The Taming

by Imogen Keeper

  “I’m no—”

  “I make you feel alive, amiera. I make you sing, in bed and out of it. I set you free to be the person you were born to be. I’ll make you happy if you’ll let me.” His voice burned along the back of her neck, trailing up her spine. He stalked into the passageway, his voice echoing behind him, lingering in the air, inescapable and haunting. “Don’t you dare take a bath. You’re showing up on Vesta stinking of me so everyone knows what you are. Get dressed.”

  SHE FLOPPED BACK on the bed, kicking the covers down to her feet. His words echoed in her ears. So everyone knows what you are. Not a wife. Not even a whore. A slave. A prisoner.

  Her whole body shaking, she turned away from her reflection in the bulkhead, flushed cheeks and skin rubbed pink around her breasts and between her thighs from his beard stubble.

  She rolled off the bed, taking a deep breath of air that for once wasn’t saturated with him. Whenever he was close, her brain shut down and she couldn’t think clearly. All she could do was smell him and want him.

  The deck was cold under her bare feet. The plant she’d taken from the dusty planet trailed from the side table, draping over the deck. The white leaves had nearly doubled in size, and the vines had stretched to three times their length. The flowers had been tiny on the planet, the size of her pinkie nail. Now, they were as wide as the pad of her thumb, lush and as iridescent blue as the wings of a butterfly, and their honeyed scent had intensified too.

  She tipped a splash of water from the bottle on the side table into the cup in which the roots sat. At least the flowers were thriving.

  She tugged the top sheet from the bed and wrapped it around her body on the walk to the bathing chamber. Tor hadn’t replaced the hatch. She’d grown accustomed to bathing in front of an open hatch. It didn’t matter. He’d seen every inch of her body now, multiple times over.

  But his people hadn’t. Whatever else they were to think of her, she would not meet them looking slovenly. If nothing else, she would represent her people. Prove to the people of Vesta that their enemy, the Argenti, were people too.

  She took her time, lotioning, pinching her cheeks for color, lamenting all her powders and creams, left behind on Spiro’s ship.

  Tor stomped in and left her dress on a hanger, freshly clean and smooth, her slippers beside it. With a glower, he dropped her bodice beside it and her socks, and after a moment, he set her mother’s pearls on the shelf, and then her travel documents and her memory card and the shawl he’d given her. Those items, and her plant, were the sum total of every possession she could claim in the universe.

  She tightened the towel draped around her breasts and turned away to smooth her hair into an elaborate coil with shaky hands.

  If she asked about the style of dress on Vesta, Tor would only mock her concerns as childish or vain.

  Smile. She shoved in the last of her hair pins. In her experience, a heartfelt smile could smooth over a thousand minor breaches of decorum.

  She dressed, leaving off the restricting bodice and hot stocking, and took her seat in the bridge while he took his own bath and dressed. Her stomach was too tangled to eat, and her heart kept pounding twice as hard as it should.

  Jitters had her feet tapping a beat on the floor of the bridge.

  The enemy planet. She was about to set foot on an enemy planet. She’d heard horrible things about Vesta. Rumors of cannibalism and hedonism, slavery. Tor was hardly a paragon of gentility.

  “The ship just began landing procedures. Time to strap up.” Tor’s voice sounded from beside her. She’d been so preoccupied worrying, she hadn’t heard him approach.

  She took a long breath, waiting for more lectures and hostility.

  There were none.

  His eyes, for once, were warm. “You look beautiful. Your clothes are fine. We can buy you new ones in the next couple days if you want, but you look good.”

  She didn’t bother to ask how he’d known exactly what was bothering her.

  He half-smiled. “I know you better than you think I do.”

  She dropped into her seat and buckled her straps. Of course, he could read minds.

  He squatted down in front of her, his smile strangely kind. Kindness from Tor was almost too painful to endure.

  “I won’t let anyone hurt you.” He took her face in his hands, stroking her cheeks with his thumbs. “You’re mine now, Klym. I don’t know what that meant to Assamo when you had your agreement, but it means something to me. I protect my own.”

