"Blinking dund!" I growl at the machine, though it's my own helplessness that earns my ire.
"It will hold this time,” Talrut reassures me.
As the new mold takes shape, my thoughts spiral back to Jules with her hands shackled, the sheet wrapped around her lush body, and my scent still clinging to her smooth skin. I curse myself for not claiming her as a Kaul male does a mate. I should have knotted her, filled her with my mating seed as my sivot has already done.
"Please," I breathe, the word a talisman against despair. "Let me be in time."
The mold holds its shape and the zorite is poured. The forge's heat wraps around me like a second skin as Talrut dunks the mold into a cooling vat. Sweat beads on my forehead, every drop a reminder of the relentless ticking of time.
"Almost ready," Talrut grunts, his bumpy blue skin glistening under the intense light of the forge.
He lifts the mold from the vat and gently sets it on the workbench. Wielding a heavy mallet, poised above the now-cooled zorite shell, he shatters the mold with one decisive strike. The shatters the mold, revealing the hollow replica of the Zorite Statue within. I lunge forward, hands outstretched, ready to cradle the salvation of my chosen mate.
"Careful, it's still fragile," Talrut warns, but his voice is lost to the roaring in my ears. The relic is cold against my heated palms, its intricate surface a testament to Talrut's mastery. The empty cavity within echoes my own hollow chest, without Jules, what am I but a shell?
"Thank you," I rasp, my gratitude genuine, yet laced with the desperation clawing at my insides. "You've done more than you know."
“A favor repaid,” Talrut bobs his lumpy chin.
"Until again, Talrut."
I don't waste another heartbeat. With the statue secure in my arms, I bolt from the sweltering workshop, the stagnant air a welcome caress against my sweat-drenched skin. My ship looms ahead, a silent promise of hope. I can already feel its engines thrumming, the familiar vibration syncing with the restless energy to reach Jules.
After I quickly fill the hollow void with a taste of revenge, I secure the statue within the cargo hold and race to the command deck. The ship responds to my touch, engines roaring to life. With a final glance at the receding planet, I engage the hyper-drive. Pinned to my seat, I shoot through the atmosphere, a comet blazing a trail back to her, the only treasure who truly matters.
JULES
Panic claws at my insides, a relentless beast that won't be tamed. Every tick of the floating chronometer Warlord Zarnak activated to taunt me is a drumbeat to my doom. Behtu is out there somewhere in the vastness of space, his promise to return andsave me from this nightmare hanging by a thread as thin as the last shred of hope I cling to.
"Your time is running out, female," Warlord Zarnak growls, his voice a low rumble that vibrates through the cargo hold. The words slither across my skin like the caress of a blade, and I suppress a shudder. His towering frame looms before me, an eclipse against the sterile light, his amber eyes alight with malicious glee.
"It doesn’t appear Behtu is returning for you,” he taunts, revealing jagged teeth in a grotesque smile. "It appears the Zorite Statue is more valuable to him than your life.”
I glance at the chronometer hovering in the air before me. So many zeros and so little time. From what I can tell about the alien clock, there’s still about three minutes left. I swallow hard and reassure myself that there’s still plenty of time for Behtu to reach me before the leather-faced warlord presses the button to detonate my collar and end my life.
I push down my niggling doubts. Behtu promised to return with the statue the warlord demanded. Something happened and he’s just delayed. He’ll be here in time.
"Perhaps I was wrong about the power of a bondmate," Warlord Zarnak muses aloud. "Perhaps the space pirate values treasure more than his chosen mate’s life.”
I lift my chin defiantly, my heart pounding against my ribcage. "There’s still time. He's coming back for me." My voice is steady, belying the turmoil that rages within. It has to be true because the alternative is my head being blown off my shoulders.
My entire body jerks and I barely suppress a squeal when alarms blare to life, cutting through the tension like gunfire.
“Proximity alert,” an electronic voice announces over the scream of the sirens. “A vessel approaches.”
Warlord Zarnak's expression morphs from thoughtful concentration to momentary surprise, and then his thin lips curl up into a sinister leer.
"Ah, so the Star Maverick has returned after all," he says, rubbing his clawed hands together. "We shall see if his valor was worth the wait, or will your life be forfeit."
The door slides open with a hiss, and Behtu rushes inside. His glossy blue skin seems to absorb the dreariness around me, and cradled in one arm he holds a dark silver statue.
A little over a foot tall, the Zorite Statue is contorted and unassuming, a representation of whatever creature it is meant to depict. Its twisted shape lacks any remarkable features, appearing almost comical in its simplicity. It's hard to fathom that this unremarkable figure holds such immense value in the eyes of the Grymloks, for its appearance is far from awe-inspiring.
Behtu’s glacial gaze meets mine and everything else fades away. The weight of my fear dissolves into irrelevance. Relief crashes into me like a tidal wave, and I can't stop the tears that scald my cheeks. He came back for me just like he promised. There's a fierceness in his piercing gaze, a promise that ignites a flame within my chest. I'm still not safe, not yet, but with him here, salvation feels tantalizingly close.
Behtu steps forward, the unremarkable statue cradled like a newborn in his arms. Its dark silver sheen catches the scant light, a dull glimmer in the gloom of the Warlord's cargo hold. His voice slices through the tension, "Here is your precious relic. Now, release my female."
"Well met, Star Maverick," Warlord Zarnak’s tone drips with mockery as he visually inspects the statue with a predator's gaze. The power play is palpable, a dance of dominance and defiance between two formidable beings.
