Chapter 15
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
It doesn’t take long for all hell to break loose.
I shriek.
The unfamiliar alien growls.
Another alien roars.
There are pink wings, a purple tail, a bunch of claws. I hit the not-shower wall. The big lilac guy whirls on the blush intruder.
Ducking low and covering my head, I cry out again.
And everything stops.
“Stelaris above,” the purple one whispers. He lumbers to his knees, paying no mind to the water sluicing down his half-bare body. “Forgive me.”
Is he—is he talking to me?
Or whoever Stelaris is?
Either way, I scramble back, squeaking like a rodent caught in the thrall of a big cat. Which is appropriate, I think, since he has an actual tail.
It whips behind him like a pendulum. The small, heart-shaped paddle at the end matches the dark, violet hair hanging limp and wet over his enormous shoulders.
The rest of him looks a lot like the pink aliens.
Thicker bone structure, square face, slabs of muscle, and textured skin.
Though while the others had scales, his light purple pallor seems more matte.
Almost like velvet. And his horns are huge, sprouting from his hairline and arching over his enormous noggin in smooth arcs.
Slashing aubergine brows slant low over his equally dark eyes. A menacing flash streaks through those irises and I cower, folding into a tighter ball, hiding my face against my arm.
The second guy—Rask, I think—bellows furiously behind him, “You’ve fucking terrified her, gods-damn it!”
“She was distressed,” the new male argues. “I could scent her sadness and fear. I only barged in because I thought she was under attack!”
“You think so little of me?” Rask shouts. “That I would allow anyone or anything to attack the capital of our planet or our Zortaire’s omega?!”
That word, Zortaire…
My recently updated brain automatically knows… it means king.
A KING.
As in the aliens’ king???
Guys, I cannot make this stuff up.
Whoever this purple alien is, he ignores Rask’s demands. Instead, his brows sink lower, his wide mouth frowning mightily as his plated forehead puckers. With caution, he extends a three-fingered hand, claws open.
“Here,” he murmurs. “Allow me to help you up. Please.”
But I can’t move. I’m not even sure I’m breathing. And thank God I peed before this, or I would definitely be pissing myself right now.
“Oh, Morfu’s fury!”
I recognize the woman from the Selection. She appears in a whirl of moonlight fabric and blush bat wings, baring pointed teeth in a snarl.
“Both of you. Out.”
I don’t watch to see exactly what happens. I’m too busy reminding myself not to pass out or lose control of my bodily functions. The three of them snap growls at each other before heavy, angry footsteps retreat from the washroom.
A deep sigh alerts me to the lingering female. She waits for me to peek up from my fetal position before offering a scrap of fabric shaped distinctly like a towel, yet made of distinctly un-towel-like material. A not-towel.
“Here,” she says. “I’m sure you’d like to be dry when I explain what’s going on.”
She’s not wrong. But I’m too stunned to accept her peace offering. “H-how—? Wh-who?”
“Take this,” she insists, shaking the clean piece of fabric with impatience. “And my name is Norabi. Now, hurry. I don’t have all day, and we need to make you presentable if you’re going to be bred.”
Which is probably the totally wrong moment for me to finally shout, “FUCK NO!”
“Well, this is a problem.”
That’s me.
I’m the problem.
Norabi stands beside the far window-wall, her ripped arms flexed across her broad chest. Beside her, an ancient female drums her clawed toes against the shiny stone floor as she regards me shrewdly.
I can’t blame the pink one for bringing in backup, but I didn’t expect an old lady.
How can I tell? Well, I might not be from this solar system, but a wrinkle is a wrinkle. And this crone has about a thousand.
She’s also grayish periwinkle, as if her colors have washed out over the years. She lowers silver-blue eyebrows over sunken black eyes as she tuts her disapproval. “An omega who doesn’t want to breed?” she asks for the dozenth time. “I’ve never heard of such a thing.”
Dry and “dressed” in this ridiculous excuse for a robe, I sit on the bed, trying not to cry from exasperation. “Like I said, I’m not an omega! I don’t even know what that means!!”
The two females share a weary glance. A reminder that we’ve been over this before. Several times.
Norabi sighs, launching into her list of questions again.
We’ve been over this, too.
Yes, I have a “hole for insertion”—two of them, technically. And, yeah, I have a hormone cycle that, theoretically, means I should rest more during certain times of the month. And be more, uh, active during others.
And, sure, okay. I enjoy fuzzy blankets and pillows and “starlight”—which is alien for twinkle bulbs, apparently.
No, I admit again, I have no “battle defenses.” Yes, yes, yes, I hate super loud noises, I like naps, and I experience the urge to run and hide when something attacks me.
But, surely, that’s super normal for anyone.
The two females stare at me like I’m hopelessly simple. “An omega,” the old one—who Norabi introduced as Mortana—proclaims. “Plain as the suns.”
