by Sara King
Dragomir’s back had almost entered the trees.
“Help me!” Victory cried, straining to get the man’s big body flipped onto his back.
Reluctantly, Thor did as she asked.
Victory’s guts clenched at the great mass of ruined bone and flesh that was Dragomir’s forehead. Then he was on his back, and she was crawling on top of him.
“What are you—” Thor asked, frowning. Behind him, Lion and Whip had jogged up, and were watching the scene with confusion.
Instinct had taken over, now. Victory positioned her heart over Dragomir’s. Then she closed her eyes and touched the pressure in her chest. It felt like a balloon, stretched to the very limits of its tolerance by hot, energized air. Victory grabbed the straining membrane in her mind and pushed.
In the field outside the glowing expanse of trees, Dragomir stopped. He turned, slowly.
A moment later, her heart rama exploded outward like a burst dam.
This time, however, there was physical pain, as well as mental. Victory sucked in a lungful of air and screamed. This time, there was no Emp nearby to help guide the flood. This time, the energy washed through her, hitting the ramas directly above and below, and bursting those dams, too, adding their own stores of horrors to the flood. Then it continued on downward, surging out through her core, and up through the top of her head. The images that it carried with it were an unending stream of violence so shattering that Victory’s existence became one continuous vision of pain, horror, and terror.
She screamed until she was hoarse, then screamed until her voice was a whisper, and still they came. Images of her father, mocking her, images of a hundred different men, using her. She felt someone grab her, pick her up, hold her. She felt herself sob until her body shook, until mucous ran freely from her face, until every breath exited in a low moan.
Her cries had finally died to a whimper when she finally found the strength to open her eyes.
Dragomir was cradling her, a circular scar marring his forehead. A few feet away, his brother and the two Praetorian were all standing, faces white, as if they were watching a specter. “Shhhh,” the Emp said, still rocking her. “You’ll feel better soon, Princess.” His blue eyes were filled with tears. “Promise.”
When Victory met his gentle gaze, she was lost. Like a hot hurricane passing through her, it bottled in her chest, condensing bolts of energy down her spine, then spread outward, hot and warm and enveloping.
“What is that?” she whispered.
In reply, the Emp gasped and dragged her forward, wrapping her in big arms, hugging her to his chest. She felt the pressure building within, but this time, there was no pain, just a gentle current between them.
…between them?
Eventually, Victory pulled herself free, frowning. The feeling of separating made her chest ache, like she was tugging against a wound, and it worried her. She looked down at the place between her breasts, half expecting to find some sort of cord buried in her breastbone. What did he do to me?
“Uh,” Thor said, clearing his throat. “So.” He scratched at the back of his neck and made a nervous sound as he watched his brother. “…you’re alive, right?” The way he said it, it almost sounded as if the Shi thought he was looking at a ghost.
Dragomir grunted, beginning to pick pieces of zip-ties from under the newly-scarred flesh of his wrists. When he met Victory’s eyes again, she felt all the power of a mountain in his gaze. The hurricane began building within her again, preparing to be swept away, and she instinctively looked somewhere else. She thought she saw Dragomir’s face darken with a tiny frown before she cleared her throat. “Well, let’s get that vessel out of sight. Those guys’ friends might come looking for them. Anyone here who can fly a ship, other than me?”
They couldn’t, of course. The Praetorian were not schooled in such things, and the two peasants had never experienced a need to learn.
Sighing, trying to hide the odd sensation she was feeling in her chest, Victory stalked over to the ship and climbed the ramp. She heard Lion bark orders behind her, but continued into the hull, anyway, trying to get somewhere quiet so she could think.
What did he do to me? she thought again. Her chest ached, and again, she felt the odd sensation of a cord. She found the dingy, smoke-smelling cockpit and slumped into the grease-smeared pilot’s chair. She heard the others pull the bodies onboard, heard Thor and Whip try to tell each other what to do. Lion emerged in the doorway a few moments later. “Where do you plan to leave it, milady?”
