Setting up the comm-antenna and the signal beacon is difficult. I need a wide-open area to unpack the equipment—the sky can’t be obscured by rock or trees or storm clouds. The comm-antenna is two feet high, and must be tilted at a thirty degree angle facing west. Assembly takes at least thirty minutes.
Which is why I don’t do it.
As the crew of warriors boards the ship, I linger in the back of the line. My fingers brush up against the satchel on my waist-pouch where I keep the communications equipment. I could sneak away, hide out until the ship takes flight. Set up the instruments and send a message to Xalax, telling him that the rebels are planning to raid our home planet in just a few days’ time. Then send the signal beacon that will broadcast my coordinates, and wait for Ayvinx to descend in a light craft and come get me. I can resume my post as Captain of the Imperial Guard with all the respect and honor rightfully accorded to one in such a position.
Yet my fingers do no more than brush against my satchel, feeling the hard metal lines of the instruments.
Rebel commander Noxu and his wretched son Ingzan have a lot of spiteful words about the weaklings in the Zalaryn race. That we’ve gone soft. That we need to remember our true warrior spirit.
But they’re wrong.
Zalaryns are warriors. We take what we want.
But we have honor. We take from the weak, but we do not take from the destitute or the infirm. We collect females as tribute, but we do not force ourselves on the females of planets we raid. We do not lie. We do not betray trust.
That is where Noxu and his ilk are wrong. They say they embody the true Zalaryn spirit, but in fact they represent the deepest perversion of our warrior code of honor. They are nothing but spoiled children who want to indulge their worst instincts—and lash out at any wise elder who tries to guide them towards the righteous path.
That is why I can’t leave Aren to her fate upon that ship. When I put the collar around her neck, I did it to protect her—that is true. But what’s also true is that when I put the collar around her neck, I owned her.
From that second forward, I owned her.
And I must take back what’s mine.
I file into the ship with the rest of the crew, but I hang back, hoping no one will notice me. Hoping—as much as it causes my ears to pulse with my boiling blood—that the lads will be too excited at the prospect of taking their pleasure with a human female that they will not notice my lurking. I make my way through the corridors, but when I get to my small room, I keep walking. I have a small travel bag, but there is nothing valuable inside.
The only thing I care about is locked in the captain’s chambers.
“Hey,” a voice says. I don’t recognize the voice, but when I turn around I recognize it as belonging to Voa. He was the one who was ready to help with the skewering.
“What?” I hiss. I do not need to be challenged by a cruel and lump-headed youth.
“Where are you going?” he asks, like he’s taken it upon himself to be the leader of ship security. Or, more likely, he’s looking for a fight. There are many like him in our race—more muscles than wits, unfit for idleness, two clenched fists ever-ready at his sides and always looking for a face in which to plant them. In what seems like another life, it was my job to whip lads like him into shape. Teach them discipline and respect and honor. Mostly youths like him don’t want to learn, but almost everyone can be taught if you whip them soundly enough.
But things have changed. Noxu has given an alternative choice to youths like Voa. Why stay in the service of the High King and endure hard training and learn self-control, when you can join in the rebellion and be told that those base instincts are righteous and should be honed to a fine point?
“None of your concern, lad,” I say. I try to brush past him, but he has the gall to grab hold of my wrist. I clench my teeth and swallow my rage. Beating some sense into this little imp will only draw attention to this area of the ship. Instead, I rotate my wrist and jerk it back in one quick move that leaves his hand empty and his eyes wide with surprise. I push him against the wall, wincing when the sound of his skull clanging on the wall echoes down the corridor.
“You’re going to get her aren’t you? Sad that your pretty piece of human cunt got taken away from you? She might be Marked, but the captain said that we could—”
“I heard what the captain said,” I say. I can’t bear to hear those vile words again.
I want to rip out Voa’s tongue as a preventative measure.
“That’s why I’m giving him this.” I hold up the control to Aren’s collar. It’s a small piece of metal, cylindrical with just a few buttons. Open and close, hold and unhold. “It’s the control to her collar.”
“Maybe since you have the control, you plan to unlock her,” Voa says, smiling like he thinks he’s really smart to have figured this out. “I think I should call the captain and see what he has to say about this. You have a sour look, like you want to keep her all for yourself. If I was you, I’d be raging with all the blackness of the void if someone took her from me. I’d feel so weak, so powerless—”
But he can say no more. In one second, he is on the floor, two of his teeth tinkling on the floor in a shroud of bloody pulp. Something crunches inside my hand as it connects with his face, but I ignore it. I have broken more bones in my hand than I care to count.
I step over him and continue down the path. Voa will be found sooner rather than later, but I plan on being far away from here by then.
The door to the captain’s room is locked, but with a quick charge to my weapon, I blast it open. The sound is not terribly loud, but the shockwave reverberations of an anankah blast are unmistakable. They will come. Soon.
I open the door and see that the room is torn apart. She must have fought. Of course she did. She has the spirit of Lakiv, the first Zalaryn Warrior Queen.
“Aren,” I whisper. As I walk further into the room, my boots squelch on the rug. Wet. What the hell happened in here?
In a crude imitation of yesterday’s scene, she leaps out at me, a glimmering weapon in her hand. But this time I am ready for her. I catch her in my arms, wrapping them tightly around her.
I brace for her thrashing and struggle, the moment I close my arms around her waist, she stops. She relaxes. She melts—like an ice block in the light of the suns.
And she puts her arms around me.
Our bodies are pushed flat against each other, the bony knobs of her hips pressed against mine. Her breasts are against my chest, her nipples stiff and hard as rocks underneath the tunic.
Mine. She is mine and I have her back. The relief washes over me… along with something else. Something stronger than any oath I might have sworn at the Imperial Fortress.
That’s when I feel it start to happen. The change.
