by Della Roth
“Did I not tell you?”
“Tell me what?”
“Your closet inside is stocked with several dozen outfits. Feel free to wear whichever you like.” Her communicator tablet beeps, and she looks at it immediately. “Roland needs me. Good night, Rahda, and welcome home.” And before I realize she’s gone, Cat’s long legs carry her in the same direction the bot disappeared to.
I stay in the passageway, listening, waiting, wondering if anyone else is around. After memorizing the floor, I finally go inside my suite, but not before noticing a shadow move near one of the mirrors further down the hall.
Roland.
I don’t know how I know, but I do. I don’t stay to find out why. I close the door and lock it.
SEVEN
MY SUITE TAKES MY BREATH AWAY. It is more than a suite, it’s a series of apartments, complete with a furnished living room, dining room, and a plush bedroom that connects to a glass bathroom. There’s even a small balcony that overlooks the interior courtyard below.
Such opulence contrasts with the dreary, humble—even shabby—environments outside the Palace walls. Something like anger burns through me. Don’t let these rich appointments and furnishings blind you, Rahda.
But before I can find the wardrobe Cat spoke about and clean up, the aroma of a hot meal comes from the dining room. When was the last time I ate a sumptuous meal? I cannot name the dishes, so I won’t even attempt to, but I eat a little bit of everything.
I don’t worry about the dishes after I notice a small porthole in the corner of the dining room. I’m looking at it as, with a little jolt, a tiny robot with telescopic arms and a shiny tray appears at the opening. It goes about its bustling business without acknowledging me.
Leaving the dining room, I disrobe, shower, and let the last twelve years wash away. The training. The hardship. The fighting. The lies.
I have no desire to conjure up the memories that brought me to this point, but at least, for the moment, I’ll let the lukewarm water, which is mostly a trickle, and the scented soap flow over and around me. I can’t remember the last time I felt this clean or smelled this good.
I look through the glass wall into the bedroom, and all I want to do to fall between those crisp, clean sheets and enter into a dreamless sleep. But I’m too excited about tomorrow, too eager to unlock the mysteries surrounding Roland, and it shows on my face as I wipe the bathroom mirror clean.
I slip into a warm bathrobe, exit the bathroom, tie up my long hair, and explore the bedroom. More specifically: the wardrobe. My feet pad over thick carpet.
I ignore my purse on the bed and the tablet inside. I’ll wait a few minutes before logging into my personally secured network that, before coming here, my mentor assured me could not be compromised by Palace security. But six disciples came before me and failed. I have to wonder if anything I was taught is true.
Am I in a battle worth fighting for?
Is it worth my life?
Is it worth Roland’s life?
I open the wardrobe’s heavy wooden door, and folds of fabric spill out as if they are dying to escape. I knew I’d see fabriskins robes—it is the required city attire, including the Palace—but not in such glorious fabrics. Silks. Satin. Wool. Sheer. Raw metal. Molded glass. Even denim, which only half-humans wear. Each are perfect for my height. Some are plain, thick, and professional looking; others are sewn with gems, pearls, and embroidered with exotic patterns from some far-off continent. I pull those out for further inspection but, in a quiet, demure way, I place them back into the wardrobe. I’ll never wear them. No need to. In all of my training, my personal appearance was never discussed. Perhaps it should have been.
In the wardrobe’s drawers, I find articles of clothing one would expect to see. Undergarments. Stockings. Nightwear. Wool trousers and utility shirts. I’m happy to know that I won’t be walking about the Palace Skyscraper naked. I could never be as bold as Cat with her lithe figure, exotic features, and a dangerous dagger at her hip all on display in a sheer fabriskin robes. It suits her.
Strangely, it didn’t feel sexual on Cat, though, in truth, I felt a slight sexual pull toward her. It makes me want to know more about her. Earlier, when she glided through the Palace, she didn’t walk as if she were on the prowl for a mate. Roland’s chief of staff personified confidence. She could probably pick and choose her mate without much effort.
As for Roland himself, well, I wasn’t sure what he wore tonight. It wasn’t a robe at all, but trousers and a utility shirt—or at least, that’s what I think he wore. I was too busy with my own disrobing and discovering a real sexual attraction to the man.
I don’t know what to make of the scars I glimpsed. With time, which, unfortunately, I don’t have the luxury of, I might discover the mystery.
With a full belly, clean clothes, and knowing that I should stop thinking about Roland and Cat—I might go all night thinking about them—I sit on the plush, high bed, open my purse, and empty the contents.
I look down at everything I own in the world.
A small, palm-size tablet. Identification and immunization cards. Make-up satchel. A fifteen-year-old framed photo of my family back home. This, I study for a moment longer before I shove it back into the purse. I’m not ready for the dark thoughts that accompany the photo.
I attempt to power cycle the tablet on, but I didn’t need to make the effort. The backside is cracked clean through. Its outer-shell softdrive integument must have fractured during its two- or three-story fall. Now, the communicator to my mentor is about as useful as a drink coaster. So the next time Roland offers me a glass of wine, I’ll have a place to put it on.
