Chapter 4
Brivul
Brivul coiled his massive frame against the clinic’s sterile white wall, his blue scales gleaming under the harsh fluorescent lights. Another day, another shift of watching desperate humans shuffle through the doors of the surrogacy clinic with hollow eyes and empty pockets.
“Papers.” His deep voice echoed through the reception area. The slender woman before him clutched her documents, her hands trembling.
The scent of antiseptic burned his nostrils as he inspected her papers. Back on Nirum, surrogacy clinics smelled of healing herbs and hope. Here, the stench of fear and desperation clung to every surface.
“Move along.” He waved her through, his violet eyes scanning the waiting room. Three more candidates huddled in the corner, whispering among themselves. Their fear-sweat made his tongue flick in distaste.
A year ago, he’d commanded armies. Now he checked paperwork and broke up the occasional fight between desperate surrogates and entitled clients. His muscles ached for real action, for the weight of a plasma rifle instead of this standard-issue stunner on his belt.
“Sir?” One of the clinic staff approached. “Dr. Voss needs you to escort a problematic client out.”
“Again?” Brivul growled, towering over the nervous attendant. “Third one this week.”
The same dance, different day. He’d sworn not to interfere in Jorvlen matters, but watching the corruption eat away at these humans gnawed at his conscience. Back home, surrogacy was sacred. Here, it was just another commodity to exploit.
His tail slithered against the polished floor as he made his way to the doctor’s office. The sound echoed through the empty hallway, a hollow reminder of how far he’d fallen—from leading charges against pirates to playing bouncer in a shady clinic.
“You can’t do this to me!” A man’s voice carried through the door. “I paid good money!”
Brivul’s jaw tightened. The scar there pulled tightly—a reminder of battles that actually meant something. He squared his shoulders and pushed open the door, ready for another meaningless confrontation in an endless string of meaningless days.
Hours later, at lunch time, Brivul slithered through the nearby bustling market, his tongue flicking to taste the mix of spices and sweat in the air. His security uniform felt restrictive after a morning of dealing with entitled clinic patients. His stomach growled at the scent of grilled meat wafting from a nearby stall.
A flash of movement caught his eye. A human woman with long black hair stood at a produce vendor’s stall, her chin raised. Something about her posture spoke of contained strength.
“These vegetables are half-rotted,” she said, her voice steady. “I won’t pay full price for produce that won’t last two days.”
The vendor, a pot-bellied Jorvlen, leaned over his counter. “Pretty thing like you should worry less about prices and more about pleasing your master.”
Brivul’s scales bristled. His claws dug into his palms, but he held his position momentarily.
“My price is fair considering the quality,” the woman countered, ignoring the lewd comment. A birthmark decorated her temple, catching the light as she sorted through the wilting produce.
“Maybe we could work out another form of payment.” The vendor’s tongue darted across his lips. “Something more… personal.”
The woman’s spine stiffened, but she didn’t back down. “Three credits for the lot, or I’ll take my master’s business elsewhere.”
Brivul found himself admiring her composure. Most slaves he’d encountered kept their eyes down, their spirits broken. This one had fire in her green eyes, even as she maintained a facade of deference.
The vendor made another crude suggestion, and Brivul’s tail twitched with suppressed anger. His warrior instincts screamed to intervene for some reason he didn’t quite understand.
Brivul quickly slithered forward, his massive frame casting a shadow over the vendor’s stall. The rancid smell of rotting vegetables mixed with the vendor’s fear-sweat as Brivul rose to his full height.
“The lady offered three credits.” His deep voice cut through the market noise. “A generous price for your subpar goods.”
“This is none of your business, Niri .” The vendor’s fingers trembled as he adjusted his collar.
“Everything in this district is my business,” Brivul hissed, even though he knew that was a lie. His eyes narrowed, his jaw tightening. “Shall we discuss your permit violations?”
The woman kept her gaze down, but Brivul caught the slight upturn of her lips.
