"Choose?" I whisper, tasting the word, feeling its weight. And for a moment, beneath the predatory gaze of Warlord Zarnak, I allow myself the luxury of wondering what it might be like to be truly chosen by Behtu.
The concept resonates within me, stirring something deep in my chest. It's a dangerous thing,hope, but it blooms anyway, unfurling its delicate petals in defiance of my grim reality.
“Surely you are not so dim-minded a species to not understand what it is to be claimed by your male.”
I swallow hard, the dryness in my throat making it difficult to speak. "And what happens when a Kaul claims their chosen mate?" I ask, desperate for clarity and answers in the wake of Behtu's vague explanations.
Warlord Zarnak leans closer, his breath hot against my face. "A Kaul and his sivot cannot resist the primal urge to knot his mate, to spill seed deep within her and mark her as his own.” He inhales deeply and growls. “Going by your ripe scent, you were recently rutted. I can smell his spill leaking from your cunt.”
I feel the heat rise in my cheeks, an involuntary response to his vulgar reply. "Yes," I lie, hoping the warlord won’t know that Behtu has been holding himself back. "Behtu has claimed me as well as his sivot.”
Uncertainty settles heavy in my chest, as my fate is in Behtu’s hands. I never gave much thought to why Behtu has never knotted me, unlike his sivot. I figured it was just a physical difference between the Kaul and his beast.
The unsettling realization creeps in that maybe Behtu doesn't want to claim me as his mate, intensifying my fears that he may not return for me.
Chapter
Seven
BEHTU
“Talrut, old friend. You recall that favor you owe me," I growl into the comm, my voice echoing through the command deck of my spacecraft. The control panels blink back at me with a steady rhythm, indifferent to the urgency coursing through my veins.
There's a crackling hiss before Talrut's gruff voice filters through, "Well met, Behtu. Old friend, eh? I had no idea you had any much less considered me as one. As for calling in a favor, how could I forget when you took a dagger for me? How close are you to making my life more interesting?"
"Close enough that I'm breathing your polluted air," I retort, adjusting the thrusters as my ship pierces the outer layer of the atmosphere of Talrut's home world, Grag 2. Sparks of friction dance along the hull, a fiery display against the void. It's almost beautiful, a deadly sort of allure that matches my mood.
“Get your forge ready.” My pulse throbs in my temples, each beat a reminder of what's at stake.Jules.My heart tightens likea vice at the image of her imprisoned aboard Warlord Zarnak’s vessel, her faith resting solely on my shoulders for rescue.
Talrut's snort crackles through the comm, a static-laden sneer that could ruffle feathers, if I had any. "Breathing my air? Behtu, you make it sound so intimate. Should I expect flowers upon your grand entrance?"
"You know flowers wilt in this dump of an atmosphere," I shoot back, smirking despite the tension knotting my insides. I toggle the ship's controls with practiced ease, navigating the familiar yet always treacherous descent toward Talrut's domain.
"Preparing to land at your dock," I announce.
"Waiting on you, Maverick," he replies gruffly.
My Lizordian freighter shudders slightly as I guide her down, engines humming a deep, throaty purr that resonates through the marrow of my bones. The landscape on Grag 2 is a blur of dusky hues beneath me, industrial and unwelcoming.
I land the ship with a gentle thud outside Talrut’s forge, the clamps engaging with a satisfying click. Talrut's place is a mishmash of metal and machinery, a fortress of solitude built from the scraps of a thousand ventures.
I grab two bulging sacks, open the hatch, extend the ramp, and step out into the dim light of dusk. The air here is thick and heavy with the scent of oil and methane.
My heart beats a frantic rhythm as I stride toward the forge’s entrance. Time is slipping away, every second a whisper against my skin, a reminder that Jules is waiting, her fate hanging in the balance. A cloud of steam billows from the open door ahead, welcoming or foreboding, I can't decide.
The clatter of my boots against the stone floor echoes through the cavernous workshop as I approach. Talrut’s back is turned to me as he labors over some sort of project.
"Well met, Talrut," I say, announcing my arrival.
The trolite whips around, his small stature almost comical compared to mine. As short as he is round, his pudgy body is covered in vibrant blue, bumpy skin that resembles the mossie stones on Tagar 5. Tufts of fiery orange hair sprout sporadically across his forehead, and elbows, and cascade down his back like a miniature waterfall of flames. Wisps of steam from the forge curl around him like phantoms, and the pungent smell of molten metalloid fills the air. Golden eyes, wide and gleaming with mischief, are the only smooth surfaces on his lumpy face.
"Behtu Ky'Orlax," he croaks, his voice gravelly as he bows low. "The Klaxis King graces my humble abode. To what do I owe the pleasure?"
I ignore the misplaced formality and stride closer, the urgency simmering beneath my calm exterior. "I need your artistry, Talrut," I state, my gaze locking with his. "A replica of the Zorite Statue.”
His prickly brow wrinkles and I can almost see the gears turning in his head, assessing the gravity behind my request.
"Zorite isn't easy to come by, Behtu," Talrut replies, scratching at the rough patches on his chin. "Nor is it simple to work with. That stone is more metalloid than granzite and has a temper as fiery as?—"