“Somewhere other than here.” Victory strapped herself in and began powering up the engines. “Is everyone inside?”
“Everyone but the Emp. He is still sitting in the yard.”
Victory felt a spasm in her chest, realizing that she had probably given the Emp the wrong idea in running off. She considered going back, telling him that she just needed a moment to think. Then she put her hand on the throttle, her mouth tightening in a grim line. A sovereign doesn’t have the leisure to waste her time with love. She has to be hard, and cynical, and understand that her life is not her own, that she can not afford the same emotional extravagances as the peasantry she rules. She pushed the throttle forward and began retracting the gate and landing gear.
She had the ship halfway off the ground before she stopped, shocked to the core.
Those were Father’s words. And she had just used them like her own. She was so stunned and horrified that, for several moments, she could only stare at the console in front of her, watching her father repeat them in her mind.
She set the ship back to the ground so suddenly that its entire frame shuddered around her. She was already releasing her seatbelt when Lion ducked her head inside, worried. “Milady?” she asked.
“We’re not leaving him behind,” Victory growled. She went to the hatch, slammed her palm against the gangplank release, then waited impatiently for the ramp to descend before she stormed down it.
Dragomir was pulling a bundle of rope out from behind the rain-barrel.
Victory slapped it out of his hand, sending it careening across the yard. As he blinked at her, she leveled a finger at his startled face. “You are getting on the ship with me, and you are going to stay with me, and you’re going to like it, and I swear to the gods if you ever pick that damned thing up again, I’m going to—”
He dragged her in and kissed her.
Instantly, Victory remembered just how big he was, and just how small she felt with his huge body wrapped around her. Instead of fear this time, however, she felt a tingling at her core, a rush of warmth that traveled all the way up her spine, pooling in her chest. She felt strangely whole as her lips parted to his, seeking. Her heart hammered as his tongue sought out and danced with hers, the heat in her core rising like an inferno from within. She melted into him with a sigh, enjoying the hardness of his body, the solidness of his embrace.
Lion cleared her throat from the gangway. Hard.
Blushing crimson, Victory tried to break away from Dragomir’s embrace, but he kept his arms wrapped around her, pinning her to his torso, grinning. Instantly, Lion’s eyes narrowed on the Emp, and the Praetorian reached for her sword.
“Oh, calm down, you pinch-faced old prude,” Dragomir rumbled at the Praetorian. He grinned down at Victory. “We’re not done yet.” And he bent down and kissed her again.
This time, Victory went weak at the knees.
A Man Without Mercy
Thor directed them to a hot-springs deep in the mountains where Victory put them down amidst massive, jagged peaks.
Victory glanced at the snow-covered mountaintops around them and grimaced. Lion had taken the boots from one of the dead men and forced them onto her feet when she complained, but even with shoes, she was not looking forward to walking through snow. The valley itself had only received a light dusting, most of which had melted in the daylight hours. The path back, aside for a couple of the higher rises, was more or less snow-free.
“We’ll need
to be careful,” Dragomir said. “Imperial slavers sometimes pass overhead, on their way to the bigger towns on the other side of the range. A group this small, they’d pick us up in a heartbeat.”
“You hear something, keep your heads down,” Thor agreed, his face grim. “Let Dragomir and me deal with them.”
“My Praetorian are perfectly capable of dealing with—” Victory began.
“If we do run into them,” Dragomir interrupted, his blue eyes catching Victory’s in warning, “No offense, Princess, but we’re gonna deal with them. Sodstone’s lost its fair share to kidnappings, and Thor and I would rather just mete out a little justice, okay?” He hesitated, his eyes flickering nervously to her throat. “Besides. You should probably stay out of sight, considering.”
Victory unconsciously reached up and touched the collar around her neck. The last—last—thing she wanted to do was get caught by slavers. If she was picked up by a sweep, then she could scream that she was a princess for decades, but because she wore the pretty titanium collar around her neck, no one would bother to so much as check her blood type.
“When I’m Adjudicator,” Victory said softly, “I’m going to ban them all from the planet.”
