"Human mates can bear our young, yes. But those children will never be fully Cerastean. If we want to preserve who we truly are – our bloodline and heritage – we need pure Cerastean children." He steps closer, and I have to fight the urge to step back. "It is your duty to help ensure that. To continue the true Cerastean line."
My duty.
Oh, that does it. Something inside me snaps.
For four months, I have worked to soften my edges. Dr. Singh has helped me process the trauma of captivity, helped me learn to trust again, to feel again. I have let people in. Paige, with her compassion and sweet nature. Cody, with his patient kindness, ridiculous nickname, and irreverent humor.
But there is a part of me that never left that cell in Diamalla's facility. A part that learned to survive by becoming cold and sharp and untouchable. Paige calls it my "ice queen" persona, and she means it affectionately.
Right now, however, I reach for it like a weapon.
"My duty," I repeat, and my voice could freeze the air between us. I draw myself up to my full height, letting every inch of my caste breeding show in the steel of my spine. "You dare speak to me of duty?"
D'Vorak's expression ripples with surprise, but he holds his ground. "Someone must."
"Then let me be clear." I bare my teeth in an expression that is absolutely not a smile. The hiss that escapes my throat is pure, primal warning. This male is lucky I no longer have my venom sacs. "I would let the Cerastean species die out entirely before I would allow another person to dictate how I must live my life. I owe no one offspring. Least of all you."
D'Vorak's eyes flash with anger. "You are being selfish?—"
"I am being honest." I cut him off with another hiss. "Which is more than I can say for your so-called courtship. You do not want me, D'Vorak. You want a breeding vessel. Someone to fulfill your notion of duty while you claim credit for preserving our species."
"That is not?—"
"We are finished here."
His jaw tightens. Then his gaze drops to the book still clutched against my chest, and an ugly look crosses his face.
"It is obvious," he says, his voice dripping with disdain, "you are already accepting courting gifts. So your objection is not to being courted, merely to being courted by me."
I look down at the book. Cody's book. The architecture of Earth, given without expectation. Without demand.
"This is a gift from a friend," I say coldly. "Nothing more."
"A friend." D'Vorak's tone makes the word sound obscene. "A human friend."
"And even if it were a courting gift – which it is not – it would be absolutely no concern of yours."
My voice has risen now, sharp enough to carry down the corridor. Part of me knows I should lower it, should handle this with more dignity. But I am so tired. How many is this now? How many males have approached me with gifts and intentions, not one of them interested in me as an individual? They want only what my body represents: a chance at pure Cerastean offspring.
L'Senna accepted D'Ronin's courtship last month. I heard the news secondhand, from Paige, who delivered it gently, watching my face for a reaction. I gave her none. L'Senna is not me. Her choices are her own, and I have no right to judge them. But I cannot stop the quiet voice that wonders whether it was love or exhaustion that made her say yes. Did the obligation of saving our species influence her choice? I wonder if she chose D'Roninbecause he stirred something in her heart, or simply because the weight of being asked became heavier than the weight of saying yes.
Do they not understand what they're asking for? A mating is not a transaction. It's a lifelong bond. A partnership. You should know the person you're binding yourself to. You shouldlikethem. But none of that seems to matter when a fertile womb is involved.
It makes me want to rage like a wild beast caught in a trap.
"A'Vanti?"
L'Awai's voice cuts through my anger. I turn to find him approaching from the direction of the bride volunteer lounge. His eyes move between me and D'Vorak, his gaze heating as he reads the tension between us.
"Is everything alright?" he asks, coming to stand beside me. His posture is casual, but I can see the tension in his shoulders. The readiness. His scent carries the bite of rising anger.
I force my expression into something approximating calm. "Everything is fine. D'Vorak was leaving."
D'Vorak's eyes flare with indignation, but he's not foolish enough to challenge L'Awai directly. L'Awai is bonded to a female, which gives him a certain status among Cerastean males. And more importantly, L'Awai is not someone anyone wants to fight.
"This conversation is not over," D'Vorak says to me, low and heated.
"Yes," I say with my most withering sneer, "it is."
