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MAEVE
Bodies press from every direction as we step into the Bazaar proper. Scaled and furred and bristling with numerous limbs, the sheer variety of alien species overwhelming. The noise is a cacophony of sound layered so densely that individual voices dissolve into chaos. Vendors hawking wares in languages my translator implant struggles to parse. Buyers arguing in tones that might be aggressive or might be customary, impossible to tell. Rhythms and harmonies thread through it all, following rules human ears were never designed to understand.
The smell is worse. Spices I can't identify, smoke from cooking fires fueled by substances that aren't wood, the recycled air of a thousand different atmospheric preferences collide. The thin atmosphere doesn't help. Each breath requires more effort than it should, my body working harder to extract what it needs from air designed for species who evolved in this environment.
I didn't take my supplement, and I would never deign to tell Drazex Draven of any weakness, no matter how my temples throb or how shallow my breathing becomes.
His hand settles at the small of my back. The touch is light but firm, a pressure that guides without forcing, and I should pull away. He forfeited the right to touch me. I should maintain the distance I've been constructing since I opened my door this morning and found him standing there like nothing had changed.
Instead, I lean into the contact. He's warm through my clothing. His Draveki temperature runs hotter, and the heat of his palm sinks into my spine and spreads outward until I'm flushed. The pressure of his hand is proprietary. Possessive. Histhumb brushes against the curve of my waist, a ghost of contact that sends electricity sparking through me.
I hate how safe his touch makes me. I hate I want more of it. I hate that my body doesn't care what he said, or how he hurt me. I respond to his proximity with a hunger I can't reason away.
“Stay close. The Bazaar is a Trade Zone, but that doesn't make it safe.”
“I can handle myself.”
“I never said otherwise.” His hand doesn't move. His thumb traces another small circle against my waist, and I'm not certain he's aware he's doing it. “Stay close anyway.”
The crowd parts around him, bodies shifting away from his path. His mere presence carves a space through the chaos, a bubble of safety that extends to include me because his hand on my back marks me as his.
A creature I can’t name brushes too close, its scaled hide scraping my arm as it passes. Three rows of eyes blink at me from a face that holds no expression I can read, and cold uncoils in my gut.
Drazex's hand tightens against my spine. The pressure is minute, barely perceptible, but the creature sees what lives in his face and changes direction mid-step. Three rows of eyes drop, its posture shifting into submission, and then it's gone into the crowd and I'm breathing again.
“What was that?”
“A Thesskan trader. Likely interested in what you might be worth.”
The words land like stones. “Worth.”
“Humans are commodities here. You know this.”
I do know this. Surrounded by alien bodies in a market where anything can be bought and sold, the knowledge sits differently.
“And what stopped it from testing that theory?”
His thumb traces another circle against my waist. Deliberate. “Because you're my property.”
The possessiveness in his voice should frighten me. It does frighten me. It also sends a cascade of heat flooding between my legs. I despise the throb of arousal when he's proven he doesn't deserve it.
We find the stall I'm looking for near the market's southern edge, a cramped space overflowing with samples in sealed containers. The vendor is a species I don't recognize, scaled in mottled bronze and copper, too many eyes clustered at the top of what might be a head.
“I need Kareth compound base.” My professional mode engages despite the chaos pressing at my nerves. “Twenty units, sealed for transport. Atmospheric stabilizers for three species classifications.”
The vendor names a price that would bankrupt most. I open my mouth to negotiate, when Drazex steps forward. He doesn't speak. Doesn't threaten. Doesn't do anything beyond fix his gaze on the vendor.
The silence stretches for three heartbeats. Four. The vendor names a new number. One quarter of the original price.
“That must be convenient.” The words escape. “The whole terrifying death stare thing.”
A smile ghosts over his full lips. “It has its uses.”
I see the dry humor I'd discovered before he ruined everything, the personality beneath the enforcer that had been emerging one careful layer at a time. Then he looks away, and the mask returns, and the moment dissolves into the market noise around us.
I'm flagging by the time we finish gaining the samples I need. My temples throb in rhythm with my pulse, the early warning signs of hypoxia.
