by Emma Alisyn
She wouldn’t have to pull his nose if he’d keep it in his own business. Marry? As if. He acted like he was a feudal lord and Gayle his virginal daughter to hand off to the highest bidder as a prize. She snorted. And her parents believed she wouldn’t relish the challenge of being thrown out to the wolves.
They didn’t know her very well. She itched to test her strength, to try out her full capabilities. Mila took care of herself and a sick mother, and she was younger than Gayle. There were other women in the Academy who were single mothers, or had no family. Gayle looked at them and realized they were the warriors, not her. Dissatisfaction settled low in her belly. She didn’t want to be the princess in the tower.
She wanted to be the dark knight.
The journey through Omaha to Samson’s place was short, Gayle entertained herself with pictures of her father’s face, hoping today’s amusement would make it to the local evening news. Gayle contained a chuckle at her childish fantasies as they walked up to the house containing the man who was a threat to Mila and Ayita, Mila’s mother.
“Does your mate know you’re here?” Gayle asked.
Mila slanted her a sidelong look. “Are you crazy? Of course, not.”
“Hell, yeah. Ithann’s going to freak out, too.”
Mila grimaced. “I just don’t get you and him. He’s so… stuffy. And mean as a rattlesnake.”
Gayle smiled. She had a handle on Ithann. All bark and no real bite. “I’m wearing him down. You’ll see.”
So would her parents, when they realized she was slowly steering the male towards choosing her as a mate. He was perfect. Cool, calm, a snarky foil to her frenetic energy, and he didn’t treat Gayle like a fairy princess. His training was often brutal, he didn’t hold back because of who she was. The only daughter of a long line of entrenched, famous politicians all the way back to a history-making president of the United States.
“What are you doing here?” Samson asked with a scowl, bleary eyed, when they banged on his door.
Gayle followed hard on Mila’s heels as her friend barreled into the house. She looked around, taking in the poorly lit interior with interest. Old-fashioned stucco on the walls and real wood trim to match the creaky floors. It wasn’t unkempt—but it had character.
“You should really try to get to bed at a decent time, Sam,” Mila said. “You don’t look so hot.”
The man slammed the front door closed, eliminating most of the light. Gayle itched to walk up to the curtains and open them.
“Slamming doors is rude,” she said, turning to observe him. Mila watched the male, eyes bright, that expression on her face that told Gayle the girl was about to do some of her juju.
“Who the fuck is you?” He squinted. “Hey, aren’t you—”
“No. I get that all the time,” Gayle lied, heading him off. She might want some media attention if it happened that way, but she wasn’t stupid enough to make herself a target by confirming vague suspicions about her identity. Another reason she’d wrapped her braids. “I’ve got that kind of face.”
He tugged up the waistband of his drooping pants. His white tank didn’t look entirely clean, but then it must have been his maid’s day off.
“Oh, yeah? What do you want, Mila?” he asked, still giving Gayle a suspicious look. “You here to pay the tab?”
Mila crossed her arms, balancing on the balls of her feet. “I’m here to make you an offer you can’t refuse. Ayita is broke. I’m broke—”
“That’s a lie. I heard you was messin’ around with them aliens, girl. They got money.”
“They have muscle,” Gayle corrected, then smiled sweetly. “And advanced weaponry.”
“Yeah? Where is it? Not here.” Samson pulled a communicator out of his pocket and tapped a few buttons.
Mila snapped her fingers in his face. “Don’t get sidetracked. What I’m going to do is make six monthly payments in an amount that will equal one fourth of what Ayita owes you. In return, I won’t rat your ass out for being an unlicensed dealer.”
He stilled. “You wanna watch your mouth. Your mama will be back here sooner or later and I’ll take your disrespect out on her.”
Gayle watched his fingers carefully. He wasn’t replying to comments on social media. She expected backup to arrive any second now, and subtly eased herself into a defensive position, back to the wall. At a certain angle, she could see through the living room, the dining room and kitchen, also a view of the back door. She didn’t hear feet upstairs, so backup would likely come through the kitchen.
