Battalion's Bride (Alien SciFi Romance) (Celestial Mates Series Book 8)

by C. J. Scarlett

  “Are you coming for tea later?” one asked me. I grimaced a bit, considering the bitter, sugarless stuff that the Kamani found delicious to sit and kibbutz over. She pushed her long black hair over her shoulder.

  “Later!” I yelled over the sounds of the crowd and she nodded with a wide grin. “Have you seen Maggie?”

  “That way,” she pointed, her golden eyes glancing toward the stone wall.

  I found Maggie standing out by the wall, looking out over it. I glanced out at the sparkling, snow-covered plains surrounding us, as far as the eye could see. It was breathtaking.

  “Do you ever regret leaving Earth?” I asked her, walking up to stand beside her. She looked at me, her face pensive.

  “No,” she replied. “I found my people here. I found love here, and I had an adventure. If I had remained on Earth, I would have been some man’s wife. A man who didn’t love or understand me. The best that I could have hoped for would be mild appreciation and then his early death so that I could live the latter part of my life a widow.” She smirked at me. “You need to tell me more about the Women’s Rights Movement. If I had been lucky, I would have been a very old woman by that time.”

  “Certainly,” I agreed. “But you would have been a part of the Women’s Suffrage Movement.”

  “Without a doubt. Luckily, I ended up among the Barbearians,” she remarked, using my term for them. “Teaching English in order to rescue some women. Who’d have thought?”

  “I wouldn’t have.”

  She took the basket of vegetables from me. Since it was one of the Kamani holy days, when they honored their gods, the whole of the ice caves were busy. It was more like an anthill than I’d ever seen it. I was still learning their ways and rituals. There was to be a feast that night, accompanied by singing and dancing. This time, the musicians would be visible. I had been to enough Kamani rituals to know this. On this day, toward sunset, the Kamani would gather outside of the ice caves, encircling about within their great wall of rock. They would all sing to their gods in thanks. The Kamani, as a people, lived lives filled with gratitude. It could be seen in even the smallest of their gestures. It was graceful, elegant in a way filled with warmth, something that a creature living on a planet of ice requires in order to properly survive. Without it, one began to grow colder than the ground.

  “After living here, I see that mild appreciation is never enough,” Maggie told me. “Too often, we are forced into settling. We should experience true warmth and affection. Or we wither.”

  “It’s true,” I agreed. “That’s far too common on Earth.”

  “Perhaps I’ll go back one day,” she said lightly. “Become a prophet.”

  “You should. People listen to you,” I replied, nudging her with my elbow.

  “Go find your man,” she said to me, smiling knowingly. I smiled back and, turning, went back inside the ice caves. I walked up the walkway leading to the Kamani living quarters. I paused to avoid running into a pair of Kamani cubs that tumbled accidentally into my path. They were in the middle of a tussle, one of them halfway through a shift, his bear form the color of his humanoid skin. He looked strange, but that didn’t stop him from growling fiercely and rolling over the other cub. They ended up in a furry heap on the hard stone of the walkway.

  As I stepped around the cubs, I saw some of the human women that had been rescued. They were dressed in thick furs, talking with some of the Kamani. They, too, learned the ways of the Barbearians. While we had all been offered a ride back to Earth on the Ak-hal’s yacht-like ships, none had wanted to return, as we had all lived more than half a century past our time. Earth had moved on without us. There was no reason to return—the Ak-hal certainly wouldn’t. We had dismantled their ships upon our decision.

  We knew that the Ak-hal weren’t entirely destroyed. It would certainly take them some time to regroup and rebuild; the Kamani had done extensive damage to their castle in addition to their numbers. The Kamani didn’t kill any of the female captives, as it wasn’t their way to kill innocents. When some of the Ak-hal had escaped, a few of the women had chosen to go with them, Sarita and Libba included. The others had come with us. They adjusted to life as free women well. It was easy to adopt the peaceful ways of the Kamani. The only thing that I missed of civilization were my books. Khofti supplied stories, but not enough for my voracious appetite for them. He tried to keep up.

