“Eh?” He nuzzled the curve of her neck, where the scar from his claiming bite gleamed against her skin. She had a perfect neck, slender enough for his hand to wrap around the back and sensitive. He lapped at the scar and she sighed.
“This. You crawling into bed and having your wicked way with me.” A finger danced along the curve of his horn, hardly touching him at all. Her hand went toward the stump of his amputated horn. The nub regrew slowly and the material there, normally sensitive, was especially so. As an adolescent, his horns grew with changing hormones and were tender to every sensation and those sensations went directly to his cock. A stiff breeze could make him hard. Had, in fact. Once his horns grew in, Paax never expected to experience that particularly awkward torture again, but here he was in bed with his beautiful wife, her touch on his tender horn driving him mad.
“I told you, you’re ripe and succulent. You inspire my hunger.” His lips drifted down to the valley between her breasts. Their size had increased in the last few months and proved endlessly fascinating to him.
Mercy pushed his face away. “They’re too sensitive.”
Endlessly fascinating because he wasn’t allowed to touch them. Much had changed on her body in the last year and he need to catalogue every red stretch mark, every new curve and new sensitivity. “When our son comes—”
“I’ll need time to heal.”
Paax stroked the swollen pink nipples. That wasn’t what he was trying to ask but it was a good topic to pursue. “How long will you need to heal?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never pushed a baby out my hoo-ha before. Six weeks, the doctor says.”
Displeasure rumbled in his throat. He did not want his mate talking about sex with another male, even if it was the medic and even if it was to find out how soon they could partake after the birth of their sons.
She laughed. “That jealous streak of yours really shouldn’t be hot but dang if I can’t resist.”
Mercy
Paax stroked her hair, brushing back from her forehead and skimming the length of her dark brown locks all the way past her shoulders and down to the small of her back. His hand rested there, perfectly filling the slight curve. Here, in bed with his arms around her, she didn’t feel any discomfort; just the warmth of his body next to hers.
“Have you given any more thought to the naming ceremony?” he asked.
While birthdays were a foreign concept to the Mahdfel, they did celebrate the birth of a son. Paax explained that the infant would be presented to the clan, given a warrior’s name and marked with the sigil of their father. Normally it was a small, private affair for the family and close friends. Expectations for the warlord, however, were different, as they often were.
Baby’s first tattoo, Mercy thought, not entirely sold on the idea. “Will it hurt him?”
“A warrior does not cry,” Paax said.
“We’re not talking about a warrior. We’re talking about a baby.”
He grunted a noncommittal response. Clearly he didn’t see the difference.
“I don’t want any part of some ceremony that’s going to hurt our son,” she said, pulling away from his embrace.
“The skin is numbed. There is no sensation.”
“Really? Or are you just saying that to appease me?”
He pulled her back down, pressing her back to his chest. “Truth. I’m not interested in hurting our son, either.”
“At least we agree on that.”
“Have you thought of any names?”
Mercy closed her eyes and sighed. For the last month, they’d gone round and round on names and were no closer to naming their son than when they started. Paax gave her a list of his family names and she vetoed the obviously terrible ones. Pinnis? Really? Paax still didn’t understand what was wrong with the name when she explained.
She wasn’t being spiteful. He did the same with her list. Human names were “weak”, apparently, and no warrior would respect a Michael with a straight face. She didn’t know why. Michael was a fantastic name.
“I still don’t know what’s wrong with Michael,” she said, rolling over to face her husband.
“Because mikael means sugar in my language. No warrior will fear Sugar.”
“I think you’re being small minded about this, honey. I think a warrior called Sugar is terrifying.”
His bright blue eyes narrowed, as if trying to ascertain if she were joking or not.
Mercy smiled and patted his shoulder. “Joking, honeybuns.” He was solid muscle under her hand, unmoving as stone. His body had changed much in their year of marriage, as did hers. She grew softer, rounder. He grew harder, gained muscle mass and definition. Paax had been a scientist when they were married, before he became warlord. He wasn’t a slouch then, with a lean, athletic build. All Mahdfel were warriors, even the scientists. His training, however, had not been as intense.
