The losslyn, it was called. The hidden seed.
Dr. Wells would then take over for another comfort-giving session, boosting the effects of the hormone injection. When that ended, Rahel retired to her bedroom for the purely mechanical requirement: stimulation of her molwine, focusing on the correct side for losslyn growth. It was necessary five times per day and became more pleasurable each time.
As Dr. Wells explained, they had created a positive feedback loop. The injected hormones increased her receptivity, which led to greater pleasure during masturbation, which led to higher hormone levels and thus more pleasure, all in service of the losslyn. She examined it regularly, fascinated by the idea that this unused and normally unseen part of her body was busily producing a sperm packet.
She tried not to think about the moment when she would have to release it.
Late afternoons found the three of them taking advantage of the pleasure house’s offerings. Massage, aromatherapy, a soak in the hot pool followed by a cold plunge, and some of the finest rajalta ever poured in Whitesun were all included in the rental price of the ceremony suite. So was the excellent evenmeal delivered to their rooms, which they ate together while chatting about anything and everything. This, too, was part of the ceremony: the intimacy of knowing one another through questions and honest answers. The tradition was designed to build trust, and Rahel found it quite effective with Colonel Micah.
By the evening of the third day, she even managed to stop calling him that.
“What about me?” Dr. Wells asked.
“With him, it’s just dropping the rank. With you, it’s a whole different name.”
“Work on it.”
Rahel didn’t point out that commands like that were precisely the reason she was still Dr. Wells.
On the fourth day, Micah shocked her.
It was after her hormone injection, while she lay with her head in Dr. Wells’s lap. Their sofa faced the enormous window looking onto the courtyard garden, which was bending under the fury of another winter storm. Dr. Wells massaged her scalp while they watched the wind racing through the trees, and Rahel never wanted this ceremony to end.
She sensed Micah’s approach long before he reached them.
“May I join you?” he asked.
Silently, she bent her knees, making room for him at the other end of the sofa.
“No. I would like to take Alejandra’s place.”
She goggled at him, her mental cacophony so loud that the only word she could utter was, “Why?”
He crouched down, bringing their heads level. “We have history, you and I. We’ve forgiven each other, yes, but I’ve allowed that history to stop me from fully participating in the creation of our child. Alejandra opened my eyes this morning, and she’s correct. It was never solely her job to be your comfort giver.”
“She’s been my comfort giver since I joined the Phoenix. You and I don’t have that kind of relationship.”
“Not before,” he said gravely. “Now it’s different. Were we any other couple with a surrogate—”
“I’d be joining with you,” she interrupted. “Or with a provider over in the joining services wing. I’m not any other surrogate. You don’t need to do this.”
“I want to.”
There was no dissonance of untruth. Whatever Dr. Wells had said that morning had altered his thinking.
“Only if you’re comfortable with it,” he added. “If you’re not, I’ll go and leave you two in peace.”
She had almost killed him. Helping Dr. Wells have a child was not just an act of love for her friend and mentor. It was also restitution for her crime.
“Do you know how to be gentle with a warrior?” she asked, only half joking.
A few ticks later, her head rested on a pillow in his lap while he received lessons in touching her from Dr. Wells. Rahel stared up at him, not quite believing she was in this position.
“Like this?”
His touch was so tentative that she cringed, squeezing her eyes shut. “That feels like a hairy watcher crawling on my face.”
Dr. Wells laughed. “Not that gentle. She’s not me. You can be a little firmer.”
On his next attempt, Rahel let out a relieved breath. “Much better. Thank Fahla, I don’t think I could have withstood that for longer than a tick.”
“That’s not what I usually hear—”
“Oh, don’t,” Dr. Wells said with a groan.
He grinned down at Rahel. “I’m holding back the jokes.”
It was easier after that, and soon he was touching her as if he had never been nervous. Dr. Wells took up a new position at the other end of the sofa, pulling Rahel’s feet into her lap and beginning a massage.
Of the many surreal moments in her life, Rahel thought this ranked among the top three.
She uncrossed her hands from her stomach and pressed one against Micah’s hip, where synthetic bone replaced what she had destroyed with a disruptor. When he showed no discomfort, she slid her hand upward. The skin beneath his shirt was smooth and warm, fully healed after she had burned it away along with several spans of intestine.
She had already apologized. Would it ever be enough?
The skin contact revealed no residual resentment. He was curious, calm, and understanding.
With her eyes closed, she didn’t see him move until a weight came down on her leg.
“Where?” he asked in his deep rumble.
She picked up his hand and replaced it midway down her thigh, sliding it to the inside in a gesture that would have been sexual in any other setting. “Here.”
Half a tick passed in marveling silence. Through the hand still pressed against his side, she felt the full impact of his wonder as each of them covered the once-grievous wounds they had caused the other.
“Your record said the shrapnel severed your superficial femoral artery.” His quiet voice broke the stillness. “The healers called it fortunate that it was fully embedded, because if any of it had still protruded, you might have tried to pull it out.”
“And if I had, I would have bled out before I could get to the healing center. They told me when I woke up.” She opened her eyes to find him watching her. “I would have tried. Walking down that tunnel with it in place—” She stopped. “I would have tried.”