  I smiled when I saw Clara walking toward me. She paused beside me, squeezing my hand. It was nice to see her dressed in the simple garb of the Kamani. She looked healthier than she ever had with the Ak-hal, and she had taken to leaving her long blonde hair loose around her shoulders. She was dressed warmly in the same type of fur-lined jacket that I wore. Humans were decidedly less resistant to the cold than the Kamani were. They were constantly surprised to find out how often we were cold.

  “How are you?” I asked her.

  “I am well,” she replied, and from the glow of her face, I could tell that what she said was true. “And you?”

  “Very well,” I responded.

  “Have you seen Maggie?”

  “Out on the wall,” I replied. “She’s looking out over the plains. It’s good to see you free, Clara.”

  “Yes,” she agreed. One could still see her scars. They lurked behind her eyes in a way that reminded me of how Khofti had once described Fana—the clouds covering his heart. Those scars would always be there. But with her kindness and warmth, Clara was beloved by the Kamani. She lived with Maggie. They had bonded while working in the kitchens of the Ak-hal and had missed each other’s company bitterly. Now that they were both free, I rarely saw one without the other. They both taught the Ak-hal little things—math and such. The Kamani weren’t yet ready to become civilized, it seemed. I walked on, continuing up the inclined path that led up through the ice caves as Clara went to find Maggie.

  Walking into the quarters that I shared with Khofti, I squinted, letting my eyes adjust. We lived a few tiers down from the top level, which had been utterly destroyed by Moranen. The Kamani had relegated the duty of repairing the Sky Jewel to their Ak-hal prisoners. As kindly as they were, it was likely the harshest punishment they could think of. Placing the shards of stone back in their correct positions before the Kamani shaman could do some hoodoo ritual to repair it, would likely take them several centuries.

  The bed in the middle of the large, stone-carven room was covered in woven blankets. A prone form lay among them, arms stretched out spread eagle. Khofti and I had made the blankets together. That was how the Kamani did things—together. I jumped on top of the bed. Khofti groaned.

  “What are you doing in bed at this hour?” I asked him. “It’s day out.”

  “Resting for the festival,” he replied. “I have been up all day.”

  “Eating,” I accused, poking his flat stomach. “You eat so much.”

  “I am a large bear.”

  “And a tiny Kamani,” I teased.

  “Let’s rest,” he said, stretching out his large form.

  “Not anymore,” I said, wrapping my leg around him so that I sat astride him. I leaned over him. My hair, still a little on the short side, but well on its way to growing out, made a curtain about our faces. I kissed him, and he groaned again. His groans soon vanished, making their way over to pleasure-filled moans as my hand found its way inside his jumpsuit.

  He reached up, helping me off with my layers of clothing. After an awkward shuffling to get them off, he ran his large, flat palms over my skin, raising goosebumps where his hands touched. I moaned deliciously, letting my head roll back. His hands stopped at my hips, grasping them tightly. I looked down at him questioningly as he sat up, flipping me over in one fluid motion. I pushed his jumpsuit all the way off his broad shoulders. He smiled at me, taking me with his next breath.

  I inhaled as he filled me. Placing my hand on his lower back, I rocked my hips upward to meet his as he surged over me. His skin was hot and smooth against mine
. Our breathing came out in sync—heavy, full breaths. I felt our connection—it ran deep, connecting our souls. If I closed my eyes, I could see all the constellations that made up my mate. I could see all his grief, as well as the depth of his current joy.

  I could feel the heat building with my orgasm. He moved slowly, his eyes watching as I took my pleasure. He was careful, always cautious. He made sure that I was taken care of. As I cried out, my body rocked by the waves of endorphins crashing through my veins, he surged back and forth. It brought me back to him, my focus centering as my body responded to his. I placed my hands on the small of his back, rocking my hips so that his thrusts were deeper.