“My mother will never be back here—and she’s somewhere you won’t be able to touch her.”
“You can get out of my house,” Samson said. “I’ll take full payments in cash, or ass. One or the other and you have a week.” He stopped. “You know what, forget that shit. Give me my money now.”
And those were the magic words that told Gayle his people had arrived.
She saw the swing of the back door opening and a handful of nondescript enforcers file in. Plain t-shirts, dark-washed jeans, and sneakers.
Gayle grinned, lifting a hand to wave a little welcome. “Oh, squee—I love parties.”
“Looks like,” Samson said. “So, what’s it gonna be? Cash or ass? Same deal I give your mama, it’s only fair.” Gayle saw the half grim, half-crazy smile on Mila’s face, watched the way her eyes intensified, and knew matters were about to get real.
Five on their side, likely well versed in deliciously dirty street brawling, and two on their side. Trained in a style the street fighters wouldn’t have knowledge in, and with Mila’s strange ability to give them an edge… but still. Not great odds.
Training kicked in as the two women closed the space between them, guarding each other’s backs. Yadeshi style was all about using the opponent’s momentum and weight against him—allowing the enemy to make the first move and betray their strategy. Which was why duels often took so long to begin, until one person decided to get things rolling.
“Now, you don’t really want to tear up your house with a fight, Sam,” Mila said.
“There isn’t much to tear up, the decor is deplorable,” Gayle murmured, containing a wince. She sounded like her mother. She reminded herself that being Low Tier didn’t necessarily excuse one for a lack of color in one’s domicile.
“Daddy’s princess has a mouth on her,” Samson said, watching Gayle.
And with that comment, her amusement evaporated. He knew who she was, which meant this wasn’t going to be a clean beat down, but an opportunity for him to grab a politician’s daughter for ransom. Or other things. She didn’t put it past a man with eyes like those to keep a High Tier woman for the sheer entertainment factor of gang rape.
“Beat the shit out of the short one—take the lamppost upstairs.”
The flunkies had their marching orders. Two moved in, one for each woman. Gayle waited until he’d entered her space. Medium height, lean muscle, and smooth skin with a healthy layer of fat under his face. The whites of his eyes were clear and he moved properly. So well fed, and not on any substances that would make him easy prey.
He feigned; Gayle didn’t move. After he tried her two more times without a response, he must have assumed she didn’t know what she was doing. But she was waiting. When he broke through the space that placed his momentum in her power, she countered. A quick flurry of kicks and punches set to stun sent him staggering back outside her circle. If she’d had another ally, he would have been restrained at that point.
He shook it off and returned, coming in hard and fast, but still not understanding how to attack someone with her training. She grabbed his wrist, using his own speed and weight to slam him into the wall, the heel of her free hand knocking his head into the stucco. Mila had already shifted, dealing with her own assailant, and remaining aware of Gayle simultaneously.
Gayle whirled to intercept another attack as the man she’d just knocked out slid down the wall. A blow to her face left her stunned for several seconds. She cursed me
ntally. Too slow. He swung again and she blocked, parrying with a twist and sharp kick to his knee. Samson joined the fight, a visual sweep showing that even with two men down, they were still outnumbered.
“Time to level up,” Gayle said.
Samsun snorted. “What, this a vid game, now?”
Mila understood. They fought at a lower offensive level, the level predicated on one’s situation not being dire, and thus not necessitating a great amount of risk in counter offense. Gayle burst into action, taking herself inside Samson’s guard, allowing her own defense to open enough for potential blows to break through, but giving her more options to inflict damage. The idea being to take a proverbial—or literal—knife to win the fight.
