by Emma Alisyn
Ithann ripped the covering off her head, frustrated when her brilliant peacock-blue braids remained bound at her nape. He wanted, needed something to tug. To pull. To plunge into.
“That’s right,” she said, her voice dropping to a husky croon. “Lose control. You want to punish me, don’t you? Why hold back, Ithann? Why not just punish me like a naughty girl?”
He’d never had a female speak to him so. She would be no tame consort. Even warrior females in the caste of higher-echelon families were more… demure… in their expressions of lust. They knew better than to incite, rile a warrior until he really was out of his mind, intent only on one thing. Conquering.
Ithann stepped back. “You don’t know what you’re doing, female.”
But her limpid eyes just sparkled, a small smile on her lush lips. “I don’t, do I? You’ll speed this process up, eventually, Ithy, baby.” She strolled past him to the door. “You wouldn’t want me to lose interest, now would you? Especially since my father is trying to marry me off to some petty bureaucrat.”
And with that parting salvo, she stepped from the room.
Ithann remained still for ten minutes. And told himself, over and over, that he couldn’t kill her father.
The afternoon’s entertainment didn’t make the evening news—too damn bad—but Gayle didn’t underestimate her father. Preferring to get any possible shitstorms out of the way as soon as possible, she strolled through the kitchen door at the dinner hour. The chef glanced her way, an exasperated rebuke on his lips when Gayle snatched a few tidbits from the hors d’oeuvre tray. Hmm. The Parents must be entertaining this evening. She paused, examined the laid-out first and second course more carefully. By analyzing the intricacy of preparation and expense of either local, or foreign luxury ingredients, Gayle could pinpoint within a few million net worth exactly what level of society the parents were hosting. Whether political, esteemed artist or scientists, politician, or the occasional top university professor—just so mother could demonstrate she wasn’t, in fact, a snob. But could rub elbows with the Middle Tier class as well.
Gayle snorted, briefly considered entering the dining room in her current workout getup, then detoured to her room at the last minute. Only children thought offending one’s palate with a day’s worth of gym room stink was an appropriate form of rebellion.
Her shower was quick, and she threw on a nondescript pair of sleek trousers and a drape-neck blouse. Added a rope of colored stones around her neck and let her braids remain loose.
When she entered the dining room, she nearly betrayed herself by stopping in her tracks. Gayle managed, just in time, to smooth the hitch in her stride. Her parents chatted near the real, working fireplace—the fire was merely digital during this time of the year, though—wine in their hands, with a man. A man of appropriate marriageable age for their eldest daughter. She racked her memory to place the vaguely familiar face. Handsome, mostly from generations of careful marriage practices, good diet, and plenty of personal training. In a non-descript way, though. There was nothing particularly unique about the physique that turned towards her, or the pleasant practiced expression on the square-jawed face. Ithann had far more personality, even though he tried to hide it under being an ass. But at least that was still interesting.
“Ma, Pa,” Gayle greeted when she approached, choosing the diminutives she knew they disliked.
“Abigail,” her father greeted, as her mother leaned in for a kiss on the cheek. “Have you met Arthur Bennington? Howard and Cecile’s middle son.”
Howard and Cecile Bennington. Green-energy lobbyists and self-made billionaires, the stench of their blue-collar roots washed away from now three generations of political and financial savvy. Almost no one remembered their great-grandparents—on Howard’s side—had been human rights protestors.
Gayle accepted a glass of wine, raising it to hide her smile. How gauche, her father would think. Protesting should be done civilly, behind closed doors and with plenty of wine and bank transfers flowing.
“We haven’t met,” Gayle said, holding out her free hand. “You were at the university, I believe?”
“Some years ago,” he replied, clasping her hand. At least the handshake was normal, and his palm wasn’t sweaty. “I’ve been working in venture capital since graduation.”
“He’s funded quite a respectable business for himself,” Father said.
“So enterprising,” Miranda interjected. “Without Howard and Cecile’s help. Such an example of pulling yourself up by the bootstraps.”
“Premium leather designer bootstraps with silver buckles?” Gayle asked.
Mother glanced at her, eyes flashing, then smiled. “Dear, your humor is so refreshing. Abigail is engaged in her own civic duty project, you know.”
“Oh?” Arthur managed to sound interested.
“She procured a slot in the YETI program—refusing the stipend, of course, to go to some needy young woman. I think it’s so important to show how the High Tier doesn’t think itself above hard work and shared experiences with the less fortunate.”
Gayle coughed on her sip of wine. “I really just wanted to learn how to beat the… sin out of an assailant.”
“Admirable,” Arthur said. “So many in our class lack a sense of realism—self-defense brings you face to face with the dark realities of everyday life for the lower Tiers. Commendable. And the contacts you can make among the Yadeshi.”
She gritted her teeth in a smile. “The only contacts the Yadeshi are interested in are the kind that produce warrior mates and skilled labor for their ships.”
Arthur’s brow rose. “But you had to have some discussion with a higher-ranked Yadeshi to modify the terms of the contract.”
“There were no modifications.”
