Claimed: The Warriors of Nur (18 page)

He held her, his hand at the back of her neck, pinned to the thick bark.  Squatting, he swiped his tongue from the deep indent at the base of her spine to the base of her neck, the velvet roughness causing a shiver of unwanted awareness to course through her.

Crowding her, he pushed her tight to the bark, the soft warmth of her body an electrifying contrast to the muscled heat of his.

Take her!
  The predator in him demanded.  It would be a second’s work to shift his furs.  To thrust deep into the waiting well of her.  To relieve the torment of the last few days. 

He warred, the predator in him pushing past the sensible, honorable warrior, the knowledge of his need underscored by the knowledge of her unwillingness.

You can make her willing
…the predator coaxed. 

He’d done it before.  Here.  In this very space
.

He shook at the memory of just how willing she’d been. At how open and welcoming.  Then pressed closer, his face dipping to bury in the thick curl of her hair. 

Goddess mother she smells good.
 

She trembled, her brief paralysis melting at the understanding that he wasn't attacking her, his heat relaxing her more than was probably safe.  She wiggled; the slight movement abrading her exposed belly and face on the bark.  His grip, while not painful, was unyielding, allowing her to do nothing but wait for him to...rape...kill...eat her?  Who the hell knew at this point?  The...
thing
looked capable of either of the three, and all of its aggression was focused solely on her. 

Her brain screamed with the unacceptable knowledge that this…this animal was Erol.  She squeezed her eyes closed, the last image she had of what she recognized to be the sensitive, quiet, body-of-a-living-god-sexy-as-hell male floating tauntingly behind them.  His eyes, those white-grey eyes...were not white-grey at all.  The crimson red orbs had flashed right before he'd warned her to run. 

Yeah.  That was all you, Leo.  Just couldn't control your temper.
 

She cringed.  Of all the things that got her in trouble, her temper--when she lost it--was probably the worst.  To all those who knew her casually, Leo'Nya was the picture of balance and patience, the poster child for turning the other cheek, and non-violence.  And on a normal day, that would all hold true.  Unfortunately, she hadn't had a ‘normal’ day since crash landing on this hot stretch-a girl’s-temper-to-the-limit planet, and the toll on her patience was obvious.  Unable to withstand another minute of his indifference--of his
tolerance
--the word was insulting even in her head.  She’d felt tolerated.  As if her presence there, while not unwanted, wasn’t appreciated. Not that she had much choice, or had even been asked.  As far as she remembered, she was the victim here, for Christ’s sakes!  She’d had three days…THREE, of being ignored and brushed off, the basic pleasantries observed and nothing more.

His indifference in that moment had been more than she could stomach.  Especially after the time they’d spent together.  It wasn’t the sex that got her all super pissed.  Not that she would mind a little more of that--minus all the essence swapping.  No, it was the intimacy after that riled her.  If he’d intended to treat her as nothing more than a captive, then why spend the time after?  Why ask her about herself?  Why pretend to care?

She’d acted without thinking, and now she was half . . . she felt his heat pressed to her . . . well, all naked.  And pinned to a tree.  She shuddered, her vulnerability no more evident to her than in that moment.

Erol calmed, the predator within receding slightly with her shudder.  He didn’t want her fear.  He needed her to relax.  He wanted her open to him as before.  Wanted to be welcomed.  Slowly, he relaxed, his grip easing from her neck.

“Don’t move.”  He growled when she made to turn.  He needed her in submission, his predator still way too close to the surface to allow a challenge.  He didn’t want to force her, but he knew that he would if she refused him.  He was amazed at the fact that he’d phased at all, and now he struggled to calm himself.

He touched her, his hand running gently down the curve of her back; his claws now receded.  He was soothed every time he touched her.  Her skin, so unlike Gwerriera Nies females, was indescribable.  Soft and warm.  Smooth to the touch.  She didn’t have the spinal protrusions found on one of their females in heat.

“Speak.”  He commanded, his voice still thick with fangs.  He needed her voice, the lilting cadence, to center him.

Leo blanked.

Speak?  Speak.
  It was like the word was foreign.  New to her.  Without definition.

“SPEAK” he roared, his mouth at her ear.

“Speak.”  She repeated, the squeaked word the only thing that would come out.

“Speak of your planet.  Speak of you.  Speak,
Duša
.  Please.”  The last closer to a plea.

“I have a sister.”  She blurted.  Never far from her thoughts, it was the first thing that came to mind.  “An older sister.” 

“A sister?” he encouraged, his mind calming, her voice, the balm he needed.

“Avi’Nyla.  Avi, for short.” She felt his heat ease, her body no longer pinned. “I mean, I call her Avi.  No one else really does.”  She rambled--and would continue to if that’s what it took to ease some of the tension, to syphon off even a little of that aggression.

