The Krinar Chronicles_Krinar Covenant

by Chris Roxboro

  “This looks much better than last year’s,” Medora murmured. “Look at this. Lemongrass over saffron rice and scallop medallions!” She placed a fresh napkin on her lap and picked up the salad spoon. “Sometimes I help choose the menus for all the events, but usually I just delegate it. Gets to be too much, you know?”

  Jerik nodded and let his fisted hand relax. “Many of my people are well-versed in human history and literature. I probably have friends who would know this tale you refer to.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Yes. I, however, have enjoyed other pursuits for my whole life.”

  Medora blushed. “Pursuits,” she let out a little snort. “Don’t tell me you were a gigolo at the ripe old age of ten.”

  “Sexual pursuits have been my favorite pastime for thousands of years,” he admitted, watching the red stain creep up from beneath her square neckline and traverse all the way up to her hairline. Fascinating. “However, prior to that I had other interests.”

  In spite of her apparent discomfort, she continued to pepper him with questions. “I can’t imagine what those might have been. Flying? Fingerpainting?”

  Her disdain hurt him more than he cared to acknowledge.

  “As a matter of fact, yes, I was quite fond of flying.”

  “Wait,” she held up her fork that had a Kalamata olive speared on it. “Do Krinar fly?”

  He quirked up one side of his mouth. “Only in aircraft.”

  She visibly relaxed.

  “Explain why you refuse to have sexual relationships prior to a marriage. Not many humans follow this religious tradition anymore.”

  Her brows formed a V on her forehead. She took a few more bites, occasionally peering at him. He liked that she was thinking about her answer.

  “It’s not just a religious tradition, Jerik.” She stirred the leaves on her plate into a puddle of dressing. “For millennia here on earth it was the way of things. Property transference, genetic lines—it was an organized way to promote family lines.”

  “You’re concerned about your posterity?”

  She laughed. “Sure, why not?”

  “No, you’re not,” he said. “You’re afraid of sex.”

  She frowned at him. “You don’t know me, Jerik.”

  The truth was, he couldn’t fathom any reason not to indulge in physical delights. “I know you are one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen.”

  She tilted her head back when she laughed, and that pulse of vitality called to him like a siren. He did know that myth.

  “Did you look around tonight?” She gestured to the room as a whole. “Look at them all,” she almost whispered. “Tall, petite, curvaceous, slender. You’ve got gingers, brunettes and blondes.” She let her eyes drift over all of them. “There are some drop-dead gorgeous women here. And many of them can’t take their eyes off of you.”

  “They’re alright,” Jerik admitted. “Fortunes are lost on some of the women I’ve seen in my clubs.”

  “I’ll bet,” she snickered.

  But you are priceless.

  “Come home with me tonight.” His voice was husky. “I’ll teach you everything. Then you’ll know how to please your husband when you take him to your marriage bed.”

  Medora placed her fork down and looked up at him. “You are insufferable. Why on earth would I agree to such a proposition?” She stared at him. “Think of my future husband. What would he have to say about that?”

  Jerik tilted his head and considered. Strictly as a hypothetical, what would it be like to approach the marriage bed as Medora’s husband? Knowing she had saved her virginity for him? Something like a sinkhole formed in the pit of his stomach.

  “Dance with me,” he finally said standing. He wouldn’t accept a refusal. She stood in a fluid movement, and they approached the dance floor as a couple.

  With hands clasped, and his broad hand on her waist, they began the steps. As he suspected she would, she moved like water in his hands, taking his lead and gliding across the floor. He heard more than one woman gasp when he spun Medora and dipped her. Her elegance put every other woman in the room to shame, but she was oblivious to it.

  They danced as one. He whispered in her ear. “This is what sex is.” He moved with her, a steady stream of innuendo pouring into her ear. “We will move together, pushing and pulling. I give you a little, and you take from me.” He pulled her closer. “Our bodies fit together, and we create a song that only we can hear.”

