by Anna Carven
It’s pressure. It’s fury. It’s a swirling storm. It’s the madness I saw in his eyes earlier. The expression on his face is pure Kordolian. With his bared fangs and gleaming blood-dark eyes, he looks completely, utterly alien.
My sweet, savage husband. He brings his face close to mine until our lips are almost touching. I curl my legs around his back and he leans into me, sending jolts of pure pleasure through my core. Bliss spreads throughout my body, turning me into a helpless, boneless mess.
A loud, throaty cry escapes my lips, and somewhere in the back of my mind a dim thought surfaces; I hope the entire fucking med-bay isn’t listening in on us.
As if reading my thoughts, Tarak presses his hand against my mouth, still staring at me with that delicious, soul-piercing intensity. “Shh,” he says as he fucks me harder.
The tension building in my core is almost too much. I bite down on his hand and taste blood. His blood. I can’t see it right now, but I know it’s obsidian in color and seething with billions upon billions of tiny machines. Bitterness fills my mouth. His skin becomes smooth again, healing almost instantaneously thanks to the nanites in his system.
The very same nanites are inside me, and I’ve probably absorbed even more of them just now. We share this terrible mystery. The very things that keep him strong are trying to kill me.
Tarak’s expression turns fearsome. Perhaps it’s the unexpected pain of this small, savage bloodletting, or perhaps it’s because he’s bringing me to the edge of a very familiar cliff, and as always, he’s giving no quarter.
He’s all take and no give, and I have no choice but to surrender to him. I take all of his darkness and anger and make it my own.
He needs me right now, and I need him equally as much. I dig my nails into the tough skin of his back and close my eyes, submerging myself in pure, heady sensation.
Everything is hyper-real. The rasp of my breathing. The dull ache in my bones. The feeling of his hard, unyielding body as he presses against me. The bitterness on my tongue, mingling with sweetness and spice as he takes his hand off my mouth and presses his warm lips to mine.
The ridges of his cock slide up against my throbbing clit as he buries himself inside me, right up to the hilt. It’s the tipping point. I moan in ecstasy as my orgasm unfurls, sending me spiraling down into an ocean of mindless, incoherent bliss.
I drown in him and he crashes against me one last time, screaming his release in all of its full-throated, primal, male glory.
In the aftermath of his climax, he slides his fingers through my hair, kissing me again and again, and it’s as if the heavens themselves breathe a sigh of relief.
A shudder courses through me and I exhale, opening my eyes.
I see crimson, but the madness is gone. The storm has passed, and once again, his eyes are brilliant and clear, like rubies.
I weather the storm. I am the sheath. I take the dangerous darkness and turn it into strength.
The experience is always sublime.
“I needed that.” My husband plants a final soft kiss on my lips and gives me a look of such tenderness that tears unexpectedly begin to well in the corners of my eyes.
“Obviously,” I say with gentle sarcasm as I fight back the stupid tears. Why am I suddenly about to cry?
So this is what it feels like to be over-the-moon and desperate and sad, all at the same time.
Tarak kisses my tears as they slide down the side of my face. “Don’t,” he whispers. “Not when I’m fighting on your side. We will fix this together.”
Together. That’s… unlike him. He’s usually the one who’s in charge; he’s the shot-caller, the spearhead, the ruthless, unstoppable commander.
Before I’m able to contemplate the significance of that tiny little statement, he wraps his arms around me, pulling me into him. “Don’t cry, amina. I am here.”
I nod, inhaling his essence as I bury my face in his warm, broad chest. There’s no point in crying when you have the General on your side. I get the feeling he could kick death itself in the ass if he had to.
Chapter Thirteen
Abbey
The strange looking newcomer stares at me as if he’s seen a ghost. Tarak’s watching him with quiet menace; it feels as if the tiniest little infraction from this guy could set the General over the edge.
Who the hell is this guy? I want to ask. I already know the answer, though. Tarak gave me the heads-up a while back. Apparently, he’s some sort of nano-specialist; a scientist and medic. He looks more like an intellectual vagabond.