  When he kissed her, it felt like the sealing of a contract.

  “For twelve more days,” she whispered. “Then I’ll be free.”

  “You’re already free. You just haven’t figured it out yet.” He turned away to buckle his own straps.

  THE LANDING was shockingly anticlimactic, as far as arrivals on the planet of the enemy went. Vesta simply grew larger and larger in the viewscreen, until the round amber sphere took on greater detail. An amber sea that faded to palest gold along the coasts covered most of the planet. Along the equator, continents of white beaches and pale mountains were veined with dense turquoise foliage that Tor called jungles. The poles glittered with pale ice the color of canary diamonds.

  Curiosity got the best of her. “Where is your home?”

  “Tamminia? The continent in the middle. Where it’s solid turquoise. That big gold blob in the shape of a half-moon is the Lake of the Sun.” There was something almost wistful in his voice, a note she’d never heard from him before. He loved this place.

  The rest of the planet looked arid, but there, around that lake, it was lush and rich. “It looks like fertile land.”

  “We make about forty-two percent of all the produce on the planet.”

  “How many states are there?”

  “Upwards of a hundred and fifty.”

  “And you rule?”

  “I will,” he grunted and tapped a few notes in the controls. The humming of the ship around them intensified, and the whole thing took up a violent shuddering.

  Her eyes on the fiery lake growing in the viewscreen, Klym replayed his words, trying to remember what she’d learned of Vesta in school. If only she’d paid more attention to Vestige history and less to Malina’s sketches of Tutor Heilani’s bald pate.

  One thing was important on any planet. Food. That she could easily understand. “Tamminia must be quite powerful if it produces all that food.”

  “It is. Vesta has one government. If Tamminia defected, Vesta’s ruling government, the Alliance would crumble. They can’t feed the population without Tamminia’s support.”

  Klym couldn’t hide her surprise. “Is that what you want? To leave the Alliance.”

  His eyes gleamed. “I’ve never been much for taking orders.”

  “And they’re going to come for me?”

  “Wife-rites are some of our most ancient laws. You’ll be safe, amiera. I will never let anyone hurt you.”

  “Anyone except you, you mean.”

  “Orgasms don’t hurt.”

  She plucked at her dress. “Am I to cause a war, then?”

  A grin stretched across his face. “You could.”

  “I thought being my father’s political pawn was bad enough. Now I’m bait. It’s a big step down.”

  “Depends how you look at it. You’re also a queen now. That’s a huge step up.”

  “A fake queen.”

  “Not according to everyone once we land. According to them, we were married by ancient custom.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I claimed you. Took you for my own and gifted you with my seed.”

  Her belly clenched. “Some wedding.”

  “I loved it.”

  So she wouldn’t have to acknowledge the warm look in his eyes, she leaned forward to watch as the planet she’d spent her whole life believing was worse than the very depths of the underworld filled the viewscreen. The external thrusters slowed the ship. Air friction heated the interior. Broad strokes of color g
ave way to buildings and roads and trees.

  They hovered over an enormous landing pad, and she knew, down to the depths of her soul, that there was no going back.

  She had landed on Vesta with one of their kings, a man she knew to be worse than her darkest fears.

  19

  A chair for the lady

  And a table for her plant

  TOR PUT HIS HAND on the small of Klym’s back, just above her lace-covered ass, and pushed her toward the door where she’d meet the first of his family.

  She slanted him a look like death but didn’t move away.

  She wouldn’t. Not with their deal on the line. Nor with people watching.

  And people were watching. Had been since they arrived. Customs officials and Alliance bureaucrats had poured from the woodwork like cockroaches, seething around them since the minute they’d docked at the edge of the hangar, their eyes darting back to Klym at irritatingly regular intervals, checking her holo-cam and digi.

  It wasn’t every day someone came to Vesta with blond hair, golden skin, and pale eyes, let alone an Argenti woman. It didn’t speed up their immigration at all. It took longer than it needed to.