  “You paint a pretty picture,” she whispered back, trying not to look into his eyes. “I’m sure it’s wonderful. It’s why I’m waiting.”

  “There is value in waiting,” he said in agreement. She shot him a questioning look. “Anticipation is a key component to sexual gratification.”

  There was that blush again. He wanted to lick it. Everywhere. He closed his eyes and leaned close to her. Ah yes. He could smell her arousal now.

  “Once you have submitted to me, you can search for your husband in earnest.”

  She stiffened in his arms.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You would be married by now if you had found him. Waiting for sex is holding you back from your search.”

  She rolled her eyes but refused to say anymore.

  The music climaxed, and they came to an end with a flourish. The couples around them applauded, and Jerik realized everyone had faded away to let them dance alone.

  Graceful as ever, Medora curtseyed and blew kisses. Jerik wore a smug smile and escorted her off the floor.

  “How was your first dance?” He asked her.

  “That was hardly my first dance,” she argued. “I can’t believe how outrageous you are sometimes!”

  “It was your first dance simulating sex with me.”

  “That was not—!” She huffed and shook her head.

  “All due respect Medora, but how would you know?” He asked in a mild voice. He bowed over her hand and let his lips skim over the skin at her knuckles. “Thank you for a lovely evening.”

  He walked away, ears attuned to the sounds of cell phone cameras whirring and camera shutters clicking. He hoped the press was good for her little foundation. Doubtless there were more Callies in her future.

  For some reason, this made him unaccountably angry again, and he faced the fierce winter winds to walk home, rather than call his driver.

  Chapter Eleven

  Medora’s face hurt from smiling when she collapsed onto her couch at home. Rosela left her place smelling fresh and clean, and for an hour, her place would look magazine-worthy. Until Medora took her makeup off in the bathroom and disassembled her outfit. She sighed and closed her eyes. She rehearsed the dance she’d endured with Jerik. Was endure the right word? Maybe it was more like, suffered? Or relished?

  His sultry words emptying in her ears, hinting at the pleasures he promised if she were in his arms—she had never felt so aroused. Or so miserable.

  She had questioned her personal vow many times over the years, especially when loneliness wrapped around her on rainy nights. She made the promise to herself when she was quite young. She had girlfriends whose futures were mapped out, much like her own. Money and power had a way of directing women’s lives down to the smallest decisions. She remembered lying in bed reading a romance novel and realizing how little autonomy she had over her destiny.

  The press had followed her day and night. Her social circles were dictated simply by where she could go with the least amount of harassment. The pool from which she would draw for a future mate was likewise limited.

  With her adult life yawning before her, she made the decision to save that one piece of herself. It was simple, and maybe old-fashioned, but it gave her peace. Her later boyfriends were often surprised but didn’t press her. She guessed it was the money and wondered many times if she wasn’t an heiress if they would have tried harder to get her to change her mind.

  Jerik was certainly testing her boundaries.

  It was infuria
ting, really. She knew instinctively that as soon as he took her, he would be gone. From what she’d read and heard, Krinar weren’t used to being told no. Well, he was going to be one disappointed alien.

  She needed to get up and go to bed. But she didn’t want to move. Also, there was a tiny part of her that hoped Jerik would sneak into her apartment again. And tempt her.

  Her purse buzzed. She leaped for it and grabbed her cell.

  Are you home now?

  She snorted. He probably knew she was crashed on the couch.

  Maybe

  Are you on your couch?

  What the heck, Jerik. Did you tag me with one of your nanobots?

  Sadly, no. I must use my vivid imagination

  Oh. Medora guessed he had very little need for imagination, if what he said about past sexual exploits was true. And there was no reason for it not to be.

  Why do you need an imagination? You could probably fill a museum with your sexual history.

  You’re cute when you’re sardonic

  You’re cute wearing black tie

  Oh crap, she probably shouldn’t encourage him.