Becoming warlord changed that. Mercy knew Paax trained daily, sometimes twice. He needed to be in top form because a warlord led with his physical prowess as well as through his strategic superiority.
Her hand drifted down his shoulder, gliding over his pecs and toward the solid washboard abs. One year or twenty, she’d never get tired of this view.
Paax raised an eyebrow. “Were you not satisfied, little star? Do I need to improve my performance?”
“Hmm? Oh,” she blushed. “Sorry. I got distracted.”
“Not what a male wants to hear from his mate.” Paax rolled her until she sat astride him. “Obviously I need to practice my form.”
Mercy licked her lips as his muscles bunched and flexed under her. No, there was nothing wrong with his form. “I really do want to talk about baby names.”
“We talk and talk but come to no consensus.” He lifted his hip ever so slightly and she felt the poke of his already hard cock.
“Are you even serious right now?”
Another thrust. “Very. My mate needs to be plucked. Again.”
“Help me name this kid and we can pluck our brains out.”
Paax growled and Mercy tingled at the sound.
“Seriously, don’t do that,” she said.
“Do what? This?” A growl and a thrust and a shot of pure desire ran through her body.
“That. This kid will be here any day now and all we have is a long, long list of vetoed names.”
“We will know his name when we see him.”
Right. She was so not interested in that scenario. “I’ll name him Rover if you don’t give me a better alternative.”
“Rover is interesting—”
“No! It’s a dog’s name.”
“The rhotic sound is aggressive and it implies travel. I like it.”
Was he even being serious? His eyes gleamed and the barest hint of fang showed on his face. That jerk was trying to hide his laughter.
A smile spread over her face in response. It was good to see Paax laugh. He was so serious all the time. The pressures and expectations of being warlord meant Paax’s public persona was gruff and serious. The clan demanded a stern warlord and frankly Mercy enjoyed a dominant hand, but it was good to see him relaxed and laughing, even if it was at her expense. “I’m sorry I mentioned it. Sheesh,” she said with a dramatic eye roll.
“Nic,” he offered.
“Nic Nawks? That’s a hard no.”
“Maax.”
“That’s a power level, not a name.”
“Opportunity.”
“Seriously? Did you not understand why Nic was vetoed?”
“Axil.”
Mercy paused, considering it. “Yeah, that sounds all right. Axil.”
“And Drake.”
“Axil Drake Nawk? I didn’t think you guys did middle names.”
“Drake is a strong name. It is also your name.” His hand roamed up her thighs and settled over the swell of her stomach. “So it is perfect.”
That was so sweet and corny. She went all fluttery on the inside. “How long have you been holding onto th
at? Because I’ve been agonizing on a name for months.”
“A few days.” His thumbs rubbed small circles on her skin. A few days ago this position would have been too uncomfortable but the baby had shifted, sitting lower. This was nice.
“Wait— You’ve been feeding me terrible names on purpose.”
He grinned, this time not bothering to hide his laughter.
Chapter Four
Paax
Paax left his mate sleeping, curled on her side. He dressed silently into his exo-armor. As he left the room, he pulled the blanket over her slumbering form and fought back the guilty mutter that he was sneaking away. If she knew what the day held in store, she’d beg him not to leave. He would, because there was no choice. His warriors needed to see their warlord challenged and defeat those challengers. There was no avoiding it.
Mylomon waited in the shadows of the common room.
Paax nodded at the male and said nothing. Doors, locked or otherwise, were hardly a hindrance to him.
Weapons were mounted on a wall. Before Paax was warlord, the display was largely aesthetic. While proficient in all the weapons, he was a scientist and rarely used them outside of training.
Much had changed in the last year.
His fingers skimmed along the handle of a war axe. He found the weapon’s utility appealing.
“That one? Really?”