He turned towards her father after a moment. Gayle looked between the two men.
“Dad, what did you tell him?”
“Let’s ring for the first course, why don’t we? Some discussions are better over a meal.”
4
She allowed her father to deflect the present conversation towards small talk for the next several minutes. Mainly so she could gather her thoughts. She knew very well why Arthur Bennington had been invited to dinner. He was the first of the eligible young bachelors—the term made her want to gag—her parents would demand she choose a spouse from.
“He told you I was looking for a husband, didn’t he?” Gayle asked Arthur.
There was silence. She’d chosen a brief lull in the conversation to avoid giving her parents an excuse to pretend not to hear her.
Miranda sighed. “Abigail, you’re such a high-spirited girl—”
“I’m pretty sure I passed the girl mark over a decade ago.” She turned to Arthur. “When was the last time you heard a thirty-year-old woman referred to as a girl?”
He took a bite of his fish, wisely restraining a reply. Her estimation of his intelligence went up a notch.
“It’s time you focused on your family career, dear. Thirty, even in these days, is rather old to still be discovering what your long-term interests are. You’re trained in household accounts management, social media marketing, community organizing—all the skills that make you such an asset to any young man looking to establish a stable High Tier household.”
Gayle put down her fork, leaning back in her chair with a sigh. “You guys do know you can’t strong arm me into marrying? You do know that, right?”
“We can have this particular discussion another time,” her father said. “Let’s not be rude to our guest.”
“I’m courting a Yadeshi warrior.”
Silence.
“That must be interesting,” Arthur said, choosing another bite of fish. “I always wondered at the difference in temperament between alien soldiers and human soldiers. They’re famed for their control, after all—but is it only propaganda to lessen public fear?”
“No. They’re disciplined, and slow to judgment.”
“Hmm.” He glanced at her
, genuine interest in his face. “Can you arrange a tour? I’m curious to see what your training entails.”
She stared at him. Either he really was curious, and not very worried about her hand in marriage, or he was very clever and trying to put her off her guard.
“What a wonderful idea, Abigail,” her mother said brightly. “Why don’t you arrange that? You two can make a lunch date of it.”
There weren’t many arrangements to make. Students were encouraged to bring their friends and family to the viewing areas to rope in more applicants. Gayle gave Arthur a tour of the common areas the next day, leaving him in the observation deck to join her training group on the mats.
Ithann didn’t look at her; his refusal to acknowledge her presence was enough acknowledgment. The little extra malice in the intensity of the drill and subsequent matches he assigned her were also clear evidence of ire.
She set her teeth and endured it. Mila flowed a few paces away, matched with a gangly young man recently moved up to another skill level.
A moment of inattention cost Abigail; she’d be sporting a bruise high on her cheek.
“Did you have something better to do this afternoon?” Ithann asked her, arms folded, eyes cold. “It appears my training is a waste of your time and attention.”
At last, she could pinpoint the little inflection in his voice that always set her teeth on edge; despite the language differences, she realized he spoke with the cadence of what passed as High Tier in his world. The subtle affront that he wasn’t the center of her attention, the over-correct use of language to hide emotion.
Time to knock the prince off his horse. “You want a piece of me?” she asked, and grinned, cocking a hip. “All you had to do was ask.”
His eyes narrowed, then he turned, dismissing her. “You’re no challenge for me.”
That wiped the grin from her face. Usually he responded with his own brand of flat sarcasm, giving as good as she gave. What was eating at him?
She crossed the increasing distance between them in a series of quick, silent steps, and launched an attack at his back.
He dropped immediately, sweeping his leg around in a kick she just managed to avoid and only because she hadn’t expected to get the drop on him anyway. They launched into a series of blows. Attack, counterattack.
“Sloppy,” he said.
She broke away from a near hold, circling him, keeping her eyes trained on his.
“Must be your teaching.”
His lip curled. “I think not.”
Gayle broke through his guard, scoring a blow before she darted away. His brow rose, likely in response to the grin on her face.
“I see no cause for elation.”
Ithann kicked, pulling back at the last second when she fell for the feign, and delivered his real blow. “A teacher must allow a student to score on occasion. Or else, how will you practice follow through?”
She stuck out her tongue. He responded by increasing his speed, pressing her defense, and finally locking her in a hold. His chest pressed against her back.
“Why do you bring a human male with you today?” he asked, his voice pitched low for her ears only.
She tried to break the hold, and winced, suppressing a howl of pain when he adjusted, sending shoots of fire into her shoulders.
“My father wants me to marry him.”
“Your father is a fool.”
Dropping her weight, she executed the counter move to escape his hold. Grimly aware, he allowed it. Because he was right. How the hell could a student learn to execute a series of maneuvers if never given the chance to use them?
Ithann didn’t give her more than a second to recover, pressing her guard again.
“Why?” she asked, then launched into three quick flips to put enough space between them. Her muscles burned from the strain—as good as her physical condition was, she couldn’t keep up with a Yadeshi warrior at full pace for long. A few minutes—which, she’d learned, was impressive enough. But still just a few minutes.
