He turns immediately after saying this, and I get to my feet shakily as he strides to the clothing closet and enters it. He returns momentarily with a red robe, the fabric as semi-transparent as the one I’m wearing.
He tosses it on the bed. I note, as a strange and truly unimportant curiosity, that it’s hanging on a hanger. Like on Earth.
I hear a whir, see his hands move so quickly they are a blur, and the bonds on my wrists loosen. “Dress.”
I cover my chest protectively and look down at the ‘dress.’ It’s a dress, all right, with a tight waist and a not particularly racy cut. But it’s see-through, so much so that it looks pink atop the white sheets.
I look back at him. “I—”
“Dress. A female hand will arrive to make you presentable. There is no discussion.”
“If I don’t?”
He steps toward me. Claws out, he touches my lip. Then he looks thoughtful for a moment, before leaning down to my ear. “I will take you to a dungeon, Anya Mann, and I will punish you.” His finger moves down my throat, between my breasts. “Very carefully, so that your weak, water bag of a body remains untouched… on the outside. But I assure you, you will scream. And beg me for mercy.”
He stands back and looks at me. My mouth is hanging open. What else could I possibly be doing?
“I will not give it to you,” he adds.
And then, before I can collapse on the bed from the weakness of my knees, he turns and leaves.
The door, I notice, is locked, and requires a hand pressed to a plate to open it. It’s the only door that has no knob: it whirs open, he leaves, and then it’s closed.
I exhale.
I wasn’t aware I wasn’t breathing, and I wonder how long it has been.
CHAPTER6
Rysethk
I turn right when I leave Anya’s bedroom and walk to the servants’ passages. Mykrythis on fire, my blood is up like I have been in a battle. Her hand, a female from Biokora, mostly human, passes me in the corridor and looks at her feet.
Ordinarily, I would grab her and turn her around, bury my cock inside of her and work out this energy. It’s a simple matter, easily taken care of. Her name is Trasmea, and she, like so many others, fears me, but she gives herself to me willingly and she comes like a rocket at my mere touch.
I pass her, mykrythpulsing angrily. I don’t want her. I want to rid myself of this desire, this energy that threatens my self-control. But Trasmea is not who I want. I want to sink into the tight flesh of this human girl, and I don’t like wanting things.
I return to my wing of the palace, and I strip when I reach the practice arena.
I’m best in hand-to-hand combat, and there is no one who dares to practice with me unless given orders to do so. I pick up thekrakscyth—the Kerz sword—and begin to attack the rows of dummies set up for the training of Zethki’s cadre of soldiers, those who follow him, like bodyguards, everywhere he goes. They are enforcers, pure muscle, dumb as rocks. I set about destroying all of the mannequins with ease, and even though their necks are made of strong fibrous wood designed to be twice as thick as any humanoid neck, they are all decapitated within minutes. I set about cutting off their limbs.
Zethki appears out of nowhere. I don’t know how long he has been there when I catch my first glimpse of him, lurking in the shadows with his typical smug expression, arms folded. I don’t let on that I have seen him, completing mykatrarevolutions and stabbing the sand-filled, headless, limbless dummy in front of me until its black, grainy blood empties onto the floor.
“Have you come to practice with me, Zethki, or just watch a master?” I ask him, without looking toward his shadowy figure. Our banter is always double-edged, part joke, part true rivalry. Zethki is my cousin, and I hold the favor of his father, but I’m not delusional enough to think that Zeth would not turn on me if the moment were ripe. I’m a threat to him, because I’m a better fighter, and I’m more clever than he is. He may seem reckless and fickle, but he’s more cunning than most in the family give him credit for, including his father. Because of his madman act—and I believe it’s mostly an act—it’s impossible to know what he will do when the power balance shifts.
When his father dies, I will have to play my hand very carefully.
He clicks his tongue, the Kerz equivalent of a human clap, as he walks slowly toward me. “Neither, undisputed master of mannequin slayings,” he says, his tone droll. He inspects the multitude of wounds I have delivered to the dummy, flicking sand to the floor. “You waste your strength,” he tells me, and, smiling, looks up at me, meeting my eyes. “Decapitation is the most efficient way to kill a bag of sand.”
I sheathe my sword and meet his gaze with neutrality, an expression I have mastered. I’m the calm tactician to his madman general, and I’m not sure how much of my behavior is an act like his.
“Yourkrythboils,” he observes pointedly. “Don’t tell me my little bride is getting under your skin.”
As usual, I don’t know how much of this is a crude male joke, and how much of it’s a vague threat. Zethki did not want to marry the human—Zethki did not want to marry, period, but it was known that he would eventually be required to do so, and in this very way, as a matter of business. He preferred the sister, Fiona, and he was not pleased when I instructed him to take Anya.
I cross the room and pick up a cloth to dry my skin. “She’s manageable,” I say. “But spirited.”
Zethki grunts. I see his face in the reflection of the darkened windows. Hiskrythis pulsing, but the reasons are unknown to all but Zethki. He fiddles with the racks of weapons, feigning interest in the objects as if he has never seen them before. “Perhaps you regret your choice,” he suggests playfully. He looks at me in the glass. “You never did explain that. Your choice.”
