“So, when you say there’s no going back to Earth, is that like a hard no? Like there’s no amount of money or ill-advised plan that could get me there?” She looks up at me, her eyes sad and misty. “Or a soft no, where if I had enough resources, I could negotiate a trip back to my family…because my father would pay anything to get me home.”
I step closer, reaching my hand out to comfort her before pulling it back. She doesn’t see the gesture, thank goddess.
“How many times do I have to tell you the same thing before you believe me?” I worry that maybe her brain’s been damaged in cryo.
“I don’t know. Fuck, I don’t know. This isn’t fucking fair!”
Her sadness turns to anger, and she swigs from the bottle and slams her other fist against the cryopod—harder than I thought she could. It must hurt because she pulls her hand in and rubs it against her thigh. Dropping her chin against her chest, she closes her eyes and takes deep, angry breaths.
I reach my hand out again, but this time, I grab the bottle from her.
“Hey!” she yelps, standing and trying to grab it back. I easily hold her away with my much longer arm, flail as she might. My palm is pressed against her forehead, as it seems like the safest option to touch.
“You have the willpower of a child. Pull yourself together.”
She drops her arms to her sides and leans against my hand, holding her up. “Fine.”
She stays pressed against my palm for a moment longer, as if I’m supporting the weight of her anxiety. The moment is broken, though, as her stomach gurgles loudly. She stands up straight.
“You’re hungry?” I ask, annoyed again that I must care for someone so incredibly helpless.
“I’m Italian. Of course I’m fucking hungry.” She frowns and puffs a short burst of air through her nose.
My translator chip displays pictures of noodle dishes, arguing old men wearing gold chains, singing captains in unique boats, and beautiful landscapes with green fruit trees.
“Italian,” I say, as if I understand at all what that means.
“Yeah, you got a fucking problem with that?” My angry mate scowls.
“No, of course not.” I am afraid of admitting I don’t understand what that means. Maybe Italians are some different species of human…I could call my cousin the king and ask him to ask his human mate, Opal. That would require me admitting to kidnapping her in the first place. Which is something I’m not keen on doing yet, or at all if I can help it. Especially after the tongue lashing given to me by the human Jessy for refusing to wake all the women in cryosleep on the crashed ship.
“Stay here,” I tell her.
I exit the dressing room and click the button on the wall data pad. The austere voice of my butler breaks through the static.
“Can I be of any assistance, Your Grace?”
“Food, several plates in many varieties, quickly.”
“As a reminder, dinner is due to be served at its normal time shortly.” He sounds as annoyed with me as his station could allow him to be.
“I will dine alone in my chambers for the foreseeable future. Adjust my schedule accordingly.”
I swear I hear a sigh before he says, “As you wish, Your Grace.”
I turn back to the dressing room to find Marta clinging to the door frame, mouth agape. Her eyes are turned to the two stories of biofilm windows directly behind my bed.
“I thought I told you to say put. I take it back, you’re worse than a child!” I rush toward her, blocking her view and pushing her back into the closet.
“I…I… forgot about the water.” She pushes her back against the wall.
I’m frustrated that my mate is not only a human, but incredibly f’teeing helpless. “Who the f’tee doesn’t know how to swim?”
She narrows her eyes. “You don’t get to tell me what to do just because you’re some alien duke! I still have free will. If I want to leave this room, you bet your ass I’m going to!” Her hands fly into wild gestures as she yells. It’s bizarre looking, almost like she’s performing some angry interpretive dance.
“Then do it.” I step to the side and gesture out the door.
She blinks rapidly, as if not parsing what I’ve offered.