  I looked up to the twin wheels of gold staring into mine. I could feel his heartbeat, his strong pulse at each point where his body intersected with my own. I thought about how much my life had changed. I was a different person now—an alien species to the person who had started this journey. It had been terrifying, and nothing had come easy—I had to fight, not just to save myself, but to be with Khofti. If I ever saw an Ak-hal walking free, it would be too soon.

  “Love me?” I asked, reaching up to softly caress his cheek.

  “Forever,” he replied. We remained, wrapped up together in our own world, where we could hear the sounds of the Kamani outside, finishing their preparations for the holy day. We could hear the sounds of many voices. We remained in our rooms, through the ceremonies, when we could hear the music outside the ice caves. We could hear the sound and swell of the voices of the Kamani, singing to their gods in thanks for all that they had been gifted. They were the sounds of happiness—distant cries, like the calls of free birds, their cages open. Or even, and perhaps, better yet, cages which had never existed.

  Bonus Series 1

  Ice Planet BarBEARians (Book 2)

  C.J. Scarlett

  Chapter 1

  It was almost impossible to breathe with the amount of people in the room, pressed in from wall to wall. At present, I did my best to ignore it. I was being introduced to Reginald Horne, the son of Lord Archibald Horne, who my mother had told me—repeatedly—was a most worthy marriage match. However, all I could think of, as I stood across from him, was that he was twenty-eight years old and already losing his hair.

  That was perhaps unworthy of me. However, I couldn’t help myself from thinking it. The large, shiny patch atop his head distracted me. It shimmered beneath the gas lamps as he spoke, seemingly made all the more lustrous with his red cheeks from exertion as he danced throughout the night.

  “What do you think, Miss Smythe?”

  “O-oh.” I pulled my attention away from Reginald Horne’s distracting bald patch and attempted to remember exactly what he and the other members of the group around me had been speaking of. Something concerning the latest court gossip? I had never kept up with that sort of thing, not since I entered London society when I was eighteen years old, and not in the three years since. “I think you’re right, Mr. Horne,” I said, hedging my bets on this being an appropriate answer. He grinned in response—an overbearing gesture that made my skin crawl, though I managed to hide my response well, as I always did—and turned back to one of the other men present to continue with whatever they had been speaking of before stopping to ask my opinion.

  Whenever I attended a ball, a huge crowd always huddled around me, and that crowd usually consisted of a fair number of young gentlemen. However, I had made few friends in society, even over the course of three years. That meant that I had grown accustomed to speaking very little, even if I was the center of attention in these social gatherings.

  My mother had impressed upon me the importance of having a beautiful appearance and speaking very little from an early age. I had spent hours dressing up for this particular occasion. The gown was among the best in my wardrobe—a powder-blue affair trimmed in lace, with a neckline that my maid had told me cheekily showed off my décolletage to its best advantage before I left this evening. Not that I cared too much about showing off anything. I found the men that surrounded me boring—Reginald Horne especially, and he was the one who hounded me the most.

  “Would you care for a dance?” he asked as the rest of the gentleman in our gathering dispersed at the first signs of a lilting waltz, off to find young ladies to accompany them on the already-crowded dance floor.

  I smiled politely. Every ounce of my being wanted to say no, but I knew what my mother would say—more importantly, what she would do—if I rejected Reginald right now. So, I nodded and let him take me by the hand and pull me out to the edge of the floor, slipping his hand around my trim waist.

  “You’re always so quiet, Clara,” he said, using my given name. Again, my skin crawled. I hated how he had become so familiar with me lately, as if we were already calling on one another—or worse, betrothed.

  “Am I?” I replied, forcing myself to respond this time, even though more than anything I wanted to walk away. I tried to imagine how he would look if I did so—crestfallen and confused as he stood alone on the dance floor. Or maybe he wouldn’t care at all. He would just go on and find the next young girl to target.

  “Yes,” he said, giving my hand a gentle squeeze as we spun together through a line of other dancers. “So quiet. So timid. It’s one of the reasons I’m so drawn to you, you know. I always wonder what’s going through that head of yours.”