Both Thor and Dragomir froze, cocking their heads at her like she had suddenly sprouted horns. They watched her so long that Victory’s skin began to crawl and she thought maybe she had said something wrong. It was Thor who finally said, “What did you just say, Princess?”
“The slave trade,” Victory said, fighting embarrassment at their stares. “I’m getting rid of it. Mercy doesn’t need it.” When they continued to stare at her, she muttered, “It’s not a law that each planet in the Imperium must deal in slaves. Mercy has other exports, however limited. We can provide top-grade marbles and granites.” Then her eyes flickered to Dragomir. “And healing.”
Dragomir stiffened. “Healing?” he asked, eying her warily.
“I will grant Emps, Psi, Shi, and Kin amnesty on Mercy. In return, they will help establish hospitals dedicated to the healing arts. I expect we could gain quite a bit of revenue from medical tourism.”
“Until the Imperium gets wind of it,” Thor growled.
Victory shook her head. “It is one of the beauties of the Imperium. As long as a planet’s government pays its tithes and breaks no laws—like the human-rights laws my father is breaking with his slave trade—its Adjudicator is pretty much considered autonomous. I’ve even heard of a couple planets granting amnesty before. The Imperium as a whole doesn’t like it, and often they won’t send peacekeeper fleets, if requested, but that’s the way it works.”
For a long moment, the two brothers merely stared at her in silence. Then, reluctantly, Thor nodded. “I honestly thought you were crazy, Drago, but I can see the method in your madness.” At that, he ducked out of the cockpit and started unloading bodies from the hull, leaving Victory and Dragomir alone…
…with Lion.
Her head Praetorian was giving them both a disapproving glare, and hadn’t so much as gotten outside visual range since she’d caught them kissing in the yard.
Once again feeling the heat within her building at the Emp’s closeness, Victory cleared her throat pointedly. When Lion simply settled against the wall to watch them, missing the point entirely, Victory gestured meaningfully at Dragomir. “Isn’t there something you could be doing right now, Lion?” she suggested.
The woman smiled. “I could be gutting the brute, but for some reason you seem to be adverse to the idea.”
Victory glared at the older woman. “Thor could use help digging graves for the bodies.”
“Whip is helping him,” Lion said calmly. “I’m watching.”
Narrowing her eyes, Victory growled, “Watching what?”
Lion’s gaze was icy when it fell on Dragomir. “Watching to make sure a Royal Princess isn’t about to be taken advantage of by a peasant.”
What if she wants to be taken advantage of? Victory thought rebelliously, feeling the heat of the Emp’s body so close. But she raised her head in what she hoped was a commanding manner. “I’m sure you can find something else to do.”
“I’m sure I could,” Lion agreed.
“Now,” Victory growled, feeling her face redden.
“Right now,” Lion said, nodding. She didn’t move from her spot against the wall.
“What’s she saying?” Dragomir asked, watching the Praetorian suspiciously.
“She’s saying she bashed her head open a few too many times in Praetorian training,” Victory said. She glared at Lion. “Ignore her.” Turning to him, she stuck a finger in his chest and said, “Now tell me what you did to me.” Even then, she could feel the tug in her ribcage, feeding warmth into her chest.
Dragomir grinned, grabbed her hand where it was stuck to his breastbone, and dragged her close. Wrapping his arms tight around her, he said softly, “I claimed you as my own. Tied a cord between us. As an Emp’s mate.”
“Your…mate.” Even with the warmth tracing through her body, Victory wasn’t sure how she felt about that.
He nodded, but his cerulean eyes watched her carefully, obviously expecting her to disagree.
“What…cord?” Victory managed.
“A cord of energy between our heart-ramas, binding us. It will grow, until we will be able to feel each other at a distance.” He grinned. “Like I said, Princess. I claimed you.” He kissed her forehead. “Made you mine.”