  So he spent the time fucking with the officials, demanding a chair for Klym—they brought out a crappy folding one, but she didn’t seem to mind it. And then some water for her. And then a table for her plant. And then some water for the plant. Because why not?

  Right at the end, after hours of delay, a man came by the name of Pijuan, with a thick mane of carefully styled hair, a snub nose, and a set of chiseled biceps he’d clearly gotten working out in a gym. The sword on his belt was strictly decorative.

  Tor recognized the name. This was the Emissary of the Alliance, the man who was making a move on taking over as regio.

  “So, this is the errant Argenti bride.” Pijuan stood, with his hand on his fancy fake sword, ten Polizei at his back. “Klymeni Merona. Daughter of a War Chief.”

  “My selissa.”

  Pijuan’s button-round eyes drifted over to Klym. “Selissa?” His gaze probed down Klym’s body. His nostrils flared.

  Her mouth tightened, and her chin came up. She must have felt the slime in Pijuan’s eyes too because she left her crappy chair and stepped closer to Tor.

  Tor rubbed her hip with his thumb. “She is indeed.”

  “I don’t believe Tamminia has ever had a foreign-born selissa.”

  “It does now.”

  Pijuan’s gaze finally left Klym and shifted to Tor. “Tell me, then, what does happen when an Argenti and a Vestige mate?”

  Tor forced a smile to cross his face as if he didn’t have a care in the world. He leaned in closer like he was about to share a deep secret.

  Pijuan leaned closer.

  Tor forced the smile to stretch into a grin. “Did you just ask about my wife’s cunt? Or about my cock?”

  Pijuan coughed. “Neither. Of course. Neither.” He rocked back on his boots like he’d been slapped, his gaze flicking to Tor’s sword, and after a long moment, his fingers unwrapped, one by one, from the carved handle of his sword. “Welcome to Vesta, regio.”

  With his hand riding Klym’s waist, Tor moved her toward the door to the tarmac, where presumably by now, one of his brothers was waiting with a hover to take them to the Roq.

  As the door slid inward, a rhombus of rosy light spread across the floor, and she sucked in a long breath.

  The sky was a masterpiece.

  She smiled the first genuine smile he’d seen since Frigorria. Big and wide and breathless. And for just a second, she made the exact face she made about five-and-a-half seconds after she came. He pulled her against him so her back touched his chest, and rubbed his nose in her hair, breathing in that damned capricious fruity scent that always made his balls clench.

  The sun hung low on the horizon, fat, ruby red, and rippling, and the entire sky blazed in an inferno. Vesta, coy and sultry, in all her shameless glory.

  A balmy breeze, rife with tammin and sasprilla spices, tugged at his hair. Home. He’d forgotten how much he loved this miserable place.

  “You can admit it, abellina. That’s the best sunset you’ve ever seen.”

  She jerked her head slightly, bumping it against his chin. “It’s okay.”

  “Just okay?”

  “Just okay.”

  “You’re cute when you lie.”

  “You aren’t,” she said, and he could tell from her muffled words that she was speaking through a bright, fake smile.

  He wrapped his hand around her upper arm and propelled her toward the waiting hover, and the man beside it, the sun at his back. The household guard stood behind him.

  The man’s features were in shadow, so he couldn’t see his face. Big, though, tall and hefty.

  “No sunset like a Tamminian one, eh?” the man called, gesturing grandly at the riot of bright color behind him.

  The voice at least was familiar from childhood, if not the body.

  Tor squinted. “Gaspart?”

  “In the flesh.”

  As a boy, Tor had idolized him. The ready grin was the same, but everything else had changed. Beneath his customary togata, his legs were still strong, but the bare arm was flabby, and the belt around his waist was barely visible beneath a great, round gut.

  He smacked Tor’s back hard enough to make him rock on his boots. “Vaniiya, you’ve gotten big.”

  Gaspart had always possessed a talent for making people comfortable with a combination of grinning and so much talk they forgot to be wary. All the while, though, he was watching and calculating.