“Three credits it is.” The vendor snatched the money from her outstretched hand and shoved the vegetables into her basket.
“Thank you, sir.” Her voice stayed soft, demure—a perfect slave’s response. But those green eyes flashed with triumph as she bowed her head to Brivul.
His warrior’s instinct recognized that carefully hidden strength. The way she gripped the basket spoke of controlled power, not submission.
“My pleasure.” Brivul’s scales rippled as he maintained his intimidating posture over the vendor’s stall.
Brivul suddenly plucked the heavy basket from her hands. “Allow me.”
Her shoulders tensed, but she didn’t pull away. “I can manage.”
“A security officer’s duty includes protecting people from unscrupulous vendors and their rotting produce,” he joked.
A ghost of a smile crossed her face. The scent of jasmine and vanilla drifted from her skin, cutting through the market’s aroma.
“I’m Mila,” she said shyly, although her voice carried a hint of warmth.
“Brivul.” His tail swayed as they moved between the stalls. “You handled that vendor well.”
“Practice.” She paused at a spice merchant’s display. “Though I appreciate the backup.”
His scales tingled as she selected fragrant herbs, her movements precise and graceful. No ordinary slave, this one. The way she carried herself, the sharp intelligence in those green eyes—she was dangerous. And fascinating.
“The cinnamon’s fresh today.” The words tumbled out before he could stop them. “From the southern provinces.”
“You know your spices?”
“My mother was a healer. The scents bring back memories.”
Her fingers traced the edge of a jar. “What brought you to Jorvla?”
“A change of scenery.” The half-truth tasted bitter on his tongue.
They fell into an easy rhythm, moving from stall to stall. She asked about Niri customs, and he found himself sharing stories of his homeland’s festivals and traditions. Her laughter at his description of a disastrous harvest celebration loosened something in his chest.
Too soon, her basket brimmed with purchases. “I should return.” She reached for her goods.
Their hands brushed. Lightning shot through his scales. His mating instincts roared to life, demanding he claim this female who smelled of spice and strength. His tail coiled tightly as ancient Niri instincts warred with rational thought.
“Thank you.” She pulled back, a flush coloring her cheeks. “For everything.”
Brivul forced his claws to release the basket, every muscle screaming in protest. The warrior in him recognized a worthy mate, but she was human and a slave.
Completely forbidden.
Brivul watched Mila disappear into the market crowd, his claws flexing with the need to chase her. Her scent lingered—jasmine, vanilla, and something uniquely her that called to his most primitive instincts.
“Mate.” The word slipped out in a low growl. His tail lashed against the dusty ground.
A group of market-goers scattered at his display of agitation. Brivul forced his muscles to relax, though every fiber of his being screamed to follow her trail.
“She belongs to someone else,” he reminded himself.
His warrior’s pride rebelled at the thought. Back on Nirum, he’d have claimed her without hesitation. But here? He was nothing but a failed general playing security guard.
The market sounds faded as memories of the civilian ship’s explosion flashed through his mind. More lives he’d failed to protect. Just like he couldn’t protect Mila now.
“Everything all right, sir?” a vendor called out.
“Fine.” Brivul hissed, letting his intimidating presence silence further questions.
He slithered back toward the clinic, his movements stiff with frustrated tension. The rational part of his mind knew pursuing her would only bring trouble. She was property here—the thought made his scales crawl—and he had no right to interfere.
But his instincts refused to accept it. They demanded he track her, claim her, protect her. The way she’d stood up to that vendor with quiet strength only proved what a worthy mate she’d be.
“Enough.” He pressed his claws against the clinic’s outer wall, leaving shallow grooves in the metal.
He didn’t even know which household owned her. Didn’t know if he’d ever see her again in this sprawling city. The thought sent another wave of possessive anger through him, but he forced it down.
Some battles couldn’t be won. He’d learned that lesson the hard way.