Page 54 of Crown Prince's Mate

“Yes?” I say.

“A gift from the Aurelians.”

“Leave it at my door,” I say, and open it. There’s three packages wrapped in tissue, tied with a bow. I take it back into my room and sit at the table, then after a moment of hesitation, I open the larger one.

Gallien kept his word. He didn’t send down a pleasure dress. It is an ivory dress of silk, sleeveless, but not low cut. It is so different from my usual gray, strictly functional uniform. I’ve worn dull grays for years, the uniform of the Administration the same as the one I wear as Prime Minister, for we are all servants of Pentaris.

This dress is not the uniform of a servant or bureaucrat, but of a leader. It’s nothing like the flowing, gentle sundresses I wore back on Virelia, before I gave my life to Pentaris.

Elegant. A power of its own, sleeveless, feminine but not revealing, a dress than hints but does not tell.

And as I run my fingers over the silk, marveling, I realize that it is exactly my size.

My hand stops, and I raise my eyebrows.

Unless the triad has a tailor who makes human clothes on the warship who did a rush job, which seems ridiculous, then the Aurelians made this dress long ago, from the vision we shared when we knew each other from the first time.

That makes me shiver. They watched my naked body so intently they knew my exact measurements. I can tell, just from holding the dress before me as I stand, that it is tailor made.

What else did they have made for me?

I know that answer—if they’ve imagined me in a dress like this, they’ve imagined me in pleasure dresses so sheer I’d be on display like a possession on their alien home planet.

The second wrapped package, reminding me of opening birthday presents, are a pair of white heels. I put them aside. I haven’t worn heels since Virelia, where the textile industry produced heels with vine-fibers that wrap up your calf.

A little too far, Gallien.I’ll wear simple flats with the dress. I open the third package, with a heft to it, and out comes a diamond choker.

It glitters, cold, shimmering gems. Pentaris is rich in amethysts and sapphires, but true diamonds are rare. I put it on, unused to wearing jewelry, each diamond like a tiny iceberg gracing my neck.

The garb of the Administration is meant to make us uniform, to fade away our individualities in service to the greater sector. This outfit brings out everything that is me. I run my hand over the diamonds as they warm to my body temperature. I rest my fingers on the perfectly cut, glittering gems.

I can’t resist. I want to complete the outfit, but on my own terms. I fling open my cramped closet. Pushed to the back, beneath the dismal grays of standard issue administration clothing, are my forgotten heels. Every inch of space on our ship is precious and accounted for, but I brought them with me, my last tangible link to Virelia. A lucky charm. I haven’t worn them in over seven years.

I slip my feet into the beige heels, the light brown Virelian vine-fiber straps animating against my skin, coiling securely around my ankles and calves. Memories flood me. I used to practice my catwalk in them with my little sister, trying on different outfits in playful fashion shows, our heels clicking against the wooden floor of our treehouse home until my dad would storm in, sternly saying that he needed to concentrate.

In the mirror inlaid in the wall across my bed, I don’t see a stranger. I see myself, every part of me accentuated. I know, deep down, it was Gallien that imagined me like this, but I do not feel as if I am his creation.

I have no nervousness as I leave my chambers and walk through my ship. People stare, workers and bureaucrats walking through the hallways, their eyes widening as they see their PrimeMinister transformed. Even the ceremonial robes of Mangar and Terosa were like costumes, worn out of nothing more than duty.

This is my own choice, but I let their gaze wash over me, meaningless. Ripples on water, like the waves that extended outwards from the Imperator as it rested on the surface of Etherion, the depths unaffected.

I’m not sure what changed. I felt deep humiliation and powerlessness when I was voted into marriage with the Aurelian princes. The thoughts of what people would say about me—the fiercely pro-independence Prime Minister bound to the Aurelian Empire. I’d heard all the jokes about women who made the trip to Colossus, to serve in the harems on alien estates. Women returning from Colossus, on vacations or after a decade of service, always had an aloofness to them, a distance. I thought it was because they were ashamed of what they had done.

Now I see how wrong I was. They simply didn’t care who gossiped behind their backs.

As I disembark from my ship, a pair of Aurelian triads stand ready to greet me. They dip their heads in a gesture of deference. Muscled, half of their frame exposed, seven-foot-tall aliens that would have seemed massive and intimidating if I had not met Prince Doman. He would tower over even them, and his bright blue eyes would flash and dance, alive and vibrant compared to their hard, slate-gray gaze.

Doman is the only Aurelian I have seen that seems whole.

The triad of soldiers lead me through the corridors bathed in pristine white, and other triads in our path move to the side respectfully. My heels resonate against the immaculate floors, each click a reminder of my presence, but the Aurelians move like wraiths. Despite their heavy bulks, their combat boots barely make a sound.

Rounding the familiar corner, I arrive at the grand, heavily fortified entrance to Prince Doman’s private estate withinhis warship. The two heavy, battle-scarred triads of warriors constantly guarding his doors throw them open, but none of my escort dares venture beyond the threshold.

The main living space of the triad is austere. It is empty, an emptiness deeper than their absence. The three huge beds, the small table, and nothing else but pure white walls and marble floors. There is no trace of their individuality, no art or decoration.

What identifies the space as uniquely theirs is the subtle, masculine scent that tingles my senses. There’s something about that smell of theirs that is so unlike the sweat of other men.

One of the doorways that lead deeper into the ship is open, a white corridor beckoning. As the entrance doors are closed behind me, I follow the path ahead.

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