  “Abyssenyo, brother. You don’t do things by half.” Gaspart looked at Klym, and Tor had to grit his teeth.

  It would be a while before he got used to people looking at his wife. “No.”

  “The Alliance is already making threats.” Gaspart clambered into the hover. “Is she worth a war?”

  Tor lifted Klym onto the hover and climbed up beside her. “Yes.”

  She looked up at him sharply as he said that, her brows drawing together.

  “What happens when you cross an Argenti and a Vestige?” Gaspart guffawed happily.

  Tor rolled his eyes at the old joke.

  Tor introduced them, and they chatted as the hover lifted from the ground, Gaspart doing his thing where he put Klym at ease, and Klym doing her thing with manners where she made people feel like they were smarter and funnier than they really were.

  A shaft of rosy light slanted through the window, and Tor rocked his boot back and forth in the shadow. “Tell me about Pijuan.”

  “The whispering gym-shite? Dillan’s death left us open, with you gone. Your return just blew his plan to hell. He’s not a fool. He’ll need to be dealt with.”

  Add that to the growing list.

  Water spread to the horizon beneath them, gold and orange, the waves dancing under the dying sun like lava. Klym leaned forward, face rapt.

  “Who killed Father?”

  Gaspart made a face.

  “Did you do it?”

  “I should have.” Gaspart sucked his teeth like he wanted to spit. “For a minute, I hoped maybe it was you, and you’d come back.”

  “When I heard, for a minute, I wished I had.” Tor tapped his thumbs together on his lap. “Was it Sanger?”

  Gaspart made a noncommittal face. “I don’t know how he could have gotten in. Father was found dead in his office. No visible signs. Mother blocked the autopsy, and the only person who could override her—you—were gone.”

  His tone was jovial enough, but again, the edge lurked behind his casual demeanor. His gaze probed at Klym, watching them from the window. “You must be tired after your travels, milady. Was it a restful journey?”

  “She spent most of her time in bed.” He meant it as a warning to Gaspart, but Klym clearly didn’t take it that way.

  Her face tightened as if he’d slapped her. She recovered quickly enough, smoothing the moment over with a placid smile. “It was rather boring
, actually.”

  He laughed. “Told you, space is boring.”

  Gaspart watched it all with interest, nose twitching. His gaze drifted to Tor, nostrils flaring, scenting her.

  Tor growled, warning him off, but it was too late. He’d known it wouldn’t be enough to completely hide the issue, which is why he hadn’t let her bathe. She had enough of his spunk on her chest that anyone around would know she’d been marked by a Prime. But it wasn’t the same.

  Gaspart knew. His eyes gleamed. “Funny. She doesn’t smell quite right.”

  A flash of Pijuan’s face, his flaring nostrils as he’d said selissa?

  “I’ve just bathed. Not four hours ago. With Vestigi soap, I might add.” Klym’s cheeks flared as red as the sky outside. “I don’t smell.”

  If they’d been fucking like newlyweds for the last two weeks, she’d have him oozing out of her pores. He sighed. Klym didn’t make anything easy.

  “You smell good, Klym.” To distract her, he leaned closer, so his face was near hers, letting his lips skim her ear, pretending he was just trying to share the view. “That’s our home.”

  He pointed at the edge of the city, gleaming orange in the sun, at the top of the tallest cliff. The Roq. He’d missed it.

  The city spread in all directions, chaotic and unbridled, with streets at odd angles, and the branches of the river breaking it up. Glass towers in the pre-plague style tossed light until the whole city looked like it was on fire. White stucco buildings squatted like great blocks topped with gilded conical roofs, and the amorphous walls of peachstone and geometric quartz. And all of them crawling with turquoise tammin vines.

  “Almost there,” called the pilot from the front of the craft.

  The Roq loomed on the top of its hill. Turquoise vines draped over a long, stucco polygonal body of the main house, beside the glittering arches of the family quarters. The massive glass tower held the public spaces, stretching high above it all, and the main entry clad in quartz glittered like the sea.