Terran (Breeder)

by Cara Bristol

  Upon entering the confines of the village, Marlix delivered the conveyance to the stable before heading for his hut. Along the way, he happened upon Anika. He almost did not recognize her for the swath of fabric wrapped around her head.

  “Kianiko,” he greeted her warmly, happy to see her, despite their previous uneasy parting.

  “Kianiko.” She repeated and gaped, whether at his cuts and bruises or at his warm welcome, he could not tell. Only males in a familiar relationship used the salutation; no one deigned to greet females.

  “What do you wear on your head?” he asked.

  Anika touched the band of fabric. “It is a scarf. Some females wear them to keep the hair out of their faces while they work.”

  If her hair did not show, Tara would not draw as much attention. “How can I acquire one of those scarves?”

  She tilted her head and narrowed her eyes. “Have you acquired a breeder?” Though she phrased her comment as a question, a peculiar intonation made it sound more like a statement.

  Marlix fidgeted. Engrained reticence and self-preservation held his tongue, but lies did not come easily. Truth defended itself; it needed no cover. He believed that. Trust, on the other hand, was a rare commodity, as precious as telenium, the rarest and most valuable metal. But before today, he never would have expected he would ally himself with Commander Dak, nor that the Alpha would trust him.

  He eyed the female for whom he’d held a great measure of affection, for whom he’d done his best to secure a good purchase, whom he had bounced on his knee to hear her giggle even though such coddling was frowned upon.

  He sighed. Anika had threatened to expose him. But alliances had been drawn, and it mattered no longer if Dak learned he resided inside the Enclave. “I am with a female.” Marlix nodded.

  “The Terran from the Bazaar.”

  Marlix snapped his head back. “You know?” He dropped his voice to a hoarse whisper. “Who else?”

  “Your secret resides safely with me,” Anika said. “No one else has made the connection. Jergan overhead the entry guards talking about a female who had suffered a severe genetic defect resulting in pink hair. But I have met Tara, so I recognized their description.”

  She regarded him without blinking. “You would be wise to not invite conjecture or further comment. A scarf would be good for her, as well as one of the new female uniforms that conceal both sides of the body so that her arm with the flowers does not show.” She plucked at her grayish-blue shift. It covered her entire chest and her upper limbs down to her wrists. “As we do not stand on Protocol, there is no need to bare the chest to reveal insignia.”

  “When did you meet Tara?”

  “Commander Dak’s breeder introduced me to her shop many months ago, and on another occasion, Jergan and I purchased fabric for the Enclave,” Anika explained and tugged at her shift again. “But she was absent then. We dealt with the other Terran in her shop, a male.”

  “Ramon.” Marlix ground his teeth.

  “Why do you say his name like that?”

  “I do not like him.” He remembered the way the man had held her.

  “He seemed helpful and efficient.”

  “Perhaps.” Marlix tightened his jaw. It was best for all concerned not to dwell on Ramon. “You mentioned you work. What is it you do?”

  “I have many jobs,” Anika said. “I assist the panna baker, and I feed the domesticated fowl and ovine mammals. In the spring and summer, I till in the garden. It has become dangerous to venture into the Market, so we are trying to become self-sufficient. There is much work to be done year-round, but as winter approaches, harvesters are needed.”

  Their conversation continued amiably, even warmly, and upon parting, Marlix embraced her, feeling better about her situation. He had had his reservations about his sire’s female offspring joining the Enclave, but, given the unrest sweeping across the planet, Protocol did not offer the security it once did. And Anika appeared to be thriving.

  Best of all, she’d given him some ideas. Tara had bristled at the inactivity and isolation, so Marlix had conceived of a perfect, albeit temporary, solution. He couldn’t wait to inform her. She would be pleased.

  * * * *

  Tara was studying her stained fingernails when she heard a footfall outside the hut, and then the door flew open to reveal Marlix.

  She gasped at his bruised and battered face. A cut sliced through the skin above his left eye, which was swollen half shut. A vicious bruise darkened his right cheek.