Which reminds me—oh, right—there are currently three goddamn suns setting on the grand horizon.
Now with gauzy blue clouds floating across the deeper lavender sky.
And an entrancing burst of amber-orange where the golden orb has started to join its larger sister, sinking partially behind the distant sea.
The view is beautiful. Otherworldly.
Which is exactly the problem.
My entire body shakes as I struggle to come up with new defenses.
Norabi’s posture slackens as she steps closer.
Her voice is almost gentle. “Even this, human—your trembles and the cries you strangle in your throat. They are textbook indicators of an omega. Meant to entice an alpha into comforting and protecting you.”
Her straight, thick nose wrinkles. “In fact, as an alpha, I find your current scent quite upsetting. And, no offense, but you’re not my type. So it must be my instincts. There is no other explanation, I’m afraid.”
Her ears—which look vaguely like mine, only distinctly wider and more pointed—suddenly prick. Turning like a dog’s. An almost-wince passes over her plated features.
“Zolkan is losing his mind,” she mutters, more to herself than anything. “To say nothing of my idiot brother. It will be a wonder if his balls have any seed left by morning.”
I’ll tell you one thing: these aliens are not shy about sex stuff. I’ve been asked more intimate questions in the last hour than I have in almost fifteen years of regular GYN appointments. They can also smell things, apparently. Like my absolute horror and, I guess, Rask’s horniness?
A delirious laugh trips up my throat.
Both females scowl at me.
“He’s horny,” I giggle, gesturing to the empty place over the crown of my head. Where the purple alien, Zolkan, has magnificent arching horns, and Rask has shorter, hooked ones.
“Horns,” I snort next, feeling like the room is floating around me. “Horny. Get it?”
Mortana’s scowl deepens, but Norabi’s lips twitch. “Merciful Stelaris,” she mutters to herself again. “Rask chose an omega as insane as him. I don’t know whether the Zortaire will be pleased or horrified.”
King, my brain pings. The king.
“S-so,” I stammer. “I’m here for the—?”
“Zortaire,” Mortana replies, flat. “Yes, girl. I know your human brain is minuscule, but do try to keep up.”
If I had it in me to glare, I might. I mean, yeah, the woman has wickedly sharp claws and the same horn-buds as Norabi. But she’s, like, a thousand. I think I could take her.
Norabi’s wide mouth smirks this time. She directs a subtle shake of her head at me.
As quickly as it set in, my dizzy dissociation wears off. I shiver, tucking my knees up to my chest.
Norabi’s expression almost softens. “It’s like we’ve said, our Zortaire needs an omega.
The options our planet has to offer have failed him—or he has failed them.
And he must breed in order for the rest of our people to have the same chance, because he is the Prime Alpha.
Without a willing omega, our planet will die. ”
The stab I feel is unwelcome and totally illogical. Who cares if this random space rock dies? I definitely shouldn’t.
But… fuck. Look at that sunset.
Suns-set?
“Listen,” I manage, speaking over a lump in my tender throat. “I get it. I just found out my planet is dying, too. And it… I get it, but I-I can’t stay here. I have to go home. I have friends who will worry about me.”
Mortana has the decency to look abashed this time. “You cannot go home, girl.”
Norabi nods, solemn. “The ones who took you may have been mistaken when they did, but it is done. And once an omega has been surrendered from a planet like yours, with no knowledge of the Galactic Council or life in other solar systems… I’m sorry, but these laws exist as much for our sake as they do for your people’s.
Returning you would set a disastrous precedent. ”
“B-but—”
The crone practically creaks as she turns to the younger female. “We could give her back to the Boplopes,” she muses. “Let them sort out where she ought to go. I’m sure her transport ship hasn’t gotten far yet.”
The thought of the Bloops sends a visceral jolt of terror through me. “No!”
Norabi aims her ponderous expression at me once more. “I’m afraid it’s either return to their custody and await another Selection, or remain here, human. I am sorry.”
My mind churns, sprinting through another agility course. Of the two options, I’d obviously rather be here, in this gorgeously appointed room, than in a cage. And so far, no one has tried to manhandle me. Not like the Boobies did, anyway.
“W-what—” I hate how much my voice shakes. Damnable evidence that they’re right about me. Just like the whine buried in my chest and the urge to run and hide.
I force another swallow. “What if I don’t want to be—to—?”
“Breed?” Mortana supplies. Her features grow more forbidding. “You will, I’m afraid. Your planet has no alphas, but here—in the capital, especially—we have many. When your heat arrives, you will likely become quite desperate.”
Norabi interrupts, casting her elder a scathing look, “That being said, our race holds to a single code of honor above all others; mating and omegas are sacred. To take one against their will is punishable by death. No one will touch you unless you want them to.”
Mortana doesn’t argue, but her smug, withered mouth curves upward. “You will want them, though. It is only a matter of time.”