Zharek, I think his name is.
Weird looking guy. The Kordolian equivalent of a mad scientist, perhaps? That’s what comes to mind. Although he’s all suited up to avoid being attacked by my virulent mutant nanites, I can see his face clearly through the transparent face-shield.
Like most Kordolian males, he’s got that haughty-handsome thing going for him. He’s fine and delicate and pretty and a little bit mean looking, all at the same time. His long hair is loose and darkening at the temples, and his pointed ears are adorned with intricate, glittering piercings in the colors of the galaxy—silver, black, and blue.
His amber eyes are bold and curious. He’s scrutinizing me with an intensity that makes me shift uncomfortably despite the fact that I’m sitting next to the most dangerous person in the room.
Behind him is a fully armed and armored First Division guard called Torin. We’ve only had a few interactions, but I’ve found him to be softly spoken, articulate, and impossibly polite. Not the sort I would pick for a ruthless killer, but then again, everyone has their quirks.
Standing next to Zharek are the two medics who have kept me stable over the past few hours. Joran and Mareth are like chalk and cheese, but when it comes to this Zharek guy, they appear to be united in their hostility towards him, judging by the way they’re both glaring at him—as if he were the devil incarnate.
So the medics don’t like the specialist, or scientist, or whatever he is. Hmm. That’s interesting.
Suddenly, the room feels very crowded and claustrophobic. No less than five Kordolian males, including Tarak, are watching me. It’s a lot of attention for a simple Human like me.
Zharek steps forward, and Torin follows him with his eyes. Although he doesn’t move a muscle, I get the feeling the First Division warrior could explode into motion at any second if he had to. Why does he have a minder? Does that mean Zharek’s dangerous, or that Tarak doesn’t trust him?
“I’ve never seen a real live Human before,” the scientist marvels. “I’d heard the rumors, but still, it’s so surreal to see one up close.”
Tarak’s ears twitch. Ooh, he’s visibly irritated. “Get straight to the point, Sirian. My mate is not here to satisfy your academic curiosity.” As if to prove his point, he places a protective arm around me. “Anything you say to her, you are saying to me, so choose your words carefully.”
Tarak’s words don’t bother Zharek one bit. Instead, a wide smile spreads across his face.
Huh? Does this guy have a death wish?
Zharek turns to me and bows deeply. “No offense was intended, Abbey of Earth. I am merely poorly travelled and uncouth. Unexposed would be a better term. Not all of us have had the opportunity to leave this drab, uninteresting sector. The old imperials would have had me assassinated the moment I set foot outside Kythia’s borders. That’s why your presence here is all the more remarkable. Maybe it was fate.” His gaze is intense and searching.
Death wish or not, he sure knows how to turn on the charm. Beside me, Tarak bristles with impatience. I tip my head in acknowledgement. “I’m used to the curiosity, Zharek.” I respond in heavily accented Kordolian, and Zharek’s eyebrows shoot skywards. His overfamiliarity seems a little bit inappropriate, so I keep my tone reserved, twining my fingers through Tarak’s in an attempt to neutralize my husband’s rising irritation. I switch to Universal. “Tarak tells me you were the brains behind this… thing that’s inside me. Please tell me you know ho
w to make the antivirus.”
Zharek shakes his head. “There’s no such thing. Never will be.” The lack of concern in his voice is unnerving. Of course, his Universal is impeccable. I blink. Am I hearing right? My brain is starting to go into meltdown mode. I can’t think. Panic stirs in my chest.
Tarak stiffens. “What do you mean?” His voice is low and soft and utterly chilling. I know that tone of his. He doesn’t know it, but Zharek is toeing the line between life-and-death.
Or maybe he knows exactly what he’s doing. I can’t figure this guy out. What the hell is wrong with him?
And why the hell is he saying he doesn’t know how to cure my disease?
“I’ve looked at all the data. I’ve analyzed the subtype that’s infected your mate. The virus won’t be stable for much longer. It’s already mutating, and soon it will find something else to consume. Theoretically, I could synthesize an antivirus, but the kriovirus would develop a resistance mutation before your Human is able to finish the course. Normally we would kill it by irradiating it, but since it’s already inside her body, we can’t do that. The radiation would kill her.” He shrugs. ‘That’s just how it goes.”