Erol stepped away, slowly increasing the distance between them, until he was able to breathe without her scent wreaking havoc on his body.  Though tinted with fear, her body was still ripe.  His body wanted to answer.  He ran his tongue over the sharp points of his fangs.  His skin no longer held its yellowed tinge, but his leash was still strained.  His fangs were still down.  His enhanced vision attested that his eyes were still the crimson red of his predator phase.

“Don’t.”  He warned again, when she tried to turn to him.  There was no way she could have missed him in full phase, not as large as he was.  His predator phase was even larger, and he didn’t want to see the fear return to her eyes.

She froze.  His voice, though harsh, no longer growled, the burgeoning calm obvious in his softer tone.  She wanted to see him.  Needed, badly, to reconcile what she thought she’d seen with the reality.  She turned, ignoring the hissed command.

He stood a distance from her.  The sun, at his back, casting a haloed glow.  She shielded her eyes, his outline the only thing visible while she adjusted to the blinding glare.  She closed the distance, her step hesitating when he turned from her, his wide back a barrier to her curiosity.  His skin, the same creamy brown as always, glistened with sweat from the afternoon sun.  She lifted her hand, intent on stroking the smooth muscle before her.

A trick of the light.

There’s no way it could have been real. Surely the yellow-green scales were just a ridiculous result of her panic.  But could you blame her?  That roar could have rivaled
Jurassic Park
--yet another testament to her love of the oldies.

Her hand hovered, the heat of him already warming her palm.  His chest rumbled in warning, a wounded last attempt at bravado. She stepped closer, her hand barely touching the muscular expanse.

Holy Hell!

She jumped away; her hand cradled to her chest, and watched as yellow-green slowly melted back to creamy brown.  He shuddered, his spine curving as if searching for her touch.  She watched as the change rippled his skin, wavering from yellow-green to creamy brown with each shudder.

"Don't touch," he growled, his voice again the menacing command of a moment before.

He quaked, his body convulsing with the almost uncontrollable need to phase.  Her touch laid waste to the hard won calm of a moment before.  He'd take her, willing or not, if she continued to touch him.

She circled in front of him, the sun casting shadow on his downturned face.  His lips drew tight, but not enough to hide the sharp points of the fangs that dipped over his bottom lip. 

With a fingertip, she lifted the corner of his mouth, the movement revealing the length of one shiny white saber.  It was like a second canine, longer and sharper than its human cousin.  For the first time, she realized that all of his teeth were more pointed, almost serrated.  They were even and straight, and aside from those two extra fangs, he had about the same number of teeth as she did.

“Look at me,” she requested gently, and he closed his eyes even more tightly, as if he expected her to pry them open with her fingers.

His hands clenched into fists at his sides, his every muscle tensed at her touch.  Goddess, he needed to get away from her.  He knew without looking that every tender inch of her was bared to the worshiping sun.  He’d made sure of that.  He didn’t need the visual reminder of her perfection.  Not when he wouldn’t be allowed to sample it.  He’d have to wait for seduction.  His predator was still too close for him to even attempt it.  Her body was too fragile to meet his demands in this state.  Willing or not.

“Erol.”

He backed away, his eyes open but cast down and away from her.  He growled, a warning more forceful than the last when she made to follow him, each retreating step matched by her advance. 

“Erol,” she repeated, her tone entreating.  She watched him retreat like an injured animal needing time to lick its wounds.  She wasn’t exactly sure what had happened.  What had reversed their roles.  He backed away as if afraid, his gaze diverted.  She wanted to keep him there.  She really wanted to know what was going on with the freaky skin-fang-eye thing.  Her fear, as it melted away, made way for her inherent curiosity.  After all, she
was
an IAESC pilot, so it wasn’t like she’d never seen an alien before.  And she
was
on an alien planet.  She’d just panicked because she wasn’t expecting him to morph into the one-eyed-one- horned- giant-purple-people-eater…with fangs.  Now that she knew--well she’d just have to avoid throwing fruit at him, and everything would be copa.

She crossed to the pile of shredded fur at the bottom of the tree, not that they’d be very much use anymore.

Erol was gone.  Why did it seem that every confrontation they had ended up with her alone, here, more confused than ever?

She shrugged.  The more she tried to understand this planet, the weirder things got.  Maybe if she just…oh who the hell knew what she should do?  She really just wanted to go home. 

Sitting, she wrapped her arms around her bent legs, resting her head on her knees.

Damn it Avi’, this is so not the time to drag your ass.  Get here already.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

The ship docked, the dull black of it standing out among the highly polished bronze of the others around it.  Ransum adjusted his stabilizer unit, a device consisting of two clear hoods that fit between the soft hollow of his jaw and neck on either side of his throat, to lay snuggly over his inhalation gills. He shifted the thick black-gray mass of his shoulder-length hair to cover the thin tubes that ran into the collar of his flight-support suit.  It was uncomfortable, but necessary.  Without it, he would have no access to the flowing mixture of vinyl chloride and nitrous oxide needed to sustain him outside of his home world. 