Paax said nothing but added the axe to the harness on his back. Next he selected the short sword with the blue energized edge. This weapon had long been his favorite. The blade never lost its wickedly sharp edge. The length and the weight felt natural in his hands, like an extension of himself.
It was the blade that made him warlord.
It was the blade that killed his brother.
He added the blade to his harness. He could not afford to become sentimental today, not if he wanted to return to his mate and greet his sons.
Mylomon checked the straps on the harness and the seams on the armor, even though the nanite carbon fiber was seamless. “No helmet?”
“I’ve lost one horn. Losing the other will only improve my balance.” Horns were such a symbol of virility, or strength, that to have one amputated in battle was akin to losing your manhood. Most males shuddered at the sight but Paax was not ashamed. It was the price he paid to become warlord and his horn would regrow. Eventually.
The male grinned, a slash of white fang against his dark complexion. If anyone understood what it was like to flaunt a shameful weakness and turn it into an asset, it was Mylomon. For the longest time, the male had no tattoos: no family, no clan, no place in the universe and it unnerved the other warriors.
“Antu’s brother will demand revenge,” Mylomon said.
“This is our way.” There was no question that Antomas would have to accept his brother’s defeat. The male drew a blade on his warlord. He would not be able to resist an open challenge today. Yes, Paax baited Antu but the fight would be fair. No tricks. Brawn and brains would win out in the end. It was the Mahdfel way. Antomas did not have to like it but he had to accept it.
If a warlord could not accept the defeat of another, even a brother, in combat, then that would put his own leadership in jeopardy. Antomas had little choice, much as Paax did. He had to call out Antu, invite the male to battle him, or the whispers of dissent would grow to all out mutiny. And then who would protect his Mercy? His sons? No one. The Suhlik would slaughter his mate, seize his sons and enslave them.
Antu left him no choice at all.
Mercy
In the morning, Mercy prepared for an autopsy. The party she organized last month for the newly arrived wives and their mates did not go as planned. Disaster was a good way to describe it. She needed to slice open that disaster and examine what went wrong.
Mercy intended the party to be social mixer for the new wives to get to know each other. The Mahdfel interpreted “party” to mean a competition. Newly matched males competed with each other to prove their worthiness as mates. The wrestling was fine. That was an actual sport and took skill. However, when the horned aliens started ramming each other, clashing horns, that’s when Mercy shut the whole thing down. No music, some food, lots of wine, no chairs and alien warriors all too willing to strip down to their skivvies and show off their assets.
The party went sideways very quickly and Mercy had no idea why.
Dorothy helped Mercy out of bed and to dress. Lately she wore robes in the Sangrin style with wide sleeves. Comfort became her top priority with her expanding waistline and nothing was more comfortable than a silk robe with an adjustable belt.
She and her entourage headed to the dining hall. She could have meals delivered to her apartment but wanted the exercise. Paax forbade her from any strenuous activity and all the rest of the Mahdfel acted as if she were made of spun glass. Walking remained a permissible activity and she wasn’t about to give it up, even though her ankles swelled and her back ached.
Entering the dining hall, every horned head turned in her direction. A strange awareness crawled over her. The warriors of the clan did not see her, they just saw her belly. She wasn’t even a person to them, just a symbol of their warlord’s prowess.
The ship’s cook, Dannel, an older male with iron grey hair and horns nearly black with age, waved her over to a table. Her breakfast companion waited and the table was over burdened with dishes.
“Warlord’s female,” Dannel said, with a slight bow of his head. He then turned to her mother. “Dorothy Drake.” He did not bow. His eyes held Dorothy’s until the older woman blushed. She tucked her hair behind an ear and looked away quickly.
Mercy raised an eyebrow, fighting the urge to ask her mother what that was all about. Her father, Dorothy’s husband, died during the invasion many years ago. She didn’t really expect her mother to spend the rest of her days alone but she didn’t really expect to see her mother flirting with an alien, either.