Before I can react, Tarak explodes into motion. “That is not satisfactory,” he roars. Faster than my Human eyes can see, he reaches Zharek and wraps his hand around his neck. He lifts the guy up like a rag doll, and Zharek chokes and splutters inside his protective helm. His face starts to turn purple.
My suspicions have been confirmed. Zharek is totally nuts.
Anyone with a half-decent sense of self-preservation would have been able to deduce that my mate is a little bit volatile right now.
I glance at Torin in alarm. Do something. The quiet warrior is watching my husband strangle the poor scientist to death with a detached expression, as if this sort of thing happens all the time. I get it. There’s no way he would interrupt his commander, and the First Division guys are practically immune to the sight of violence. Mareth and Joran seem equally nonplussed.
I sigh. Kordolian males and their violent tendencies.
Coughing and spluttering aside, even Zharek looks unafraid. He doesn’t even attempt to fight back. Is he even… laughing?
“Um, Tarak, love, I don’t think you should choke him to death just yet.” Not knowing what else to do, I rise and go to him, gently placing a hand on his shoulder. His muscles are rigid with tension. Anyone else would be insane to lay a hand on him right now, but he won’t hurt me.
Torin, Mareth, and Joran watch all this unfold as if it were some sort of spectator sport.
Tarak freezes. Zharek is hanging limply in his grasp. He looks as if he’s on the verge of passing out.
“I wasn’t going to kill him.” Tarak sounds a little defensive. “It is his fault for explaining it in such an upsetting way. He is always like this.” Abruptly, he lets go of his quarry. Zharek crashes to the floor with a surprised yelp.
“You knew him before?”
“Yes.” Tarak’s admission is laced with dark emotion. He turns to me, his face as hard as stone. He’s become inscrutable again. “We know each other.”
There’s a mystery here, just waiting to be unraveled. Tarak rarely ever speaks of his past. Whenever I try to ask questions, he clams up or changes the subject. His explanation is that his memories are fractured. Something sinister was done to Tarak and the other First Division soldiers. Their memories were wiped and their identities were stolen, with the intention of creating perfect super-soldiers.
They were supposed to be easy to control, but somehow, the mind-control thing didn’t go to plan, and glimpses of their true personalities started to re-surface.
By the time the Empire realized what was happening, it was already too late. The First Division had been formed, and they would no longer blindly follow orders. In order to retain their loyalty, some half-mad emperor called Ilhan promoted Tarak to the position of General.
Ha. Big fucking mistake.
And now here we are.
That’s how Tarak explained it to me, anyway. He’s made it clear that the subject is off-limits and that he won’t say any more on the matter. He gets terribly grumpy when I pry, so I let it be. I don’t care what they’ve done to him. He might not be a saint, but he’s a good man.
“I said there was no antivirus,” Zharek says quietly as he picks himself up off the floor. “I didn’t say there was no cure.”
A great weight lifts off my chest as Tarak curses viciously in Kordolian. “Do that again and I will make sure you are in excruciating pain for the rest of your miserable life.” Despite his ominous threat, the relief is evident in his voice.
“Sorry.” Zharek adjusts his protective helm awkwardly. “I’m not terribly good at interpreting context.”
Obviously. Tarak’s at his wits’ end, and the guy fails to notice, needlessly baiting him with bad news. Madness. There’s a distinct lack of concern for personal safety here.
“Zharek,” Tarak moves to my side, placing his hand on the small of my back.“Just tell me how I can cure my mate.” This time, his anger is under control. He’s earnest and sincere and there’s a silent plea in his voice. He’s tired. He will lose it again and again until he has some certainty that everything will be okay.
I lean into him. I’m here.
He gently caresses my back. The air is laced with tension. Everyone’s looking expectantly at the mad scientist.
Zharek rises to the occasion, taking a deep breath. “You are not going to like this either,” he says solemnly, “but the cure is on Xar.”