They circled around to the living room. She had a split second to register the location of furniture—a couch shoved against the far wall with an old coffee table. A tall lamp at her right near the arch into the entryway. Enough space in front of the curtained windows to maneuver without tripping over anything except the edges of a mass-produced area rug.
Samson lunged, Gayle dropping at the last moment and pushed up, using her back to propel him backwards—through the front window. The shattering of old-fashioned breakable glass startled the remaining men.
Gayle intercepted the remaining flunkies, who moved as if to go to Samson as Mila aimed a swift punch to the nose at her momentarily distracted opponent, grabbing his head when he moved to catch spurting blood and looking deep into his eyes.
He swiped at her, Gayle jumping back at the last moment as she saw something shiny on the edges of his knuckles.
“Fuck, that’s cheating,” she yelled.
He grinned. “No cheating in war, bitch.”
War was an excessive term to use in the circumstances. When he moved on her again, she was ready, grabbing his arm above the wrist, yanking him past her and whirling to aim a kick square in his back and send him straight into the opening door and an angry, blue warrior.
“Well, shit. I guess we have reinforcements,” Gayle said.
Ithann glanced at her, expression hard, and dealt with the human male as if he were no more annoying than a flea. He barely exerted effort, the casualness of his movements stirring a kind of sour envy and determination to get better, damnit, in her belly. And then Jaron stepped inside.
“Oh, hell,” Mila said. “Hi, babe.”
3
“This conduct is unacceptable for an aja’eko,” he said, disturbed when she barely batted a lash. As if his displeasure was of no import.
They were in a two-person transport on the way to YETI, though the appearance of intimacy between them by not riding with the others as a group could be misconstrued as favoritism. Or something else. Because it was favoritism, of a sort, he would say nothing when they returned and the other warriors gave him knowing looks. An instructor was never alone with a student outside of the Academy for any reason—unless that instructor was male, and courting.
“I must not have read the Code of Conduct closely enough when I joined,” she said, voice languid.
There was no code of conduct—and he would see that remedied immediately. And he’d have to put some effort into teaching her to respect him. Effort that would have to be conducted in private. Ithann bared his teeth in a smile. He contained his fury, as always, because there was no other choice. A warrior, a Bdahn or prince as the humans would say, didn’t give in to petty emotion like anger, except on the battlefield. But she needed discipline—the kind females with a dangerous combination of intelligence and parental indulgence needed. Across a warrior’s knee, or on her knees, round ass presented for his taking. Pussy glistening, begging for him to feast.
“You could’ve killed yourself,” he said. She thought more of her skills than she should, and would get herself seriously hurt. All students with more than a modicum of potential always thought more of themselves—Gayle was no exception. At this stage, a student’s ego and overblown perception of their own abilities must be carefully managed.
She snorted. “Nah. Street brawl. Maybe a few centuries ago when hand guns were common, but even with blades, they wouldn’t have known how to counter us fast enough to be a real threat.”
Ithann flexed his hand. His fingers ached to wrap around something—mostly her neck as he sank his cock inside her pussy, making her scream. If she truly knew the darkness of his thoughts—she would scream. But in this upright conveyance, there was no space for him to maneuver her to the ground. Unless the maneuver was for her to kneel, wrapping her lush lips around his cock. “You’re dangerous. You think more of yourself than you should.”
“Yes?” Her voice cooled, considerably. “Or maybe I think more of your training than I should.”
He restrained his retort. His aja’eki were a reflection on him, the quality of his training and the strength of his imposed discipline. A reflection on the name of his family. His parents, to whom he owed obedience though he was years past his majority, still ruled their house, unchallenged, with dignity and tradition. They’d allowed their youngest son to accept a commission to come to Earth because they saw it as a civic duty—and a demonstration that the Ngandan did not think themselves above… menial labor.
And, in truth, Ithann thought the mission a noble one. Their people needed an influx of fresh, capable labor and women for the sons of the lower-ranked houses to mate and produce heirs with. Humans had proven their genes to be capable of breeding strong warriors—different, but still strong. No one, yet, had been embarrassed by a child born of a human mother.