Daisy sat at the table, blonde curls loose about her shoulders but dressed in her nurse scrubs, completely riveted by the flirting. Her hands propped up her chin. “Oh my God, that is adorable.”
“That’s my mother,” Mercy said, lowering herself to the table. Braith scrambled to help her with the chair but she waved him away.
“And it’s adorable. Are you two dating, Dorothy?” she asked, turning her attention away from the mortified Mercy to the blushing Dorothy. “I know you’re too old for the match, but can a Mahdfel age out the way a human can? What are you going to do if you love him and he gets matched to someone else? Oh my God, that’s going make me cry.”
Dorothy snapped up the cloth napkin and spread it on her lap with precision. “I don’t know. He’d have to speak more than two words to me, so let’s not get too excited.”
Daisy giggled with delight but Mercy just wanted to sink through the floor. She wanted to talk about anything other than her mother’s love life. “Heading to medical after this?”
Please change the topic. Please.
Daisy nodded. “My shift starts in an hour. You’re looking well.”
“You don’t have to lie. I look tired and bloated.”
“I thought pregnant women were supposed to glow?”
“Oh, I glow at night.” Mercy rubbed her belly unconsciously. “This little fella lights up the room.”
Daisy wrinkled her nose. “That can’t be good for you.”
“Meridan says it’s normal.”
“She would know.” Daisy poured them each a cup of coffee. She added cream and sugar before handing the cup to Mercy.
The breakfast meal was a heaping plate of fried dough balls stuffed with either fruit or savory ground meat. Deep in a craving, Mercy tried to explain the concept of a pierogi to Dannel and the ball of fried dough is what he served. The fruit was his own spin, in addition to the dipping sauces.
“It’s not quite a pierogi,” Dorothy said, spearing one ball on the end of a fork. “I should teach Dannel how to make them.”
Daisy and Mercy shared a gl
ance. “Can you make tamales? Because my mother used to make the best tamales but I never got the knack.”
“I could try,” Dorothy said. “The cook is skilled but he needs some instruction on Earth cuisine.”
Daisy nudged Mercy’s foot under the table and wiggled her eyebrows.
Mercy rolled her eyes, ignoring the woman, and placed three of the flour dusted balls on her plate. She had no idea what she selected until she cut into them but the mystery was part of the appeal. It was exotic and comforting at the same time.
Daisy bit into hers and wrinkled her nose. “Yeast spread,” she said, dropping the ball.
The pungent and meaty aroma hit her and Mercy’s stomach growled. She grabbed the yeast filled ball, savoring the salty taste. It was almost like marmite, which Mercy would have never touched on Earth. Pregnancy cravings were so weird.
Daisy said nothing. Her husband was Mylomon, the second in command of the clan. As a result, they spent much time in each other’s company. That wasn’t the first yeast ball Mercy had grabbed right off her plate.
As much as Mercy didn’t care for Mylomon, she rather liked his wife. She was sunny and chatty where Mylomon was grim and silent. Mercy knew her opinion of Mylomon was too harsh but they had started out on the wrong foot, too. He had stabbed her, for crying out loud. Less than two days married to Paax and the previous warlord had ordered Mylomon to wound her. He followed orders. That’s what a warrior did.
Unfortunately, those orders happened to suck. Still, he did help Paax defeat Omas in battle. She should reevaluate her opinion of him. In the last year, Mylomon had worked tirelessly for Paax and Daisy seemed happy in their marriage. Perhaps he wasn’t all bad, stabbing aside.
“What’s that look for?” Daisy asked.
“I was just wondering why the dining hall is empty,” Mercy replied quickly. The dining hall was suspiciously void of warriors. Normally the large room was filled around the clock with warriors. The Judgment ran on a twenty-four hour schedule with no day or night cycles. Someone was always coming on or off shift. “Braith? Kleve?” She turned to her security detail but the males shook their head.
Warlord's Baby: Warlord Brides (Warriors of Sangrin Book 5) Page 3
