Page 7 of Taken to Heimo
A chorus of shocked murmurs gives way to cheers. Tur’Roth is clapping encouragingly and when I meet his gaze, he winks. My heart sings. I quickly hop down, stumbling a little in my long shift, but a heavy hand slides under my elbow and keeps me from falling onto my rear.
“Thank you,” I say reflexively. Instinct leads me to believe it’s Krisxox, but the scent is all wrong. Drakesh coloring and a warrior’s uniform are all these two males have in common.
I start to retract my arm, but the male tightens his hold. He’s smiling, but a flicker of black crosses his ridges that makes me tense.
“You must be thrilled that another bastardoudis going to be born into the world, just like yourMiari,” he sneers her name, meaning it as an insult. Though I don’t share in this tradition of guarding names, I still hate that he knows it. “I hope she and the baby both drown in blood.”
The chatter and chaos rise around us, but I still pitch my voice low and even and say, “You would do well to release my arm, warrior. Both the xcleranx Tur’Roth and Krisxox himself are tasked with my care…”
But he only grips me tighter and pulls me further under the umbrella of his heat. I grunt and my heart throws out bolts of lightning as I remember being handled much more roughly than this on board that ancient Niahhorru ship. My lashes flutter. I see the dark carcass of a Niahhorru pirate with each blink.
“Krisxox is the best of us. If he doesn’t kill you outright it’s only because he’s doing his duty, but he won’t stand in our way. And that spineless Voraxian, Tur’Roth?” The horrible male balks, “He’s hardly going to be enough.”
I rip my arm down, but he’s already let me go. The momentum sends me stumbling backwards, straight into Tel’Evra.
“Are you alright?” He says, then immediately, “That is such wonderful news! I cannot wait to meet the little one when our Raku and Rakukanna are able to tour. You will have to send us images before then. Will you promise?”
It takes me a moment to remember where I am and what words I need to say and in which tongue. In the time it takes for my mind to catch up to me, I glance back to where the male had been, but he’s gone, replaced by congregating bodies that are laughing and smiling.
“Advisor Svera?” Tel’Evra says.
I start. “Oh um…”
“Do you promise?”
“Images. Images of the baby. Of course. I’ll send through as many as I am able. Under the directives of the Raku and Rakukanna, of course.”
“Oh! Of course. Of course,” he repeats, bowing to me again and again. “Did you hear that, Er’Evra? Advisor Svera will send us the first holo images of the new kit…”
He’s already turning away from me when I’m pulled around by more voices. The next, Tur’Roth’s.
“I saw Vendra speaking to you. Are you alright?”
He caresses my cheek intimately as he scans my face and body. It’s touching, his care…but it doesn’t make my pulse quicken or the breath in my lungs catch. It doesn’t make me heat between the thighs. It doesn’t make me wet.
“Thank you,” I say, feeling stupid as that’s not an answer to the question I was asked. “I mean, I’m alright.” Physically, anyway. But that threat. There was something wholly sinister about it and, while I’ve gotten my fair share of glares and grimaces, none have been so bold as to threaten me like that. Not with suchhatred.
“Good, I…” Tur’Roth’s gaze pans past me and his expression falls. His shoulders square and his hands drop to form six-fingered fists. The surrounding talk quiets and the fuzzies on the back of my neck stand on end. And even if the cumulation of these things was not enough for me to know that we’ve been interrupted, it would be given away by his scent.
He smells like citrus fruit. Tangy and acidic with just enough sweetness to make it bearable. It’s a smell I find myself thinking of late in the lunar and even a scent that I sometimes, daringly, touch myself to…
It affects me more than it should. More than I appreciate in this moment. The clenching of my stomach has become a sharp pang, the ringing of a gong whose ripples feel almost as powerful as the first touch.
“Krisxox,” I say, voice too high to be mine.
I clear my throat and look away from his face, which is wreathed in an anger that most Voraxians are well-schooled not to show. Unfortunately, that leaves me eye-level with his ribs, or rather, the plates that are layered like rough cuts of wood on top of them and protect his vital organs.
He’s still dripping sweat. Well, glistening really. And the smell of it…citrus and burnt sugar…I inhale a little deeper. I never thought that male sweat could smell so clean or so oddly sweet.
A small thimble of sharp, hot pressure spears my clitoris, like it’s been flicked roughly with a callused thumb.
I straighten and meet his gaze and try not to breathe as I blurt, “Did you hear the news?”
“Everyone in xoking Qath heard the news. What were you thinking, announcing it like that?”
Tender wisps of white hair cling to his cheeks. They’re hollow, framed by a stern jawline and high cheek bones. His dark vermillion lips are full. He’s staring down at me with his enormous screa eyes. His nostrils are flaring. He looks ready to devour and in that moment, I feel ready to be devoured…
And then I register his words.
