by Isabel Wroth
Her skin was fair, warm and shimmering with hints of blue here and there, as though brushed with crushed gems.
Even though the muscles in her legs were still atrophied, preventing her from walking more than a few steps at a time in excruciating pain, they were long and beautifully formed.
Her hips were round, her waist tiny, her breasts so lush that they became the focus of many of Satesh’s fantasies.
She had gracefully sloped shoulders, her arms soft, but strong enough to hold a lover close or make a child feel safe and adored.
Her face was exquisite in its loveliness; round, with a pointed chin, her lips thick and meant for beautiful smiles. Her nose was thin, tilted at the tip, separating the glory of her eyes. Black lashes lay on her cheeks, but beneath her closed lids was perfection.
Palatinate, the perfect blending of red and blue, shimmering liquid purple, a universe within her gaze.
Surrounded by his auto-reflective, sound canceling armor, Satesh couldn’t feel the softness of her skin. He couldn’t breathe in the sweet scent of her hair, but the need to know both became a craving Satesh was struggling to deny.
He stood across from Margen while she and the female healer discussed Ilaria’s breeding capabilities as though she were an animal.
His rage lived and breathed somewhere inside him, contained by an injection that divorced him from his emotions.
Without it, both the red and gray Mystresses would have locked onto his bio-signature without issue.
Between his armor and the injection, Satesh was a ghost. The demon Salista called him, bent on destruction, and he was not alone.
“Yes, your majesty,” the healer reported coolly, staring at Ilaria as though she were a hideous insect. “Her reproductive organs are in perfect working order, no damage, and there are no genetic abnormalities to suggest her seizures would be passed on to a child.
“We have several viable samples from several different male specimens that would indeed create a unique individual with the potential to access her abilities at a much earlier age. A Sencharin, perhaps?”
Margen gave a pleased hum, interrupting his appreciation of Ilaria’s sleeping form, ordering the healer to begin tracking Ilaria’s fertility.
“We have had fine results from the Sencharins,” Margen said thoughtfully, her three eyes looking into the distance blindly, no doubt mentally building the image of a perfect creation, “Have you been able to harvest seed from the Issite?”
Issite’s were the most powerful psychic healers in the known universe. Extremely hot commodities as slaves to the obscenely wealthy.
Issites could heal anything, but the price they paid was so steep they were often treated as royalty themselves to make their sacrifices worth the agony they endured.
Whatever injury they healed, Issite’s took into themselves, evident by the scars that covered Aley’s body.
If Satesh had been run through with a blade and Aley lay hands on him to heal the wound, it would be as though Aley had been the one to be stabbed.
Aley’s body would rapidly heal the injury, but he would forever bear the scar. To be as horribly disfigured as he was, Aley had healed more grievous bodily injuries than he should have been able to.
The lifespan of an Issite was directly proportionate to the severity of the injuries he healed. If Aley had only used his abilities to heal shallow cuts and bruises, there would be no evidence of it on his body. But the burns, the tight twists of scar tissue that covered every inch of his flesh? Aley should have died ten times over by now.
Satesh wasn’t sure what abilities a Matavei was born with, but for Ilaria and Aley to have a child, meant it would have extreme regenerative powers and not die easily.
The innocent babe would no doubt be subjected to years of unending torture as a perfect source of food for Margen.
“No, your majesty. The Issite is all but castrated, and extracting seed with our current technology may damage him beyond repair. I am working on an alternative extraction method.
“Nevertheless, with your permission, I would like his assistance. There must be a physiological reason why—despite all our technology— the Matavei have been unable to be bred in captivity successfully. A psychic healer may be able to correct the imbalance.
“Also, I suggest this slave be put on a rigorous physical therapy regimen. If she is to carry a child to term, her body needs to be in better condition. She needs to walk.”
“Fine. I want her inseminated at the peak of her cycle,” Margen huffed, clearly displeased by the news her soon-to-be-dead healer gave. “Use the Sencharin seed first. If it does not take root, we will try something else.”
Whatever her plans, Satesh was here to ensure Margen failed, and his questions of Aley’s unprecedented longevity was a mystery to be solved another time.
CHAPTER FIVE
Ilaria~
Ilaria woke slowly, the faint tingling in her fingertips suggesting the disorientation she felt was due to having had another seizure.
Her body ached with the residual fatigue, and the taste of her own blood was an unpleasant tang in her mouth. She looked around, squinting against the brightness, recognizing the stark white walls of the infirmary.
The slab beneath her was hard as a rock, her skin cold as ice, her joints stiff as she tried to sit up. Her body was slow to respond, her muscles screaming in protest, shaking to support what should have been a simple maneuver.
The memories of her Awakening returned at that moment, and she had to fight nausea brought on by the traumatic reminder it had not been long ago she had been incapable of any movement at all.
Her belly cramped as she twisted to use her elbow as support, and by the time she was halfway upright, Ilaria wondered why she was even bothering. It wasn’t like she could climb off the table or go anywhere. Not yet, anyway.
“You’re almost there, don’t stop.”
