I’m surprised to find that I sort of like the responsibility. It’s a change of pace from my usual isolation.
Not that I can keep her. Not that she would want me to. Even if I could keep her, I’ve sworn to take no mate. Breaking an oath is considered treason under Zalaryn law, and not even Xalax would be able to help me escape execution.
After we get to Zalaryx, I will take her away with me and make sure she gets safe passage to anywhere in the galaxy.
It doesn’t begin to make up for the things that I’ve done, but it’s a start.
Until then, I’ve got to watch her like a hawk. Especially if Ingzan insists we march. I’ve been on expeditions like this—with captains void-bent on raid after raid after raid, insisting that we can’t stop until we strike upon something valuable.
Those expeditions? They never end well. Get enough disappointed, tired, hungry, cold warriors together, with nothing to show for their suffering but blisters and empty waist-pouches? Those warriors lash out at anything that’s handy.
There’s no more appealing target for the rage of a mob of males than a small female.
They can satisfy so many of their base urges.
The worst things I’ve seen—the most mindless destruction, the most shocking acts of violence—were all perpetrated at the end of a long, grueling, fruitless raid.
A raid like this one.