He laughs, pigment jumping over his skin in stutters of blue and white. “Too easy! That’s why I need to train every day, so I can better still my skin.”
I bite my lip, not saying what I want to say:Don’t lose that.Don’t cut yourself off from your emotions so that you can be someone else’s weapon.
I desperately want to warn him. Wrap him up in a cocoon and protect him. It’s like Aqen is the “before” picture of one of my clients, and I already know what the after will look like. Hard. Angry. Cold.
Like his king.
“Here.” Aqen pushes open a door and I’m hit with a relative cacophony of heat and light and noise. Not many voices, but grunts and hisses. Bodies slapping. The clang of weapons.
It’s hard to take in all the activity. There are maybe thirty warriors here, divided into three groups. Those sparring in three central fighting rings, and a bunch of warriors leaning on the rail, watching. Those in a staging area where they’re selecting, sharpening, and strapping on weapons. And, across the pits from where we’re standing, a number in what seems to be a recovery zone where a couple healers in their distinctive green robes are treating injuries.
The healers are the only ones with pants on. The rest of them are butt-naked and—barring the two or three warriors who are obviously female—are running around with their cocks strapped to their legs. I can’t avoid staring at them. Everywhere my eyes land, it is a buffet of alien dick. Most of it is nice dick, too, long and thick and colored like candy. Lickable.
A snort beside me draws my attention, and I realize Aqen is laughing at my thirsty behavior. I pretend to wipe the imaginary drool off my chin, close my fist around it, and then sock him in the upper arm. His brows jump in surprise when it lands solidly.
“You have training.”
I shrug. “I have brothers,” I start to say, but then I spot him. Way over on the other side of the pits. With no pants on.Nik.
But he’s not training the younger warriors. He’s not fighting or watching the matches. He’s not even cleaning weapons or sweeping the damn floor.
He’s getting a motherfuckingmassage.
Chapter 4
Nik
Ihave to bite my tongue to keep quiet. Cidro, the head healer, digs his unmerciful fingers into my shoulder, sending a scream of pain through me that threatens the edge of my consciousness.
“Breathe, Jara,” he orders, pausing his torturous treatment. I dutifully pull in a deep breath, and of course, it scents of her.
My Alara. My queen. My Philadelphia, who has a private name only for me to use. A Nik-name, she called it. I was struck to my core when she said that, and I haven’t stopped turning it over in my mind since. Delphie.Mine.
My thoughts are so consumed with her that I smell her everywhere, even down here in the pits. “Keep going,” I say through gritted teeth.
Cidro resumes, crushing the crystallized residue clogging my pigment channels with the heel of his hand before massaging it away. Alioth save me, it feels like being flayed. “You shouldn’t go so long between treatments,” he chides. “This is the worst I’ve seen. You will lose function completely if you keep this up.”
“I was busy,” I grit out, sucking in another labored breath ofher.“My brother’s joining ceremony kept me on his planet longer than I intended.”
“They have healers on Olethia.”
I grunt in response. Of course, they do. Some of the best in the galaxy. That doesn’t mean I trust them. Anyway, my case is hopeless. There is no fixing what a lifetime of pigment suppression has done to my system. What’s another day or two?
He moves to my neck, and this time, I can’t help it. I groan as the shards he releases slice through my collapsed channels. Breathe in.My queen.Breathe out, because I can’t keep her.
“You like that? Feels good, huh?” It takes me a second to realize the sharp voice is actually hers and not in my head. When I open my eyes, Delphie is right in front of me, hands on her hip. Even though her pigment is contented, I can tell from her posture that she’sfurious. “Do you think Lena’s relaxing? Are the Frathiks giving her a massage right now?”
I sit up and shrug Cidro’s hands aside so I can pull on my sveli. “Jara, I’m not finished—” he protests, but I silence him with a gesture. Delphie is right. I am neglecting my duties. Failing in my promises to her. I strap on my knives and tie my trouser sash, then rise to go.
“You’re not going to say anything to explain yourself?” Delphie demands, crossing her arms, hip cocked.
“No.” I have no excuse. My pigment bladder makes a weak attempt to show my shame, but it’s futile, and the impulse just settles into a deep, penetrating ache that is comforting in its familiarity.
“Where are you going?!” she calls, jogging to catch up.
“To the comm center.” I glance back at her and see Aqen’s panicked pigment rushing to join us. “Settle, warrior. Stay and train. I will take Del—” I pause, swallowing the intimacy of her private name. “Herwith me.”
“I’ll see you later,” Delphie says, pressing palms with him, and I have to look away so my jealousy doesn’t make me do something stupid. “Thanks for showing me around.”