Despite the gentleness of his voice, Aley still startled her badly enough to make her jump. She hadn’t seen him in weeks and looking into his beautiful golden eyes with their feminine tinge of rosy pink, a weight lifted off her shoulders. Her relief and happiness gave her the strength to sit up and smile at him.
He wore the black sarong required of all male slaves, leaving most of his body on display, his scars and deformities bare for all to see, but not a single one was unsightly to her. Ilaria did a quick scan, looking for new injuries, not sure she would have seen them even if Aley had any.
“What are you doing here?” she asked, carefully looking around for the spies she knew waited just out of sight.
Aley came closer, always so tentative when he reached for her, like he expected Ilaria to shy away from his touch or curl her lip at him in disgust.
It was hard to look at him, but not because he was ugly. His broad-shouldered, slender frame was a map of mottled evidence that told the story of all the suffering and pain he had endured.
No one saw the kindness in his gaze or recognized the gentleness in his touch. No one saw how much he cared for others despite all that had been done to him.
Ever since she had been forcibly Awoken, Aley had been at her side, protecting her from Salista’s rage, caring for her, helping her when she couldn’t do anything other than lie there and moan through a tube.
He was the most beautiful being Ilaria had ever known, and she could do nothing to protect him. It’s why she pushed herself so hard to recover any of the abilities she’d had while traveling, needing to do something to ensure he lived long enough to be set free with the rest of her people.
Aley wasn’t of Matav, but he was hers in all ways that counted.
He was gentle when he slipped his arms around her back and beneath her knees, carefully lifting her off the unforgiving surface of the table, ducking his head to allow her to wrap her arm around his shoulders.
“I have been ordered to attend you,” Aley told her.
Skin to skin, Ilaria was able to read the thoughts he very loudly pushed to the forefro
nt of his mind,
~MARGEN INTENDS TO BREED YOU!
Ilaria winced at the volume of Aley’s thoughts, a hard knot forming in her belly alongside many others.
As far as Margen knew, Ilaria would never be able to offer the Queen of Myst any power or special abilities, all the information Ilaria gave her about the things she had learned while traveling through the etheric plane was useless.
And while Margen could feed deeply of any pain she pushed on Ilaria, for all intents and purposes, Ilaria was simply dead weight. Just a pretty thing to sit at Margen’s feet and be abused from time to time to remind Ilaria of her place.
Margen had made it plain to Ilaria that if she was of no use, there was no sense in keeping her alive, and the few times Ilaria had been able to catch stray thoughts from the queen, the subject of breeding had been foremost in Margen’s mind.
The queen was under the mistaken impression a Matavei was born with magical powers and could manifest them at will.
She thought she could raise and train such a child to serve her, conditioning him or her to use their powers at Margen’s discretion.
In reality, this hypothetical child would need to undergo decades of specific training, and even then, there was no guarantee any useful powers would manifest.
Unbeknownst to the impatient queen, every Matavei female had absolute control of her fertility. Something Ilaria thanked the stars for each day.
Until Ilaria chose it, welcomed not only the seed of her partner but allowed his energy and emotion to join with hers, there would be no child.
Margen could send a thousand men to Ilaria, and none of them would plant a child in her belly.
~Well, of all the males she could have sent to attend me to try and get the job done, I’m glad it’s you. And you don’t have to shout. So long as we’re touching, I can hear you just fine, Aley.
Aley had to grip her tighter as he tripped a little, stopping dead in the hallway to stare down at her in astonishment.
Ilaria sighed and let her head fall to Aley’s shoulder, allowing herself a sad smile to hear him try to conceal his desire, or how humbled he was to know someone as beautiful as her would willingly lower herself to lie with such a creature as himself.
~I am incapable of siring a child with you, Ilaria.
~I’m very sorry to hear that, she replied gently, but he misunderstood her intention.
~I expected you to be disturbed by Margen’s plans for you.
~I am extremely disturbed, but there is nothing Margen, or any of the healers here can do to force a pregnancy on me. My body will reject conception from anyone but a male of my choosing.
With her cheek pressed to his throat, Ilaria could feel the harsh movement of Aley’s swallow,
~I have been ordered to do whatever I must to get you walking, and then ensure whatever fertility treatments they use on you take root.
I can delay them, render whatever male they bring to you impotent, their seed useless, but eventually, the healers will realize what I am doing, and then if they don’t kill us both right away—
Ilaria hugged his shoulders as tight as she could, taking comfort in the warmth of his skin, inhaling the scent unique to him, so grateful he was alive.
~Whatever they do to us, Aley, whatever they make us do, we’re together again. I’m getting closer every day to regaining my powers, and when I do, we’re going to leave this place. You and me, and whoever else we can save.
~You’re not angry.
Aley wasn’t asking her a question, and Ilaria didn’t have the heart to share the depth of her rage with him.
She had only spent eight months so far as a slave. Aley had been bound in chains his whole life. Hurt, betrayed, abandoned, and somehow, he still had the capacity for love and kindness.
Right now, he was her only ally, and if she was honest, she cared more for him than she thought possible.