  “Monto!” He reeled in shock. “What happened to you?”

  “What happened to you? Are you all right?” Tara rushed toward him.

  He kicked the door shut, threw a package on the table, and grasped her chin. His knuckles bore more scrapes and bruises.

  He grabbed a handful of her hair and peered at it. “What did you do?”

  Tara bit her lip and patted her head. “I dyed it. Back to my, uh, natural shade.” She released a nervous laugh. Marlix had worried about the attention her appearance would draw, so she figured if she colored it brown, she would blend in better. Maybe then she could convince him to allow her outside. Marlix’s mouth moved as if she’d stricken him speechless. Her certainty she’d found a solution wavered.

  “How did you change your hair?”

  “I had some dye in my bag that you retrieved from the Bazaar.” Her tiny assigned living quarters contained only enough room for a bed, a table and chair, and a few very basic essentials. Everything else she had to store at her shop. “You don’t like it.” She fingered the strands of her now mousy hair.

  “I did not say that,” he said. “It is a shock. I have grown accustomed to pink.” He glanced at her face and added, “Though brown is not…unattractive.”

  “Tell me what happened to your face,” she said, blinking back tears. He hated her hair.

  “A minor disagreement. It was nothing.” He waved his hand.

  “If the damage to your face resulted from a minor disagreement, I’d hate to see a major one,” she said.

  “They are very unpleasant.” He nodded, still appearing almost shell-shocked.

  He hates my hair. She jerked her head toward the package. Brown hair flounced. “What did you bring home?”

  Most men in positions of power would prefer their partners maintain a conservative appearance. But not him. Oh no. He preferred pink.

  “Have I displeased you?” he asked.

  “Why do you say that?”

  “You are glowering at me.”

  She sighed. “No.” She reminded herself she could not blame him for his lackluster response. One did not have to be trained in intergalactic relations to notice Parseon females did not alter their appearance. They did not wear cosmetics; they did not style their hair—hell, they wore the same beige uniforms day after day. Only in the Enclave had some diversity arisen. She shifted her gaze to the package and arched her eyebrows.

  He got the hint. “I brought some supplies for you.” He untied the bag and extracted a folded light green cloth. He shook it out and held it up. “A new shift. One to cover both arms.”

  “You don’t like my tattoo?” Tara rubbed her right arm and eyed the double-sleeved garment.

  “I did not say that. You are wearing two shifts now. With this, you will only need one.”

  “Since when do Parseon females wear green?” She eyed the garment with suspicion. He doesn’t like my tattoo either!

  “They do not under Protocol, but Enclave females have taken to wearing a variety of colors. This was the closest match to your eyes.” He peered at her. “You are not going to change those, are you?”

  Her jaw dropped. He’d managed to compliment and insult her in the same breath. What an ass. “What else is in the bag?” she snapped.

  “A head wrap.” He dangled a scarf-like thing. “I do not think this will be necessary now.” He tossed it aside. “But I did not tell you the best news. You will be pleased.”

  She hoped so. She needed to h
ear something positive. “What is it?”

  “Tomorrow you begin work in the fields, harvesting the autumn crops,” he announced.

  “I’m going to do what?” Smoldering anger burst into flames. “If you think you can send me to the chain gang, shackle me, and sentence me to hard physical labor, you have another thing coming, buddy.”

  Marlix blinked.

  “I won’t do it.” Tara stomped around the hut. “Do you hear me? I refuse. You can drag me to the fields, but you can’t force me to work.”

  Marlix’s jaw dropped. “I thought you would want to spend time outside in the sun. You seemed to like the river.”

  Tears of fury and hurt trickled out of her eyes. She turned her back so Marlix would not see. Only sissies cried at the drop of a hat. Unfortunately, she seemed to be developing into one. What was it about this man that wreaked such havoc with her emotions?

  Marlix clasped her shoulders, and he pressed his front to her back. His warmth and scent coaxed her to melt against him. Well, she wouldn’t. He could take his hard body and his pheromones and his Alpha mojo and stuff it where the sun didn’t shine. She held herself rigid.