“I’m glad you didn’t.”
“So am I.” Dr. Wells gripped her ankles, a firm touch that reinforced her emotion. “When we focus on the things we wish we could change, we forget about the things that happened for the best.”
“You sound like Sharro.”
“I like Sharro, but no. That’s from Lanaril.”
Rahel nodded; they did have a similar philosophy. Regardless of its source, she understood the message. Another apology would not be welcome. This ceremony was about their future, not their past.
Remembering Timjan, she lifted her hand to Micah’s face and closed her eyes once more.
“A strong jaw.” She smiled at the realization. “Like me. Your child will have a strong jaw.”
“Our child,” he corrected.
“Our child,” Dr. Wells said at the same time. “Yours, his, and mine.”
Rahel mapped his face with her fingertips, her thoughts whirling with the tactile sensations and the sudden understanding that this child would be a blend of them both. Until now, she had thought of herself as a donor giving a gift, an involvement that would end tomorrow.
But their invitation was clear: her involvement did not have to end. She could be family.
“Our child,” she whispered.
42
Losslyn
The fifth day was simultaneously the best and the worst. What was once novel was now a sublime routine, one Rahel reveled in while mourning its inevitable demise. Early morning at the caste house, a cup of rajalta with Sharro and Ravenel, comfort giving and conversation until midmeal . . .
Normal life would be a letdown after this.
She received her final hormone injection with a su
dden bout of nerves, rubbing the injection site in an automatic motion that Dr. Wells did not miss.
“Does it hurt? Sting?”
“No, sorry.” Embarrassed, she crossed her arms. “I didn’t mean to worry you.”
“But something’s wrong.”
Long experience had taught her the futility of deflection when Dr. Wells had this determined edge to her emotions.
“What if I can’t?” she blurted. “I’ve never done it before. You’ve both put so much time and effort into this. My mother and Sharro, too. What if—”
Dr. Wells was shaking her head, concern evaporating under the shining light of confidence. “This isn’t a matter of skill or experience. It’s biology. Your hormone levels are optimal, your losslyn growth is right on schedule, everything is working as it should. We’ll have a lovely last day here, and after a good soak and a massage, you’ll go in there and catch a sperm packet.” She squeezed Rahel’s upper arm. “Don’t worry. Your body knows what to do.”
Her conviction was contagious, propelling Rahel through the rest of what was indeed a lovely day. The massage left her muscles liquified, a condition exacerbated by a long soak in the hot pool. They stayed until none of them could stand it a piptick longer, climbing out with loud exhalations of relief. These were soon followed by shrieks as they jumped into the cold plunge pool, with Dr. Wells exiting immediately and rolling her eyes while Micah and Rahel competed to stay in the longest.
“Bigger body, better insulation,” Micah gloated when Rahel was forced to give up.
“But she has better sense,” Dr. Wells retorted, comfortably wrapped in her robe. “Are you trying to freeze off important body parts? I have plans for those.”
Rahel grinned as she toweled herself dry. “I’m going to remember this. The day she said I have more sense than you.”
“She said better,” Micah pointed out. “That doesn’t mean more.”
“I can’t believe you’re arguing about it.” Dr. Wells held out a towel. “Get out of there.”
That night’s evenmeal and comfort giving were the easiest yet. Rahel settled into position with her head on Micah’s lap, yesterday’s awkwardness banished by honesty and a priceless physical connection. Dr. Wells took up her position at the other end of the sofa, and Rahel did her best to absorb every touch, word, and emotion of this final session.
She might have felt more bereft at its end had her task not loomed so large.
They moved to her bedroom door, where Dr. Wells held out a cylindrical container. “Give me a ten-tick head start.”
“Is that all it takes to get him ready?”
She arched a brow with a wicked smirk. “I know which buttons to push.”
“She does,” Micah confirmed. He was already halfway there, judging by his emotional signature and the fact that he could barely look away from Dr. Wells.
Rahel hid a smile; she would get no good-luck wish from him.
“Let’s make a child,” she said, and stepped through the door.
One unforeseen consequence of living with a low empath and a sonsales was that she received regular secondhand doses of their arousal. Before she could pull off her second shoe, their levels had spiked. Dr. Wells hadn’t wasted any time.
She piled the pillows against the headboard and sat nestled among them, comfortably reclined but elevated enough to see. The passion filling the suite was affecting her in ways it hadn’t before. She felt heavy and wanting, highly aware of their activity and easily imagining herself with a phantom lover, someone who would do something about the pressure in her losslyn. It had been itching all day. Here in the privacy of her room, she was finally free to reach down and rub out the itch.
“Shek!” she gasped, curling up as every nerve in her body screeched its overload. “Oh, ouch, fucking fuck, that hurt.”
As soon as the pain faded, she laughed at both her idiocy and her instinctive use of the Common swear phrase. Candini would be gleeful when she heard about it.
The next attempt was far more gentle. She drew her fingers down both pelvic ridges to converge on the curve of her molwine, barely brushing the sensitive ridge between her legs. When her body responded with immediate delight, she let a fingertip drift down and across the losslyn. That, too, felt extremely good.