It wasn’t for him, of course. Or his parents assumed it wasn’t for him. But the more time he spent around the Earth females, the more he realized that though different, they were no less worthy to bear strong warriors for even the higher-ranked Yadeshi heirs.
Despite the potentially lethal combination of frustrating beauty, twisty intelligence, and a lifetime of every whim being indulged. Insolent eyes that tried to hide her lust even as she challenged him to do something about it. Ithann smiled again. He would accept her challenge, but on his own terms and when she least expected it.
“How did you guys know where we were, anyway?” she asked him.
Ithann didn’t lower himself to reply. Gayle was an ideal candidate. Tall, physically strong. Trained by her people in social graces, which would please his mother. He could lay before his parents her lineage as being a noble one, as humans considered such things. She would wear the robes of his house with elegance and grace. Energetic, which he acknowledged was a foil for his own dourness. His mother had always said he was bland—and moody—even as a child. He needed a bright bride or else his wing of the family stronghold would be a silent, subdued one. And he wanted the noise, the influx of light a high energy female and little ones would bring.
But really—he didn’t give a fuck about any of the rationalization. He’d chosen her. Whether she was suitable or not, a good choice or not, she was his. He’d play games with Gayle and his parents to hide his less-than-civilized nature, but not for long. Soon he’d just take what he’d marked and damned if she wouldn’t like it.
He’d make sure she liked it, begged for it. Would kill for it, the way he would kill any male who laid a finger on her. That human was lucky he was too pathetic to warrant Ithann’s personal attention.
“Ithann? What’s wrong? You look like you’re about to sink fangs into a raw steak or something.”
Did he? He shrugged, saying nothing. She’d object at being referred to as a steak, even if lovingly seasoned, seared to juicy perfection. Mouthwatering on the outside, wet and dripping on the inside. Ready to be eaten whole.
Ithann remained silent as they entered the Academy, not trusting himself. Increasingly, his urges floated to the surface, threatening his control. Control he was sick of. He waited until they’d walked silently through the clean halls to a small training room. He darkened the wide wraparound observation windows for privacy, and turned on her.
“I did not give you leave to seek r
eprisal against the human.”
She arched a brow. “So, you think being my boyfriend gives you the right to tell me what to do?”
He felt his jaw tighten. He hated that term. He was neither a boy, nor her friend. Not yet a lover—more damn control rearing its head. Until he’d formally received permission from his parents to attempt to bind her, he wasn’t supposed to touch her and even then, there were ceremonies, introduction, rites… his head began to pound thinking about it. That was his mother’s business, arranging all the particulars. He just wanted to get the formalities out of the way, mate his woman, and get her on the fertility treatments as soon as possible to start producing heirs. His older brothers already had a handful between them.
“I am not your boyfriend.”
“Really?” Her voice was a deep purr. “And what are you then? When we kiss, when you touch me in naughty places, what does that make you?”
She pressed her body against his, lithe, nearly as tall as a Yadeshi female, dark eyes snapping with mirth and sexual heat. Her slender fingers took his hand and placed it over her breast.
He would not. She couldn’t control him simply by offering her body as a feast. By submitting herself, a female with a warrior’s spirit, to him alone. The headiness would stoke any male’s ego, knowing he was the chosen one. But his hand betrayed him, cupping her breast as his other arm slid around her waist, pulling her against him.
Damnit, his sanity was beginning to unravel. He’d held out for weeks, but she wore against his defenses. And he struggled daily to remind himself why he continued to wait, when he’d already determined she would be his. His intentions were honorable, even if what he wanted to lavish on her body wasn’t. Her contract stated she must make herself available for any acceptable male who wanted her as a mate. He’d maneuvered her into thinking she pursued him, when really, he was ensuring her sole attention was on him until the time he could make it known, officially, to whom she belonged.