Until I hear from my mentor, and I know I will, I’ll continue on with the mission, but there’s no harm in discovering Roland’s secrets in the meantime.
I return everything back to my purse and put it away. Then, with a longing look, I peel the blankets back, push off the bathrobe, turn off the lights, and jump into the tall bed. The sheets are cool against my naked skin, and it’s a luxury.
All I want to do is sleep. But it doesn’t come easily. Just then, someone knocks on my bedroom door.
EIGHT
THERE ARE TWO POSSIBILITIES AS TO whom the door knocker can be, and I know who I hope it is. If I know what’s good for me, I shouldn’t open it.
But I’ve never been good at listening to myself.
I put the bathrobe back on, pad to the door in the dark—I hit only one wall—and open the door.
He stands in shadows, as there’s no light coming from my room and the hallway seems even darker. But it is Roland. Somehow, I know what he smells like, and it’s something I want to run my tongue over in a very slow and savory manner.
“I came to ensure you found your room alright,” he says in a low voice.
I smirk in the darkness. Sure you did.
“Yes, thank you. Good night.” I move to close the door knowing he won’t let me. I don’t plan to make it easy for him, not after our earlier meeting.
His hand stops the door from closing.
“That’s not the only reason I came by. I wanted to apologize for the way I treated you. Obviously, I had too much wine and you weren’t cowering to me. I found myself reacting to you in an interesting manner.”
Interesting manner? Is that what that was?
“So let me get this straight: do you order everyone who doesn’t bow down to you to remove their clothing?”
“Not usually.” His voice is edgier. “I truly thought you had a weapon.”
“Because I wasn’t cowering to you?”
“The entire event was a mistake.”
I don’t respond right away and an awkward silence comes between us.
“Fine, I accept your apology,” I say through my teeth.
I hear a relief-sounding sigh escape his lips. But he throws me for a loop when he says, “You smell nice. Like Orbi Flowers.”
“Thanks,” I say hesitantly.
“Can I come inside?
” He asks in the barest whisper. Is he afraid of being overheard? He owns the entire Palace. He owns me now, too. Or he thinks he does.
“It’s late and I’m tired. Can this wait until the morning?”
“No.”
I step back and allow him to enter. I keep the lights off. It might make all of this too real. I might do something stupid like take off my robe and sit in a chair in the dark and hold a conversation with my new boss. I might ask to lick him. Heated desire courses through me.
We move deeper into the apartment, and I’m not sure where I lead him. Probably the living room, based on my recollection of my new living quarters.
I stub my toe on the coffee table. Definitely the living room.
“Sorry about that,” he says right behind me.
“For what, barging in my room tonight?” I sound more tired than pissed. As long as I don’t sound aroused, I’ll be fine.
“For the stubbed toe. I placed the coffee table there, so the way I see things, it’s my fault entirely.” There’s laughter in his voice, and I find myself smiling at him. Not that he would notice. He seems more comfortable.
“Can I ask you a question?” I ask.
“Yes,” he says.
“Why me?”
“As in, why did I summon you? I’m somewhat of a planner and I’m careful of who I hire,” he says from somewhere else in the room. He’s moving and I’m standing still like the perfect target. I move behind a chair. “I know of your biotechnical talents and I’m confident that you are capable of so much more. In fact, I know you are. I summoned you a year ago, but you never came. I’m glad you’re here now because time is running short.”
“I never received—”
“I know you didn’t,” Roland says. “I’m not exactly on good terms with the Old City’s leaders.”
“Funny, but I always thought it was the other way around. The Old City isn’t on good terms with you.”
“I’ve hardly been around for anyone to be on good or bad terms with me.”
“So it’s true that you’ve been in hiding?” I ask.
“Hiding? No, I wouldn’t call it that.”
“What do you call it, then?”
“Diplomatic excursions.” I hear a hint of laughter in his voice.
“I see,” I say with a grin. “You said something about time running short?”
“Have you always been this inquisitive?”
I think about that for a moment. “Yes, I think so,” I say. “Why is time running short?”
“Because in three days I’ll be dead.”
I squint at him in the darkness. “I don’t know how anyone can know the exact day they’ll die.”
“I do. I’ve known it for a long time. And now you’re here, as expected, but the purpose you think you’re here to do and the one you’ll actually do are two different things.”
“You act as if you know everything about me,” I say.
“I only know what I need to know.”
“Do you normally talk this cryptically? I’d like to turn the light on now.” My hand is on the lamp. One small flick and I’d see his face. I’d see what I had to work with in the morning.
“I’d very much prefer that you didn’t. Not right now. I like your honesty. Once you see me…” He trails off.
“I’ll be repulsed?”
“Yes. No. I don’t know.” I can hear the confusion and exasperation in his voice. Either he has never been in this situation before or he’s playing me for the biggest fool ever.
“I hate to break it to you, Roland, but I saw part of your face tonight already.”
“And?” He barely breathes the question. His voice is closer.
“I wasn’t repulsed. But why do you care what I think?”
He hesitates, and I think I hear a sad sigh. “Why do you think?”
“I think you should leave.” I’m too confused to think straight and if you don’t, I am so close to doing something stupid.