~Not with you. Never with you. We have time now to plan, and whoever our unseen friend is, he’s causing enough mayhem to distract Margen from discovering our plans. As much as I love the way it feels to be in your arms, I need to be able to walk. Run, if I must.
An alarm suddenly began to blare through the entire fortress, and moments later armed drones filled the corridors.
Aley set her on her feet and used his body to shield her as he pressed back against the nearest wall.
The mechanical soldiers surrounded and detained them, pointing their sinister black weapons at Aley’s chest, ordering him to display his brand for identification.
Before he could so much as lift his palm to comply, the alarms turned off, and the obsidian, bullet-shaped drones moved away almost as quickly as they had arrived.
“What the hell?” Aley muttered under his breath. Ilaria turned her cheek to his shoulder and smiled,
~Our unseen friend, causing a bit of mayhem.
The alarms went off four more times that day, and each time the drones stationed within the fortress poured out of their holding rooms to search the halls, causing panic and confusion, but even better, impatience and anger.
Each time an alarm had been raised, another Mystress was found dead. The healer in charge of Margen’s breeding program was one of them.
Surrounded by drones, all of them recording every angle of the entire fortress, no one had seen the creature responsible.
CHAPTER SIX
~Ilaria, five months ago…
"Three more steps, you can do it, Ilaria."
Aley's firm encouragement made her so angry! He never let her give up. He pushed her always for three more steps.
It infuriated her, wondering what comfort he took in torturing her with his rule of threes.
Three more steps, three more breaths, three more bites of food.
It enraged her, how she struggled and fought for every breath, her limbs fighting back, resisting her will to move.
She could feel her body dying all around her, her cells decaying as she inhaled and exhaled, her skin dry and tight around her bones, her mind dull and thick within her corporeal prison.
It had been three months since Salista had forced her to awaken.
Three months of struggle to return from the debilitation of Disconnection Sickness.
Three months without any psychic power.
Three months without the ability to travel.
Even in her sleep, Ilaria was trapped.
Aley never gave up or grew angry when Ilaria cursed him. He did not stop with the physical therapy necessary to rehabilitate Ilaria's body.
He did not chastise her when she wept for her people, raged at her enslavement, and felt sorry for herself. Even when Ilaria threw the food he insisted she eat back in his face, he did not lose his temper.
Aley stayed by her side constantly. He sang to her and held her when she struggled to sleep. He took the brunt of Salista's rage upon himself when Ilaria could not perform some magical miracle to give proof of her heritage.
Aley was her rock.
Ilaria loved him even as she hated him.
Sweat poured from her body as she struggled for the next step, able to walk no more than fifteen to twenty steps at a time, her muscles refusing to do more.
Aley soothed her and told her one day twenty steps would become twenty-five. Then thirty. Then forty. Then she would not remember a time when she had not been able to walk freely and with ease.
"Three more steps, Ilaria." Aley reminded her firmly, standing close in case she stumbled and fell. He had stopped helping her up a week ago, insisting she learn to stand on her own again.
The first two times he had refused to help her up, Ilaria had hated him. Cursed him.
Fury coursed through her veins, a searing rage at her own weakness. She stopped in the middle of the small cabin aboard Salista's starship and forced herself to lift her head, meeting the stranger's gaze in the mirror.
She did not recognize herself any longer. The radiation of her homeworld's dying sun had penetrated the secure underground lab where
her pod—and thousands of other pods, had been kept— the secure walls breached by slavers and scavengers, allowing the radiation to spill inside and mutate the sleeping bodies of her people.
Mutate her sleeping body.
She stared at herself in the mirror, at the liquid, shimmering purple of her eyes that had once been blue.
Her once pale gray hair had turned black and taken on a rainbow of color hidden beneath the thicker tresses at her nape.
Aley said it reminded him of a nebula he had seen once, vibrant colors swirling in the black void of space.
Her people were tall and slender, with close-cropped white or gray hair, enormous turquoise eyes, elongated skulls, dark blue skin, the males and females physically indistinguishable at first glance.
Ilaria’s skin was almost white as the fresh fallen snow she remembered from childhood, with only the barest hints of blue here and there, and now there was definitely no mistaking her gender.
Her breasts were full and heavy, pulling her forward off her center of gravity. Her waist nipped in before giving way to her round hips and ass, even her thighs had softened, and between them was an unfamiliar slit with soft, sensitive folds foreign to her in almost every way.
Aley said she was the single most beautiful female he had ever seen, and from the way his ears flushed when he paid her such a compliment, he must have been sincere.
From her nose down, she was devoid of body hair. That wasn't so much of a mutation as it was a blessing, considering how filthy she already felt.
Ilaria did not know the female who stared back at her.
She had been Awoken too late, forcibly, without any of the protocols to ensure her survival, yet here she was. Alive, when so many of her people were not.
She stared at herself, at the female Jalu said was the hope for all the remaining Matavei. Hope for their survival, their salvation. Hope for the ones who remained asleep in their pods on Matav.
The ones sold into slavery, who fought for their survival at the mercy of whoever had enough coin to purchase them, she had no idea if they were still alive. And if they were, how could she help them like this?