It must only take a few moments, but every fraction of every second is slowed to an excruciatingly, deliciously slow pace.
My cock grows hard and heavy, threatening to undo every stitch of every seam in my breeches. My chest starts to prickle, like there’s a hundred hot needles going into my flesh. But it’s not an altogether unpleasant feeling. I’m flushed hot, sweat sprouting under my arms. The sick anxiety I’ve been holding in my stomach gives way to a warm spreading feel of content.
Content? No. Not content. Hunger is more apt. Desire. Longing to consume every inch of her.
To make her mine.
She has been mine since she leapt out of the closet. I just didn’t realize it.
I thought I was collaring her to protect her. Oh no. I took her to make her mine. There was nothing honorable about it.
I want her with a pure and simple greed.
I don’t even need to look down to know that my chest is turning purple. This small human female, hidden amongst the weeds and the dust of a desolate planet in the far-flung reaches of the quadrant: she is my bonded mate.
I can feel the bond forging between us, palpable, like a collar around my own neck.
The desire to take her right now on the captain’s bed is overwhelming. Her body is hidden by the over-sized tunic and I want to rip it off of her—to see her smooth and pale body again. The taut pink peaks of her nipples. The thatch of dark hair between her legs.
I can sense her desire and her fear, mingling together in waves that seem to linger about her. She feels it too. Of course she does.
When the universe gives you a mate, it does not whisper the fact. It knocks you on the head and screams it in your ear.
I press my erection against her stomach. The urge to thrust is strong. It is involuntary, like a sneeze, my need to penetrate.
Suddenly, she breaks away from me. “Listen,” she says, speaking the Zalaryn language so clearly and perfectly I don’t realize it at first. “I hear someone coming.”
“You understand my language?” I ask. Did the captain give her an implant?
“Yes,” she says. “I had a procedure when I was young.”
She was able to hear all of the cruel and vile things that the other warriors said about her. She heard the captain’s threat: she’s got two other holes we can have fun with.
I hope it is the captain who’s coming so I can give him a procedure that will prevent him from having fun with any hole ever again.
“Get on the bed,” I command. I wish it was a command in earnest, but there is no time for that now. The lust that clouds my entire being fades as I hear the heavy boots in the corridor. I click the control of her collar and there is a hiss of air as the pneumatic lock releases. She looks at me, perplexed, but I reach over and take it from her neck. “Pretend you’re asleep. When he comes in, distract him, don’t anger him.” I hide behind one of the cabinets and wait the longest ten seconds of my life.
“Human!” Captain Ingzan shouts. He flings open the door and immediately sees her on the bed. He screams something else, speaking her language. I don’t understand what he’s saying, but I don’t need to. He’s gesturing to the room, the obvious state of disarray.
She answers him and I’m astounded how calm and steady her voice sounds. There is such strength in that tiny little human. I’ve seen many valiant acts on the battlefield, but her bravery in the face of this monster is just as admirable. Probably more so.
He yells some more and I only recognize one word in his rantings: Kroda.
She replies, but he cuts off her words with a torrent of his own rage. He reaches back his hand to strike her.
There is no calculation on my part. I lunge at him, grabbing his arm and twisting it behind his back. He shrieks like a maiden who sees a big black pedipalpoid in her bed when she pulls back the covers. I swing up my other arm and in one quick motion, the collar is around Ingzan’s neck.
I let him go, knowing that for a few seconds at least, he will not be a threat. Indeed, when I let him go, he does not attack; he merely claws at the collar, trying to pry it off, as if he will be the only one the collar isn’t strong enough to hold.
I get the control switch from my waist-pouch and set it to hold. The collar freezes in place, locked into its geographic coordinates and solid as a rock.
That’s when Ingzan starts to panic.
While I would love to watch him thrash and scream, I take Aren’s hand and whisk her out of the captain’s room. I hear voices and boots—both excited and frantic—coming fast. I pull her into an empty room and wait. When the first wave of warriors goes into the captain’s room, I take one tentative look into the hallway and then drag her along with me. She keeps pace, despite having such smaller legs and no boots, and I am once again impressed. She is not like a typical female.
No one is guarding the escape pods, but I didn’t think there would be. Admiral Superior Zuro hasn’t sounded the alarm yet. When he does, I doubt that the lads will remember the emergency protocol. They are undisciplined and ill-trained. They have no business on a raiding party. They were put on this ship by Noxu, to be the playthings for his son Ingzan. A real live regiment of fighters to command.
We tuck into the small chamber and seal the door behind us. It’s cold in here and Aren begins to shiver. This cold metal floor on her bare feet must send a sick icicle of pain through each leg. The escape pod will be warmer. I activate the engine and tell her to get inside. She climbs in carefully and looks at me, waiting for me to follow her.
“I have to go to the cockpit,” I tell her. “I need to reroute their coordinates. And I need to disable the tracking on the escape pod.”
“I can’t fly this thing by myself,” she says.
“You don’t have to,” I say. I lean in and program the coordinates for Zalaryx. The auto-pilot will take her directly to the fortress. “If I don’t come back, push this button,” I point to show her. “It will fly you to my home planet. Demand to be taken to the High King Xalax. Tell him you have a message from Droka. Tell him about the planned raid on the protein farm.”
“Droka?” she asks.
“Yes,” I say. “That is my true name.”
“Droka,” she says again and it is a pure joy to hear my name on her lips. Every molecule in my body is screaming out for me to stay with her and protect her, but I cannot. I have to go to the cockpit. If I don’t scramble the ship’s coordinates, we’ll have no chance of escape. This is the best way I can protect her and I know it—but leaving her alone causes me physical pain. A stabbing in my stomach, not unlike the hot stitch that develops from prolonged running.
I close the door behind me, vowing that I will hear her say my name again.