“Remain with the ship,”  he ordered the three other soldiers that accompanied him.  This was a ‘peacekeeping’ mission--or so the documents he carried purported--and he didn’t need to be concerned with having to discipline disruptive soldiers for being unable to control themselves.

The males were large and over-muscled.  An excellent source if you needed to intimidate by size or sheer brute strength, but they completely lacked impulse control, or common sense.  Not that they needed either, as far as Apep was concerned.  She saw them as tools and nothing more.  Expendable.  Who cared if they had to be disposed of?  If they were uncontrollable to the point of needing termination?  She’d just make more of the neurologically altered soldiers.

He made his way towards the guards stationed on either side of the arched entrance leading to the interior structure, the iridescent purple-orange of their uniforms marking them as imperial soldiers--and his escort for the remainder of his stay.  Hopefully, it would be short.  He didn’t relish the thought of a long, drawn out stint on a planet where he couldn’t even breathe safely. 

Unlike most of the male inhabitants of this planet, their bodies were completely covered.  His black flight uniform appeared harsh next to their almost- female attire.

He stood seven feet even, his well-muscled length wrapped snuggly in a thick body hugging material.  It was comprised of a liquid leather-steel mesh, which allowed it to shape to him like a second skin yet offered the protection of armor.  The material was probably twice the weight of a normal flight suit, but he barely felt the difference.  He could hardly remember a time when he'd worn anything else.  As a member of the ruling family of a planet steeped in continual war--with itself and others--it behooved him to always be prepared.  The suit offered him the easiest solution, but the stabilizer chaffed.  It and his clothing clearly marked him as a visitor, and Nur was a planet that welcomed off-worlders—
Aljeni—
not at all.

He continued past, knowing they would follow.  This wasn’t his first visit, and he was well versed in their protocol.  They would not engage him--in any way—unless he attempted to leave the domicile or threatened its inhabitants. 

The thick soles of his flight boots made no sound.  Silent on the smoothly polished stone of the corridor, he neared his destination, the audience chamber of the most powerful warrior on Nur.

Politics were conducted in the same manner in which everything else was here.  The strong overtook the weak.  You couldn’t have what you couldn’t keep, and the reigning
High Mexxeja
retained his power through prowess and brute strength.

He stopped before the large metal doors that protected the inner sanctum.  The image reflected in the polished metal was hard, the visage uncompromising.  Unforgiving.  He searched his reflection from the puckered scar that traveled the length of his jaw to disappear into his hairline --the stark whiteness standing out against the dark olive of his skin--to the hard clench of that same jaw.  His eyes, a bright blinding yellow, glinted, the color all the more disconcerting in their hardness.  No weakness or hesitation showed in the eyes that stared back.  There was no weakness in the soul behind them.

Ransum pushed through.  The audience chamber was empty, his guarded shadows the only presence save his own.  The absence of courtiers didn’t surprise him.  Strength aside, the quickest way to depose a ruler was to extinguish his supporters, and the details of their arrangement, were they public knowledge, would definitely have that effect.

He swept the chamber, the illuminating glow of the
pjanti
that grew on the lower walls allowing him to identify the other entrances.  Aside from the large arch at his back, there were two smaller ones located on either side of the huge monstrosity of a throne located on the raised dais in the center.  The throne was obviously positioned for intimidation, its owner wanting to use any tool available to invoke fear in those that came before him.  It was easily large enough to seat two; even the larger frame of a Gwerriera Nies male would be hard pressed to fill the space provided by the massive quantities of black stone used in its creation.  The form in itself was that of a male in full phase, its menace demonstrated in the exaggerated baring of its upper teeth, the upper jaw forming--as if a crown--the top arch.

Movement pulled his gaze to the entrance located to the rear left; the appearance of a small female laden with three large heavy furs caught his attention.  She shuffled under the weight, the strain of carrying them allowing her to take only small half steps.  The furs were thick, each easily twice the length of her own petite stature, and as black as the stone seat she struggled to lay them across. 

She was smaller than most Gwerriera Nies females.  The standard being that they stood only slight inches shorter, and sometimes matched the males, in height.  The deeply cut
libsa
--a garment designed to hug a female form--hung loosely from her frame, the long straight fall of her hair barely hiding the noticeable outline of her rib cage.  Though varying shades of creamy browns and tans could be found in the species, she bore a darker complexion, more olive than brown.

He watched as she arranged the furs to cover the seat, arms, and back of the massive throne, frowning when he noticed the leather mask obscuring all but her sight.  It was impossible to distinguish the features.  Ransum wondered--not for the first time--at the methods used in the punishment and subduing of their females. 