He exhales. He’s close enough to me that I could reach out and touch him. He smells like charcoal and wine.
“What will it take to keep you from asking me to leave?”
Sometimes, I don’t think things through. Sometimes, I should do the exact opposite of what I want to do. But not tonight. Not right now.
I find him and tug him into me. His breathing is ragged as I grab his hair in my fist and pull his head down to my level.
“Take off your clothes,” I say into his ear.
NINE
I THREAD MY FINGERS THROUGH HIS hair much the same way he did to me earlier. It is thick, curly, and falls to his shoulders.
I don’t think for one second that he will actually disrobe, and I’m not prepared to make him. I want to teach him a lesson. I want to feel in control. But I hear a catch in his voice. His breathing is unsteady and his body shakes underneath my fingers.
“Alright,” he says quietly. But instead of doing the deed himself, his fingers catch hold of mine and he uses my fingers to unbutton his shirt.
“I didn’t mean it,” I say. Now my own breathing is uneasy.
“Yes, you did.”
“I didn’t think you would agree to it,” I hiss. Dear Goddess, I’m about to take off Roland Rexus’ clothes.
Button one. This is every girl’s dream.
Button two. And it is me. Rahda Plesti, a peasant girl—a class zero—from the northwest quadrant.
Button three. But the Roland Rexus I met isn’t the same handsome man today.
Button four slips easily through its eyelet. I deftly conquer button five.
“You can’t back out now,” he growls seductively as I undo button six. He must have felt that I hesitated, and I did briefly because I ran out of buttons. His shoulders roll back and the shirt is gone, and it makes a small pillowy poof sound as it hits the carpet. Still holding my hands, he guides my fingers to his pants and the button there. But this time, I halt him.
“Not yet,” I plead. I’m conflicted and I know he can hear it in my voice.
Part of me desperately wants to explore him, get my fill of him; the quieter part of my brain advises me not to. You are allowing lust to cloud your judgment.
“I’m powerless,” he declares into my neck.
“That’s not true,” I say. “You are the most powerful man on the continent.”
“You know what I mean.”
And I did. “Is this what normally happens with your new hires?”
“No, never,” he says urgently, and I can’t tell if he’s telling the truth or not. That whole clouding my judgment thing is very true at the moment. I pull away from him, but not enough to disengage our hands and fingers. So far, he hasn’t tried to remove my bathrobe.
“Let me feel you, instead,” I say. I’ll be calm. I’ll be clinical. I won’t get affected. I won’t!
“Okay.”
I walk around him and place both of my hands on his lower back. It’s smooth as I trail a fingertip between the back of his trousers and his skin. I feel him shudder. My other hand splays against the right side—my thumb and fingers gently caressing, feeling, exploring the tiny, thin, raised scars that run all along his right flank. Whatever happened to him happened to scar a good deal of his flesh.
My left hand moves up, kneading unblemished skin, as the right moves higher. My fingertips register bigger, thicker scars that quickly join into one raised deformity.
My first thought is fire.
My second thought is: who the hell did this to him? Sadly, fire is a great equalizer and does not distinguish between royalty or the poor.
A hiss escapes Roland’s lips as I rub that area.
“Does it hurt?”
“It feels… wonderful,” he says. “No one’s ever… Goddess.”
He jumps and moans as I kiss his back, the scars, and my tongue licks along the smaller scar lines. The pebbly marks are both rough and smooth against my tongue. It isn’t long before his hands are behind him, trying to touch me, but all he can find
is the thick bathrobe. I am able to dodge his efforts by pulling away for a few seconds. I feel his heat, and I’m drowning in my own arousal. So much for not being affected.
I glide a fingertip down his spine and slowly walk around him while keeping the connection. I can tell he wants to take over, take control, and it’s probably taking everything within his own self-control to keep from doing so. I smile at him. I explore his waist—smooth with baby fine hair—and inch up, fingers splayed, and discover most of his chest is scarred, raised, but smooth.
I rub into him. I kiss and lick the smoothness, follow small ridges, bumps, and lines until I reach the left side of his neck. Roland’s breathing is extremely shallow and I can feel his rapid pulse under my tongue. My fingers trace his face, mapping it. At first, I thought he would pull back and leave me completely, but he doesn’t. Maybe because the lights were out or maybe because my touching him like this felt like uncharted territory. It is certainly a first for me.
The right side of his face is scarred, including his lips. It isn’t as smooth here. It is ridged—much like his posture at the moment—and puckered in certain areas, like the back of his jaw, into the neck and ear. It almost feels like the scars on his back and chest are older than the one on the right side of his face. How could he be burned twice? Who would do such a thing?
I kiss his jaw and lick up to his lips, kissing him fully on the mouth, to which he completely embraces me, groans, and kisses me eagerly back. Hard, slanted, passionately. Suddenly, the bathrobe is open, but he isn’t touching me. For some reason, he’s talking.
“You have no idea how long I’ve—” he starts and stops abruptly.
What is he talking about?
“Wait, what?” I ask, breaking the kiss. My neck tingles. This wasn’t a good idea. “What were you going to say?” He’s messing with my head, trying to get under my skin, confuse me. It’s working.