  He sighed. “I do not understand. I thought you would want to work.”

  “I don’t want to be forced!”

  “Forced?” He spun her around and tilted her chin up to stare into her eyes. “I am not forcing you. I am offering you an opportunity to leave the hut before winter arrives. If you would prefer to perform another task, tell me, and I will try to arrange it. I do not have authority over the Enclave, but I will do everything I can.” Golden eyes, one puffy and nearly shut, radiated sincerity.

  Tara slumped. She’d misunderstood his intentions, had assumed the worst. A tornado whirled inside her, spinning out bits of data. Leave the hut. Sunshine. Before winter. He chanced she would not run and would allow her out of the cottage—but he planned to keep her through winter.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I misunderstood. I would like to work in the fields.”

  He smiled. “I am glad.”

  * * * *

  Tara wiped the sweat from her forehead and straightened to a standing position. An unseasonable warmth beat upon her head and shoulders, but she enjoyed the sun and the fresh air—Marlix had been right. She could work at her own pace and had no boss, so the labor was not arduous other than being physical, and she enjoyed the conversation and companionship of the other women.

  It shocked her no longer that Marlix had abducted her—what she could not fathom was what impulse had driven him to it in the first place. From the females, she’d learned how brutal males could be, but in his awkward way, Marlix had been gentle, almost tender. He did not fit the profile.

  Tara eyed her long shadow cast by the sun. The days grew shorter now, and most of the crops had been reaped and stored—after today, little harvesting remained. Nearly two weeks had passed since Marlix had informed her he was sending her to the chain gang. She twisted her mouth with wry amusement. Though she spoke his language, his autocratic style and their cultural differences had resulted in another bout of miscommunication. What she had perceived as an order, he had intended as a gift. A golden opportunity presented on a silver platter. Her freedom.

  Each morning he left for his province, returning to the Enclave before the sun set. Urazi, with whom she spoke on occasion, occupied himself by assisting with the construction of new huts, since an influx of people continued to arrive during the month they’d been there. No one guarded her anymore. No one paid her any attention.

  She could have run back to the Market village and hid at the Terran Embassy before anyone suspected she had left. But each morning she awakened with a disinclination to leave and promised herself, “Tomorrow. Tomorrow.” And somehow a fortnight had passed.

  Now that she’d been handed freedom, leaving seemed more like a moot exercise than an urgent need. It felt less like escape and more like breaking up.

  She’d grown attached to the big baboon. To his gestures of affection, to the nights of passion that drained her yet aroused an appetite for more. Her body could not get enough of him, as if his bodily essence had caused a physiological addiction. She was wet and ready at a moment’s notice. Ready for him now. She wondered if Marlix assumed Terran women had hard nipples all the time. Around him, hers were.

  He charmed her with the contrast of his extreme masculine physique—his great height, sculpted muscles, and the strength they afforded, and a cock beyond impressive—and the flashes of boyishness: a teasing glint in his eyes and the rare smiles that erased all austerity, and his less frequent, but even more captivating, expression of mirth. The deep rumble could not be called childlike by any means, yet the unrestrained, carefree way he laughed was. Spontaneous, unreserved, open. Contagious.

  No. She did not wish to leave him. She loved him.

  She felt like a helium-filled balloon tethered to a long string. She floated on giddiness, the lightness of love, but could rise only so high because obstacles to long-term happiness weighted the ribbon. If someone had asked her if she would consider living with a controlling, dominating male, she would have thought them joking. Now that she was no longer under hut arrest, she found his autocratic ways comforting. Ironically, just as her future had never been more uncertain, she had acquired a security she had not known existed. He had become her rock, her shield, and lifted her worries, her fears. How liberating was that!