The cultured part of Victory sputtered. I’m a princess. I can’t just let this man claim me. That’s what elk and orangutans do. And yet, the larger portion of her wanted nothing more than to throw Lion from the room, close the door, and explore his rippling body. So caught between these two emotions was she that Victory just stared up at him, her mind blank of things to say.
Dragomir lowered his forehead to hers. “Will you accept me?”
From the door, Lion coughed loudly.
Dragomir flinched, then glared at the Praetorian, giving Victory momentary freedom from his piercing gaze. She pulled out of his arms and cleared her throat, allowing the shield of civility to once more fall into place around her. “Sir, you’ve helped me greatly, and I would be honored if you would stay on as a member of my staff, but I couldn’t possibly—”
Dragomir tore his eyes away from where he had been matching Lion scowl-for-scowl, and frowned at her. “Staff?”
Seeing his scowl directed at her, Victory squeaked out, “Perhaps I could hire you as an entertainer. A concubine.”
He grabbed her and pulled her close again. In the doorway, Lion growled.
“Princess,” he grated, his face only inches from hers, “I bound myself to you. The last thing I’m going to do is watch another man bed you. I’m your mate, or I’m not at all.”
“You’re not a Royal,” Victory managed, feeling helpless under his blue gaze. “You’re not certified.”
He narrowed his eyes at her for a moment, then released her. “Lion’s right. I think my brother needs help digging graves.” At that, he turned and stalked from the room. She heard his footsteps thunder on the gangplank and Thor’s startled query.
“Now do you want me to kill him?” Lion demanded, glancing out the door beside her.
Victory slumped into the pilot’s chair, ignoring her Praetorian. She needed to think. An Emp’s mate? What did he mean by that? Was that somehow different from a normal courtship?
Then another part of her cried, Courted by a peasant? Are you insane? The entire Imperium would mock her. The other Adjudicators would snicker at her ill-bred behavior. And, if they were to wed, no other Adjudicators would want her potential children, since they could not be rated as a Generation Royal. Being un-certified, the Imperium would not provide her children with Praetorian, and she would have to hire specially-trained guardsmen.
Then a startled part of her mind babbled, Children? With a native? You have got to be out of your mind.
“It would be a small thing,” Lion said, watching Dragomir go.
“Obviously a gunshot won’t work, so I would simply cut off his head.”
Victory scowled at her Praetorian. “You will do no such thing.”
Lion shrugged and turned to go help the others.
Irritated, not sure the woman would obey her, Victory got to her feet and followed.
They were digging graves for the rebels underneath the willow trees, and the moment Victory saw their stiff bodies flop into the graves, congealed blood oozing from their wounds, she grimaced and looked away, trying not to lose the breakfast that Dragomir had made her eat on the flight. She did her best to help, but the corpses’ open stares left her with a growing sickness in the pit of her stomach. They were the first dead men she had ever encountered, besides the dead crew of the doomed Academy ship, and while the others simply moved them around like stiff pieces of meat, it was all Victory could do to keep her gut in check.
When Lion started cutting off the index fingers of each of the corpses, however, Victory lost control. She fell to her knees beside the gangplank, retching.
“Or for the gods’ steaming piles, woman!” Dragomir snapped, shoving past Lion. “Did you have to do that in front of her?” He knelt beside Victory, putting an arm around her shoulders. Immediately, Victory felt better, and she wasn’t sure if it was something he was doing or just the relaxation in her chest, like a cord that had been stretched too thin suddenly going slack.
“Come on, love,” Dragomir said. “Let’s go get you somewhere else while they finish up.”
Victory nodded, humiliated by her lack of control. She let him lift her to her feet and stumbled into the willows with him, shivering with the horrible feeling in her stomach.
Once they were well out of hearing range, Dragomir set her down on a large, mossy rock and squatted in front of her, concern in his eyes. “You going to be okay, Princess?”
Victory wiped tears from her eyes and nodded. “What was she doing?” she whimpered.
“Identifying the bodies, I’d suspect,” Dragomir said. “It’s standard procedure for an Imperial kill. Some Imperial law about—”