  You’re cute in your underwear

  She should have grabbed her spaghetti sauce-covered apron that morning.

  It’s a good thing you have a vivid imagination. Because you’re never seeing me in that pink underwear again.

  Primarily because she’d trashed it. The reason was irrelevant.

  Debatable

  You keep using that word. You sure you know what it means?

  It means I’ll see you in your underwear again. Soon.

  Unless you put a spy camera in my apartment, NO, you won’t. (And you better not even THINK ABOUT IT MISTER)

  Don’t call me mister. It makes me feel old

  OLD. OMG Jerik you’re like, what, ten thousand years old or something?

  Six thousand four hundred eighty-seven. Tomorrow.

  Tomorrow is not your birthday.

  How do you know?

  I just do. Leave me alone.

  Every day can be your birthday when you get what you want

  Have a good night, Jerik.

  Sweet dreams, my pet

  She rolled her eyes. Then sent the eye roll emoji to him.

  You wound me

  Oh please. But I really do want to thank you for keeping me from falling on my face.

  Is falling so bad?

  Only in certain company. Good NIGHT, Jerk. Oops. Jerik

  Good night Medora

  Oh hell, why did that text send a thrill from her lady bits all the way down to her toes?

  Chapter Twelve

  Jerik gathered all the papers in the morning just as he had done every morning since meeting Medora. Every tidbit, any snippet that mentioned her, he devoured. He refused to apologize for his interest. It was a passing fancy, nothing more. He just needed one, delicious, taste of her. That kiss.

  The morning after visiting Callie, one tabloid had a blurry photo of her outside the hospital with her hand to her lips. The tactless headline read: Heiress Fighting Digestive Disease in Losing Battle. It was ridiculous. They’d manufactured the story, obviously.

  On this morning, the morning after the charity ball, he was curious what he would find.

  Heiress Falls for Alien Sex Club Owner

  Bigoted Socialite Slums with Alien Sex God

  Alien Sex in the City?

  Chicago’s Angel Falls for Alien Bad Boy

  Krinar Sex God Seduces Virgin Heiress

  Fuck.

  Each article had at least one or more photo of them at the ball. When he caught her, when he helped her off the dais, when they danced. There was one photograph in the Sun-Times that disturbed him more than any other. It was a single shot of him, imposing in his expensive suit, with a decidedly predatory look in his eyes. The photographer had managed to capture his wolfish nature. He pushed it aside and flipped it over.

  He yanked his phone from the charger and dialed Medora’s number. It went to voicemail.

  Damn it. He’d done this. From what he’d gathered when he first started—stalking her—for lack of a better phrase, she’d managed to keep a low profile. He paced.

  He sat at his expansive dining room table, the table that he’d once used for passionate sex with two women, but never ate at, and buried his face in his hands. Medora was not going to be happy about this.

  Maybe it would help her organization. He tried to call her again. No answer.

  Resorted to a text.

  Call me.

  If you don’t call me, I’m coming over

  He decided he wouldn’t wait.

  He pulled on a celery green Henley and jeans. He almost called his driver, then realized the press could be camping out in front of her building even now. The vultures.

  He knew she was going to rip his head off for this, but he slid the smooth metal device into his palm and created a portal gate to her living room. He stepped in, surprised at its tidiness. Perhaps she didn’t come home last night? Perhaps she went home with someone else? He made such a convincing argument she followed his advice. And chose a human man. His gut roiled. But no. She’d texted him. Right? Damn his insecurity.

  He stepped further into the room, taking a moment to appreciate her style. One wall had a collage of photos of presumably family: a smiling beautiful woman who could only be her mother. He saw at once where Medora received her grace and poise. The photos traced an arc of family life and togetherness for a period of time, and then they stopped. There were no more photos of Medora after about the age of nine or ten. Or of the mother. That reflected what he’d learned in his obsessive research of her life.