Finished, she stepped away, dropping into a protective crouch as she neared the opposite arch.  Bowing, she raised her arms to cover her head, stilling at the approaching footsteps of the guard.

The
High Mexxeja
was a tall male, easily matching Ransum in height, extremely muscled and scarred.  He marched arrogantly ahead of his personal guard, a blatantly defiant testament to his own self-importance.  The thick coarseness of his hair lay in braided hunks over his shoulders and back, its black shade blending into the soft black fur that draped his shoulders to drag the floor behind him.  Like most other males, he wore only a skin at his hips, the jeweled hilt of the
sikkina
that rode his thigh the only testament to his high rank and position.  This was a male smug in his confidence.  He strutted--his bare steps silent on the polished stone--and seated himself comfortably before acknowledging Ransum.

“You come unescorted.”  It was an accusation, sneered in contempt at what he evaluated as an act of stupidity.

“I’ve had no escort since reaching my maturity,” Ransum replied, his unreadable demeanor never changing.  The hard glint of his stare unsettling in its consistency.  “Commander Apep expects reciprocation of the gifts bestowed at our last meeting.  Hardly the need for escort.  Would you disagree?” 

The deep crimson gaze weighed him, its sharpness missing nothing.

Ransum showed no fear, anxiety, or hesitation.  To do so would ensure his death.  On a planet where only the strong proliferated, it would be foolish to show weakness, by word or deed.

The
Mexxeja's
gaze was draw to the female still crouched in submission at the entrance.  No longer alone, her face was now pressed into the thigh of another female that joined her.

This female stood easily six feet tall, the straight length of her black hair adorned with tiny almost imperceptible braids, each individually weighted with polished metal.  She stared straight at Ransum, her hand stroking the mass of the other female’s hair lovingly, a soothing massage that seemed to put her at ease.  Scrolling designs covered every inch of the tall female’s exposed skin, their swirling blue-gray shades, bold against her indescribable fairness, even caressing the outlines of her face before disappearing beneath the heavy fall of her hair.  Here too was an absence of the usual browns and creams of their species; instead there was an absence of shade altogether, as if it had been stripped or burned from her to leave a strikingly beautiful and altogether unsettlingly different canvas.  Her eyes, a deep welling black, held him as if seeing his past, present and future in one searching glance.

“Heed my warning
Mexxeja
.”  Her voice flowed deep and shallow at once, as if echoing from cavernous heights.  Gaze un-straying, her volume never changed, but seemed to pitch and swell--a tangible fluid in the air.

Ransum shivered.  Unable to control his reaction, his skin tightened, his every tissue vibrating to the electric symphony of her voice.

His eyes swung to the dais.  The
Mexxeja
seemed to have missed his reaction, his pained grimace showing him to have the same dilemma.

Again, he focused on the female; her head now bent to the crouching form.  She whispered softly something that seemed to soothe, her body melting closer.  With infinite gentleness, she helped the female to her feet, guiding her beneath the arch and out of sight.

That is one dangerous female.

“Reciprocation will be made,
Aljeni
.” 

His gaze swung again to the
High Mexxeja
, whose own attention still focused on the now empty entrance.

Ransum nodded, a gesture unnoted, and leaving the still transfixed male, returned to his ship.

TK grinned.  For the first time in weeks, genuine pleasure lit his features.  He watched as Aramis struggled up off the mat--for what seemed the thousandth time.  The man swayed, the once-white material of his training suit clinging wetly in places where sweat--and other body fluids--colored it varying shades of gross.

“23.85 seconds.” He chucked sympathetically at the embarrassed frustration that pained the young man’s face.  “You almost lasted a whole half minute.”

“Again.  And this time…try!” 

The disgust-laced command was accompanied by a roundhouse kick to the head—a kick that the target in question just barely avoided.

De’Lhila swiveled, the momentum of the move transitioning her into a squatted-sweep-kick intended to floor her opponent.  She rolled--avoiding the kick aimed at her head--to spring into a backflip.  Lunging, she grabbed his right arm, lifting it away from his already tenderized trunk.  Her low fighter’s stance allowing her access to the kidneys, she pounded the full force of her muscled frame into each blow.  She struck…right kidney…left kidney…belly…jaw, the force of each causing an exhalation of breath.

She sprang away, allowing her victim to drop to his knees before falling to the side to curl in on himself.   

What?  Did they eliminate the attack/defense portion of the IAESC’s training regimen?

She watched in ever-mounting disgust as Aramis whimpered and convulsively rocked on the rubber training room mat.

“Oh brother…” she sighed, blowing a sweaty strand of hair from her forehead.  “Really?  I thought I hit ‘like a girl.’”