Chapter Four: Bjorn
Bjorn mentally ordered his nanite armor to retreat. It melted off him, forming a pool of material as soft as silk and stronger than titanium at his feet. His rival was yanking at his own heavy, bulky armor. The prince watched every movement, his knife at the ready.
It was forbidden to kill on the grounds of the holy shrine, but that didn't mean they couldn't spill a little blood. And there seemed to be no other way to decide who would claim the queen's rose.
"No, don't fight," Cheryl said, her hands fluttering in the air as she looked between them. "You can both have me at the same time, I don't mind."
Both men ignored her, although Bjorn had to work to keep his surprise off his face. For such a sweet, naive-looking woman, his Cheryl seemed to know what she wanted sexually. If only she could actually say that it was what she wanted, Bjorn might consider it. Women were scarce among the Temadian people, as sons were far more common than daughters due to the nature of genetic manipulations to produce pureblooded Temadians. It was common for one woman to have a harem of men. He himself had five fathers, and each one worshiped the ground his mother walked on.
The queen, however, had only one king and it would be him. If she desired more than one man, they would have to discuss lovers after they were wed.
But it would not be Maskin.
With a roar, the warrior-slave leaped forward, holding his knife in his clenched hand. He was quicker than Bjorn anticipated. The prince ducked but still received a blow to his skull. With a flick of the wrist, Maskin neatly cut into his scalp. It stung and hot blood began pouring instantly. Bjorn took advantage of his opponent's closeness to drive two knuckles into his sternum. Maskin stumbled back, gasping for breath. His eyes burned.
"Stop!" Cheryl cried.
They leaped at each other again. Bjorn moved quickly, jabbing stiff fingers into various nerve bundles. Maskin's left arm dropped, useless, the knife sliding from his hand. With a laugh, Bjorn sliced at his chest. His rival punched him hard in the face with his other hand.
"Stop it! Stop!"
Both Maskin and Bjorn punched at each other as Cheryl darted between them. Two ham-sized fists caught her in the abdomen and back. She gasped, then stood choking on air.
"No!"
Both prince and warrior-slave shouted at the same time. Bjorn dropped his knife and caught the human as she swayed. His heart stopped and he couldn't breathe. The queen pulled in a single gasp as her skin turned ashen. He turned and ran, ignoring the blood that continued to pour down his scalp. Maskin caught him quickly and pulled Cheryl from his arms.
"What are you doing?" Bjorn cried as he laid her on the ground.
"She is suffering a diaphragm spasm," Maskin replied, checking her pulse. "She needs to have room to get her breath back."
Bjorn dropped to his knees and clung to Cheryl's hand. He had known the moment he saw her that she was the woman he had been waiting for all his life. He hadn't expected to love the queen he was paired with, but the moment her sweet blue eyes met his own green ones, he knew. No other would ever hold his heart.
And now his determination to beat Maskin might have cost him her love.
The human's back bowed as she gasped again. This time her lungs continued to work and she coughed, then groaned. A little color came back to her face.
Bjorn grabbed Maskin's wrist when the warrior-slave reached for Cheryl's naked breasts. Seeing him fondle his queen had been strangely arousing, but he wasn't going to let the slave take advantage of her now!
"I'm checking for broken ribs," Maskin said with a glare. "And you need to take care of that wound."
"I'm fine."
Maskin rolled his eyes and tore a strip of cloth from Cheryl's skirt. He wadded it up and pressed it to Bjorn's head. It stung so badly Bjorn had to grit his teeth to stop from grunting. His nanite armor had been snaking after him, and now it coiled up his body and returned to its place.
"I have seen many battles," Maskin said. "If you don't get an acolyte to regenerate the cut skin, you'll lose half your scalp. And then how will you look so pretty?"
"Don't fight," Cheryl said weakly as he angrily opened his mouth. "Please. Don't fight."
The men glared at each other but nodded. Bjorn held the cloth to his head as Maskin scooped up the human into his arms again.
Bjorn was feeling light-headed and woozy by the time they made it back to the healing pavilion. The acolytes immediately retrieved an ancient regenerator, a boxy bulky thing in comparison to the sleek inserts that were used these days. A red glow pulsed onto his head wound, stitching the flesh back together.
He didn't move his eyes away from Cheryl. The acolytes buzzed around her and declared that she had suffered a diaphragm spasm, as Maskin had said. They used a regenerator on her as they started to patch up the warrior-slave himself.
"I'm sorry for striking you, Cheryl," Maskin said.
"That's okay. I'm just glad you two stopped fighting."
"I'm sorry as well." Bjorn reached for her.
Cheryl shied away from his hand.
He looked away, rage bubbling in his gut. When it mattered most, he hadn't known what to do with his queen. He always knew what to do. But this time he hadn't, and now his human feared him.
From the time he was a young boy, he had been planning how he would change things once he was king. It was only a matter of time before the slave system that the houses built themselves on would break, and he needed to change it, both for their sakes and for the slaves themselves.
But Maskin? He decided to become king to prove that he could. He was after the power, the prestige. A man like him knew only brute strength and force. He knew nothing about navigating the subtle currents of court. If he became king, then everything Bjorn had dedicated his life to would be gone, and the Demante System would be ruined by civil war.
Well, no matter now. Maskin wasn't going to be king. Bjorn needed to worry about Cheryl, not his rival.
"Fixed," the acolyte working on him said. "Your scalp will be a little tender for a few days, but you'll be fine."
Bjorn nodded. Maskin was also healed by this time. Cheryl looked much better, although still a little pale. She took both of their hands when they offered them, and the three of them walked silently to her little cabin. Bjorn could see the tension in Maskin's arms. When they got to the step of the cabin, Cheryl stopped. She pulled her hands away and turned to the two men.
"I made a choice. From here on, if one of you has me, so does the other. Always together. Neither of you will be alone with me. And if you fight each other again, you might as well kill one another, because that's it. You fight, and I won't have either of you."
Her face paled as she spoke and her hands trembled, but she looked resolute. She looked between them and nodded before entering the cabin and shutting the door firmly behind her.
The two men stared at each other. As much as Bjorn would have liked to punch the warrior in the face, he was mindful of what Cheryl had just said. He turned on his heel and marched away. Maskin growled and followed.
"She has made her choice," the warrior-slave said.
"Yes."
"And what is yours?"
Bjorn stopped and looked the warrior in the eye. "I am going to claim my queen. If that is her pleasure, I am more than glad to give it to her."
The warrior grinned. His teeth were sharp, genetically designed that way to give him an extra advantage in battle. "Then we are in agreement. But her rose is mine."
"Not if I return to her first," Bjorn vowed. "Whoever cleans himself up and returns to her cabin first—"
Maskin sprinted off without another word. Cursing, Bjorn chased after him.