  Oh, wouldn’t you like to know? I fixed a smile on my face and hoped that it came off as mysterious. His eyes bore into mine, and it made me more uncomfortable by the moment. Already I ran through every excuse that I could think of to get out of that ballroom and make my escape once the dance was over. Perhaps I could tell him that the crowd made me feel dizzy, or that I had come down with a sudden headache. Surely, he would believe that a woman of my “delicacy” would need a little room to breathe after being stuck in such a huge throng of people for so long a period of time.

  “If you’ll excuse me… I feel just a little faint…” I stumbled over the words as the swells of the waltz came to a close and the people around us broke into polite applause, not accustomed much to lying but desperately needing to get away from Reginald. I thought that he would simply nod and let me go, or hoped that he would at least. However, the moment I spoke he got a concerned look on his face.

  “Feeling faint? Are you quite all right, my dear Clara?”

  “Oh, yes,” I said quickly. “Just a bit aroused from—you know—the ballroom, and all the people, and the dancing.”

  “Perhaps a bit of fresh air will do you good?” Still not having released my hand after the dance, he now slipped it underneath his arm and proceeded to tug me after him as if I was some sort of stray pup. I almost cried out in surprise and only just barely managed to contain myself as he walked me back off the dance floor and to the edge of the gathered pack.

  “Oh, there’s really no need…”

  “Nonsense, my dear,” he said. “I’m worried about you. Let me make sure you’re all right.” Then he gave me a bland smile, to which I wanted to roll my eyes in proper abhorrence—a reaction I hadn’t felt before but which I was certain Reginald inspired within me.

  The backdoor of the ballroom opened up to a wide garden. A few other couples it seemed had come out this way for air as well, so we weren’t alone— at least I could worry that we weren’t being improper in this outing. With Reginald still holding tight onto my arm, we made our way out onto a pathway that led through tall shrubberies. Lanterns hung from overhead lit our way, illuminating us with a pale-yellow glow. If I were here with anyone else, it would have been a magical scene. As it was, it all felt fake, like a bad theatrical production in which I was an unwilling participant.

  Reginald led me along the path, and I kept my head down, hoping against hope that we would only spend a short time outside before he got bored and wanted to go inside and speak to his friends again. But something was different about the way he treated me tonight compared to all the other nights that we had been together
. Loath though I was to admit it, he was more attentive to me somehow. All his attention was fixed on me, as if I was the only person at the ball. Had I been any other girl, or he any other bachelor, there probably would have been something romantic about the moment that we shared together. But the more time I spent in Reginald’s company, the more I knew that I didn’t enjoy the interest that he bestowed on me.

  “A lovely night, isn’t it?” he said after a few minutes of silence had passed.

  “Hmm,” I responded, for lack of anything better.

  He tugged at my arm again, to stop me now, and came around so that he stood in front of me. I froze, acutely aware of the look on his face. It was eager anticipation now—more than just a bachelor enjoying a moment alone with a lady. Suddenly, a million thoughts rushed through my head, and none of them happy.

  “Mister Horne…”

  “Clara,” he said quickly, before I could finish what I was going to say. Then he kneeled on the ground before me, looking up, eyes glimmering in the lantern light. “I have spoken to your father and your mother, and now I am speaking to you. There is no girl more beautiful in London—no girl with a sweeter disposition. And so, I must ask… I am inclined to take you as my bride, if you will have me.”

  Oh. And there it was. I looked down for a long moment. Then, before I knew what happened, I pulled my hands from his and I ran. I ran far, and fast, as quickly as I could, away from Reginald, and away from the ball. It was unlike anything I had ever done before in all my twenty-one years—I had always been one to follow my mother’s rules, society’s rules—but now, facing down the prospect of marrying Reginald Horne had struck such displeasure into me that I had simply begun sprinting, as quickly as I could, doing the best I couldn’t to trip over the flowing skirts of my ballgown.