"Nothing so poetic," he scoffs. "We're compatible."
“So I’m just here to make sure you stay stable?” I ask incredulously. Somehow, that he wanted me for sex hurt less than he needs me for some kind of warlord stability.
“I need yo—a mate, to stay anchored. Without one, my rivals will know that I am unbalanced, reckless, and ripe to overthrow. I need a signal that I am…anchored.”
Anchored. Right.
“But you are irreplaceable,” he adds abruptly. “Which makes you dangerous.”
“I’m just another girl lost in space. I don’t know what you want from me.” I gulp.
His eyes harden.
Then, as if he’s speaking to himself, “I need your obedience, and your discretion. Don’t confuse my restraint with mercy. Don’t make me regret choosing you, human.”
"It's not human, it's Mae," I say before I bite the inside of my cheek, the penny taste of my own blood filing my mouth.
He drops his eyes and steps back. “Go to bed,Mae, before I forget why I even need you.”
Mekrra turns dramatically and his spines jostle as he whips down the hall, into the darkness. The lights dim as he leaves.
I’m left with the ghost of his anger still crackling in the surrounding air and some spark of softness that scares me more than his cruelty ever could. What in the universe could have me, a space stripper, be irreplaceable?
CHAPTER SIX
My eyes are still heavy with sleep when I hear Starcroft's voice cut through the last remnants of my dreams of home.
“Exciting news!” he chirps as he whirls the bedspread off my body. My arms coil around my torso at the loss of heat.
“Unless that exciting news is more sleep, count me out,” I groan, rolling onto my stomach as I bury my face into the plush, oversized mattress.
“You've had more than the required eight hours of sleep my database says human beings need. Do I need to amend that?” The concern in his little digital voice makes me feel guilty.
“No, it's fine…” I sigh, flipping back over to see Starcroft hovering above me, holding what looks like a figure-hugging dress. The creamy white fabric looks almost like spandex. There are cutouts over the waistline, held together by a ruby circlet, that remind me of the blue and white dress fromPretty Woman, but this one is floor-length with a deeper neckline.
“What's this?” I ask, brow arched.
“I made it for you!” Starcroft’s digital eyes shift to simulated joy.
“How do you even know what size I am?”
“I measured you in your sleep,” he says proudly.
“Hey, don't do things when I'm not awake, okay? I want to know what's happening to me.” My eyes narrow, and a dull ache blooms in my chest.
“Oh. Okay,” he says simply. “Do you like it?”
“Depends. What's the occasion?”
“Well, in an effort to make your mating ceremony more comfortable, I researched human mating traditions and asked Warlord Mekkra if I could make you the white dress I've read of. Though most of the examples seemed far more covered up than you like.”
Starcroft, I assume, is referencing my bubble dancer uniform as an example of the level of modesty I prefer, and a laugh claws up my throat before I can stop it—sharp, breathless, completely out of place. I bite down on it hard, lips pressing together as my fingers twitch at the edge of the fabric clinging to my skin.
Yeah. Because I definitely picked that.
But the giggle is cut short.
“Mating ceremony,” I say morosely.