  He scanned the surfaces of her tables, noticing trinkets that seemed to be out of place in a penthouse. Folded paper birds, framed crayon drawings, plastic rings and junky toys. His brows furrowed in confusion. He bent to pick up a folded card with a crude figure drawn on it—perhaps it was a pink ball with two sticks protruding from the bottom? And a dated electrical outlet drawn in the center of the ball? He turned the card this way and that, mystified. He looked inside the fold. “How does a sick pig get to the hospital? In a HAMbulance!”

  He stared a moment longer. A childish scrawl filled the bottom half of the paper. Your friend, Tim

  He set it gently back on the glass tabletop, the mystery solved. She surrounded herself with the memories of the patients her foundation had served. Jerik felt a lump forming in his throat.

  The headlines—his sex clubs.

  Her acquaintance with him could jeopardize her foundation. He’d been on Earth for years now. He knew how things worked. The board of directors could ask her to step down as Executive Director. The families of the children might think she was “guilty by association” and request she stay away. He shoved his hands in his pockets and stared at the ceiling. Medora would be devastated.

  Her scent stirred his senses, and he looked toward the hall. She still slept. She hadn’t seen the news bots then. His mind scrambled to come up with something, anything, to prevent her from the pain that would surely come with the aftereffects of his impetuosity last night.

  He replayed their conversations. His gut clenched. His heart raced. He was no hero, but he might have the solution. To both problems. He couldn’t help the wicked smile that played across his lips.

  He pulled his nano-device out of his pocket and ran a sub-program.

  He walked down the hall, letting her lily fragrance guide him. He found her, obscured by gray satin sheets, sprawled in bed. She snored softly and had a sleeping mask over her eyes. Her hair was a riotous mass of spun white-gold. A bare shoulder, a naked foot, the hollow of her throat—each part seemed to sing to him and only for him. No one had touched her yet.

  His arousal answered back with ferocious undertones. He took a predatory step toward her bed, but then remembered why he was here.

  With resignation, he turned his back to her and cleared his throat. “Medora, you need to wake up. We have important bu
siness to discuss.” His hearing picked up the swish of satin against skin and the quick inhalation that signaled her awakening. He smiled lazily, imagining the look on her face. She would be furious with him. He liked it.

  Her husky voice caressed his ears. “What business could possibly be important enough to wake Cinderella after her night at the ball?” She yawned. “This is beyond the pale, Jerik.”

  “It seems I made a critical error last night when I prevented your fall.” He dipped his head. “Ah, and when I made that rather large bid for an evening with you probably didn’t help matters, either.”

  He heard her gasp. How he would love to see her now. He envisioned the sheet slipping below her shoulders as she sat up in a huff. Blood rushed below his belt. Jerik couldn’t believe he was counting by days instead of hours now. Damn Medora the minx.

  He heard rustling fabric, a drawer slide open and shut.

  “You may as well turn around, Jerik, although I don’t understand why you’re being all gentlemanly when you have broken into my apartment for a second time while I’m not dressed.”

  He turned to see she was wearing a Chicago Cubs T-shirt. And nothing else. Suddenly America’s ancient pastime seemed like a very appealing sport.

  She folded her arms and tapped her bare foot on the gray carpet. She had a silver toe ring and red-painted toenails. Why did such details fascinate him?

  “Well? Spit it out, Jerik.”

  He sighed. Presented one of the newspapers he’d folded and stuck into the back of his pants. She read the headline, straight white teeth pinning her bottom lip. He could do that for her…

  “Well damn,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

  Jerik frowned. “You’re sorry?”

  “Yes. How long have you been playboying around town and not been in the newspapers? I mean, I know you were on GQ, but this?” She flicked the newspaper with a French-manicured nail. “This is just nuts.”

  Jerik glanced to his left and spied a gray club chair with a white diamond pattern. Her white stole from last night was draped across it. He nudged it aside and sat, placing his hands upon his knees.

  “Your position as Executive Director of Humans with Heart is in jeopardy.”