“You would break that boy,” he said, when the ebb of the fight brought them back within whisper distance.
“Jealous?”
A fine tremble ran through Gayle’s muscles and she grit her jaw against betraying her fatigue. Ithann’s eyes narrowed, a small smile flickered around his lips. He knew, and would exploit her weakness. He had her pinned in another thirty seconds, rising immediately and offering a hand to help her to her feet. She took it to show no hard feelings—this was just foreplay, anyway—and he pulled her close. Just long enough to whisper in her ear.
“I hope your guest found his tour informative. I hope he makes it out of the complex alive.”
Gayle stared as Ithann turned and walked away, and then laughed. The poor dear was jealous.
“That fight looked heated,” Arthur said when she joined him.
Gayle shrugged a shoulder. “Not really. He didn’t even break a sweat. You should see the skirmishes between the advanced students. And once a quarter, they hold a melee in the fields and treat it like a real battle. That is heated.”
“Hmm.”
Arthur excused himself a little while later, and Gayle used the locker room to shower and change. And then hunted her alien down in the corner of a staff lounge area. Since Ithann never lounged anywhere, for any reason, she suspected he was trying to hide from her.
Suspicions that seemed true when he immediately darkened the screen of his device as she approached. Gayle threw herself on the couch, settling her back against the arm and swinging her legs over his lap.
If his back could stiffen any more, it would be a board.
“This isn’t appropriate,” he said.
“They already know you have the hots for me, honey.” She glanced around. “Besides, no one is here. So… jealous of Arthur? You don’t have to be. He asked to see the facility; it would have been rude to tell him to schedule a public tour.”
He stared at her, setting the device down on a nearby table with a huffy click that would do even her mother proud.
“Are we courting?” he asked.
She blinked. Not that he was the kind of man who softened his words—even when he couched biting insults in the loveliest verbiage—but this was the first time he’d come right out and said the word courting.
“I figured that was what we were doing?”
“Why do you want me?”
The question startled her. She felt a twinge of discomfort. It was… easier, less threatening to remain light hearted, joke and tease. To shove her obvious lust in front of her like a shield.
“I… like you. You don’t think I’m only useful for dinner parties and fundraising.”
“Like your father.”
She shrugged. “He wants me to marry. To be a proper High Tier politician’s wife.”
His hand wrapped around her ankle. “Did you tell him no?”
“Of course I did!”
“Not forcefully enough. And then you bring the male he wants for you to observe you. So he can watch you with lust.”
Gayle opened her mouth, closed it, chagrined. “I- it seemed rude to tell him no.”
Ithann continued to stare her down. Gayle squirmed, tugging at her ankle. “Allright,” she snapped. “Maybe I wanted to make you jealous.”
His eyes were clear, and cold. “I am a Bdahn of the City-State Nganda. I will not be toyed with. If you are mine, then you are mine.”
She needed to navigate this male very, very carefully. “Does that mean you don’t want me to speak to other men, period?”
He frowned. “Don’t be stupid.”
Gayle sat up. “Look, buddy, a little jealousy is cute, but when you start flinging the stupid word around, we have a problem.”
“Why? If you ask a question that betrays a lack of thought, is that not what it is—stupid?”
Her mouth thinned. “What it is, is verbal abuse.”
And she wouldn’t tolerate it. She swung her legs off his lap and began to stand. A hand
lashed out, latching onto the back of her neck, and holding her still.
“I don’t doubt your intelligence, I doubt your understanding of what it means to court. I apologize if I caused offense.”
She studied him. The apology came without any attending stiffness, which meant he didn’t mind issuing it. And he wasn’t a liar, or some desperate needy man. Just a bit of a jerk.
“Don’t use the word stupid,” she warned. “Find another way to tell me you disagree.”
His eyes narrowed, and he grimaced. “Females.”
Gayle sighed. “And then you ruin it by—”
Ithann leaned forward and kissed her. Gayle supposed, as decidedly un-cold lips captured hers, that the concept of shutting the woman up with a bit of judicious soft foreplay was pretty much universal. Literally, universal.
The hand on her neck rose to her cheek, fingertips stroking her skin softly as he exerted expert, subtle pressure. He led, body pressing her down onto the couch, a bold move for Mr. No Displays of Public Affection.
She slid her arms around him, turning her face away so she could speak. “What happened to inappropriate?”
Gayle yelped. Sharp teeth sank into her neck, enough to break the skin and a second later, a warm tongue caressed the bite.
“What are you doing?”
“I have a taste for human blood,” he said. “Yours, in particular, it seems. I’ve been craving the scent for weeks now.”
The casual admission floored her, especially since his face was still buried in her neck, nuzzling her, and from the angle of his body against hers she could tell he was getting very, very heated.
“Are you a vampire?”
“Hmm. The males of my family have a certain… reputation among some circles.”
The undercurrent in his voice… a shiver eased through her.
“Oh, Ithy baby, I think you’re holding out on me.”
His head lifted. His eyes were bright, the dark striations of blue and sea green stark against the warrior glow. “Yes, I have been. I am awaiting formal permission from my parents to bond.”