Bringing her finger lower still, she circled her opening while using her other hand to gently stroke her molwine. Her eyes slammed shut as sparks flew up her spine and all the way out to her fingertips. Ten ticks? The way this felt, she’d be lucky to last five.
She lost herself in the sensations, clenching her jaw as they spiraled up and up. The thought occurred that she should have set a timer; she had no idea how many ticks had passed. Should she be delaying or hurrying?
“Shek it,” she grumbled, and rubbed faster. Your body knows, Dr. Wells had said. Well, it certainly knew that it wanted release.
The building tension had pressed her head back into the pillows when a tiny voice reminded her that she needed to be able to see. With great effort, she lifted her head and cupped one hand in place, ready to catch the packet. Were she joining with a partner, their molwines would be in contact and her sperm packet would be expelled directly into the entrance of its destination. For this, her hand would have to suffice.
Her entire body was coiled and trembling. She was overheating, breathless and sweaty, every nerve straining for the signal—and then it came, a violent release that first folded her body double, then laid it out flat. As the painful pleasure rushed through her pelvis, something hit her palm.
She closed her hand on air.
Her body was still tingling when she bolted upright, terrified that she had lost the sperm packet.
It was lying between her legs, surrounded by glittering lubrication powder that had burst out with it. She grabbed the container off the bedside table, popped the lid, and bent forward.
“Oh,” she whispered, startled by its movement.
She had seen footage before, but nothing compared to watching her own sperm packet slowly elongating, contracting, and elongating again. An iridescent sheen rippled over its surface, splashes of blue, green, and red swirling together and apart as it strove toward its goal. It had been created for one purpose and was doing its best to fulfill it: to crawl between the warm, lubricated inner ridges and find the egg.
But there was no warmth and no egg, only a cold, barren bed.
Feeling sorry for it, Rahel picked it up and set it inside the clear container, where a heated bed of artificial lubrication powder waited. “That will keep you toasty,” she said, latching the lid.
It did seem happier, moving more smoothly and perhaps a little faster. She was still watching when the passion in the other bedroom broke through her concentration, reminding her of their unfinished business.
“You have a mission,” she told the little packet. “Come on, let’s get you delivered.”
Dr. Wells answered the door wearing a robe tied so loosely that Rahel wondered why she bothered. “Did you—?”
Her eyes lit up at the sight of the container. She grabbed it and spun around, then turned back and pulled Rahel into a one-armed warmron.
“Thank you,” she said hastily. “Have to go now.”
The door closed behind her.
Rahel stood for a moment, amused by the whirlwind that had just blown past. Shaking her head, she turned for her room and a hot shower.
She was halfway across the living area when the wave of joy hit.
43
Heavy truth
A descending shriek accompanied the small body of Jaros Opah as he plummeted toward the plunge pool. The shrill sound cut off when he hit the water, leaving Vellmar to wonder whether he had stopped screaming or whether he was now terrifying fish and aquatic invertebrates.
“If we could record and amplify his scream, we could weaponize it,” she commented.
Beside her, Lancer Tal chuckled. “True words. The Voloth would never know what hit them. We could have incapacitated them
from the outside before boarding.”
“That would have made things easier for me.”
Jaros had surfaced and was now paddling toward Salomen, who treaded water while holding the floater ring for him. “Cheater!” he cried, his voice echoing off the canyon walls. “You’re farther away!”
“I don’t believe so,” Salomen said with exaggerated innocence. “Are you sure you didn’t jump farther away?” With a quick kick, she moved out of reach of his questing fingers, leading to an outbreak of giggles and accusations.
“For the love of Fahla.” On Vellmar’s other side, Lanaril tilted up her sunhat. “You two are on holiday. Can you not think like warriors for a hantick?”
“Can you not think like a templar?” Lancer Tal countered.
“At least templars know how to enjoy a free day.” Sliding the sunhat down, she leaned back in her chair and dug her toes into the warm sand. “Ahh. There’s nothing like sun on skin.”
“You’re not baring enough skin to benefit,” Vellmar noted. “I could assist with that.”
“Nice try. We’ve embarrassed Elanor and Nikolay enough already. They don’t know what to think of a Lead Templar sunbathing nude.”
“Not to mention a Lancer.” Wearing only what she was born in, Lancer Tal stretched her arms overhead with a satisfied hum. “Ekatya did say they come from a more conservative part of the Protectorate.”
“How is she so different?” Vellmar watched Captain Serrado sneak up behind Lhyn, bare shoulders showing above the water.
“She’s Fleet.”
“So was her grandfather.”
“He’s retired. I don’t know, Vellmar. They don’t always make sense to me.”
The captain set her hands on Lhyn’s shoulders and surged up, pushing her bondmate beneath the surface. Jaros gleefully joined the ensuing water fight, splashing first Serrado and then Lhyn as he switched sides without shame.
“That puts a lid on it,” Vellmar said. “He’ll never be a warrior. Too little honor.”
Alsea Rising: The Seventh Star (Chronicles of Alsea Book 10) Page 32