Silence.
No-one is saying anything. You could hear a pin drop. Torin is frowning. Tarak’s expression is glacial. The two medics are shifting uncomfortably on their feet. What the hell is this feeling all of a sudden? It’s as if everyone’s in on the secret but me.
“What’s Xar?” I blurt, unable to stand the horrible silence.
“I cannot take her to Xar.” Maybe I’m imagining it, but it’s almost as if there’s a faint note of… horror in Tarak’s voice.
What could be so terrible that even the most dangerous warriors in the Universe are reluctant to go there?
“There’s a nanofiltering exsanguinator on Xar,” Zharek says quietly. Even he doesn’t look happy about it. “That kind of technology isn’t found anywhere else in the Universe.”
“No…” Tarak is shaking his head. He starts to move forward. “Tell me there is another way.”
Zharek shakes his head. “You know me, General. I am incapable of speaking an untruth.”
“What do you mean by—”
“Complete and total exsanguination, followed by whole blood volume replacement. It has to be done quickly, so that the body can survive and the virus doesn’t have a chance to move. Essentially, we filter the virus out of her blood, seal it in a box, irradiate it, and throw it away.”
“This procedure cannot be done on Kythia?”
“Only the deep labs on Xar contain the necessary technology. That kind of procedure has always been purely experimental. Don’t worry. The labs are perfectly intact. They run off a perpetual power source. Before you divided the fleet, Mirkel had put in a petition to revive them. They sent a skeleton crew down there to keep the place online, but they couldn’t find the bodies to feed it. All of the candidates suitable for experimentation have either been conscripted to the military or they’re hiding out in the Vaal. At one point, they were even trying to force me to go back there.” He makes a disgusted face. “Can you imagine?”
“The deep labs inside Yol Kruta…” Tarak’s fists clench and unclench. His breathing is heavy. The air grows thick with his anger. Beneath his rage, I detect some other emotion… I can’t quite put my finger on it. “That place is cursed.”
He hates this. It’s obvious to me. My husband doesn’t do helplessness. He won’t accept it. He will fight it tooth-and-claw until fate itself bends to his will.
That’s just how he is.
“Exogenesis has long si
nce been abandoned,” Joran says softly. “No-one will stand in your way. What Zharek is saying makes sense. It might be hard to believe, but he’s actually a brilliant nanosurgeon, and probably the only one who can pull this off.”
“I just need a little whiff of tariss,” Zharek shrugs. “Just to keep the withdrawals at bay. Otherwise, I’ll be useless to you.”
Tarak swears viciously. “My wife is to be operated on by a drug-addled lunatic, and I have no choice in the matter.” A bitter laugh escapes him. “Zharek, if you fail in this, I will personally tear out your eyeballs and make you eat them. I will hunt down each and every one of your family members and make them suffer for your misdeeds. I will put you into stasis and revive you again and again until you have experienced the same misery you have had a hand in creating, and then I will tear your beating heart from your chest.” Tarak bares his fangs. Not for one minute do I think he’s exaggerating.
He’s Kordolian. They like revenge.
Tarak starts to move, but I grab his wrist, holding him back before he can do something he might regret later. “I know you’re upset,” I whisper, “but you owe me an explanation.” My voice is low and urgent. “I don’t care how dangerous or bad or terrible it is. If the cure is at this Xar place, we have to go there. I’m the one who’s infected, love. Don’t forget that I’m supposed to have a say in all of this.”
He wants to keep me in a place where he has total control over everything that happens, where he can guard against every threat and enemy, but that’s not always possible.
“We have to do this for our daughter,” I remind him. “So please tell me, what is Xar?” My voice has dropped to a near-whisper. I won’t deny that I’m shit-scared. The fine hairs on the back of my neck are standing up, and I’ve got a general bad feeling about everything.
Some of the anger drains out of Tarak’s body.
Only his warm hand on my back is keeping me from surrendering to my fear. Despite the overwhelming tension; despite his simmering anger, his touch is constant and reassuring.