  But the tales of the other women had created new qualms. Ensconced in the Bazaar and the expatriate housing community, she’d been isolated from the gritty, misogynistic side of Parseon. From the women in the fields, she’d learned of gang rapes, forced reproduction, floggings. Her own experience had borne it out: the attack by the betas, Marlix’s ability to kidnap her without any repercussions at all. She concluded the briefings on Parseon cultural had been woefully inadequate.

  How could any modern Terran woman live under Protocol?

  And while a madcap fling with an Alpha Commander would make an incredible story to tell one’s grandchildren—that was precisely the problem. There would never be grandchildren. Marlix needed a breeder who could produce sons and heirs, not a damaged Terran feminista.

  Tara massaged her abdomen. Her external scar had all but faded after the physician’s magical healing, but it could not have fixed the underlying injury. And even if she could bear children, she and Marlix were still two different species. There had never been a Parseon-Terran child born that she knew of. They could engage in wicked sex, but they could not reproduce.

  All the more reason why she should have left.

  Tomorrow. Her shoulders slumped.

  With a glance at the sinking sun, she bade her fellow workers a good evening and carried her basket of vegetables to the large bin and emptied it. Marlix would be home soon, and she needed to wash before he arrived.

  After leaving the bathhouse, Tara took a shortcut that passed by the fountain. She halted at the sight of a very tall male in light gray alpha clothing. Her heart leaped, and she hurried across the quad, only to almost trip over her own feet when she noticed the female with Marlix. Anika. She recognized her from the Bazaar; Commander Dak’s breeder had brought her to the shop. Her jaw dropped at Marlix’s expression of affection, his face beaming with one of his boyish smiles. Anika said something, and he laughed.

  They exchanged more words, and he hugged her.

  Pain knocked the wind from her lungs, and she gasped like a beached sea creature. She wanted to scream, to punch Marlix in the face, to rip the scarf off Anika’s head and tear out every last hair. Was that where he’d gotten the idea for the head wrap?

  Tara spun on her heel and ran.

  Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. She berated herself for her inaction, her failure to leave, her foolish dreams. When would she learn?

  Marlix took whatever he wanted. Why had she assumed she was his only female? Because he smiled at her? Laughed with her? Fucked her?

  Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

  Sh
e had set no destination but found herself back at the hut. She barged through the door with such force, it crashed against the wall. Grabbing hold she slammed it shut. Then yanked it open and slammed it again.

  Tomorrow. For sure, tomorrow.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Eagerness lightened his step as Marlix hurried home to Tara. When he’d first released her, it had been with trepidation that he’d returned each day, unsure if she would be there. He could not bring himself to utter the words you may go but tacitly had done so by permitting her to work with the harvest unguarded.

  Each evening that she met him at the door with a hug and kiss reassured him and lessened his anxiety.

  He had freed her, and she had chosen to stay! His world glowed with brightness and color. He noticed roadside pockets of late fall flowers, the rosy sky at sunset, an amber leaf gliding on a draft. He floated too, unable to believe his good fortune. And he ached to tell her of his lightness but lacked the words to do so.

  His female. My breeder, he thought of her, even though he had accepted she would not produce him any offspring. That caused him sadness, but he would rather have Tara and no offspring than offspring and no Tara.

  With dusk darkening the sky, Marlix entered the cottage.

  His eye detected a shadow, a flash of movement, and instinctively he ducked. A ewer flew over his head and shattered against the door frame.

  “You son of a bitch!” Tara yelled.

  She hurled a cooking pot lid, and then the pot itself at his head. Marlix stepped out of the path. “Monto! What are you doing?”

  “How dare you! How fucking dare you?” This time she lobbed a bowl, one of his boots, and a tray.

  He dodged the bowl and the boot; the wooden tray grazed his arm. “You are angry about something.” He stalked toward her. “You may talk to me, but I will not allow you to throw things.” What could have enraged her so? What had changed since that morning? Monto! He did not understand her moods.

  “Oh, you won’t allow it?” She scooted behind the table. A vase of flowers sat in the center. Water sprayed when she flung it at his face. He deflected the vessel with his forearm, and it shattered on the floor. She dodged his reach, transforming common objects into missiles.