Chapter 6 Orion #2
“Absolutely not. I don’t trust you enough to let you out of my sight.
You could hire some goon to come in here and kill me,” I point out, giving voice to one of the anxieties I’ve kept tucked away over the last several days.
Why hasn’t she killed me, or intentionally unleashed her vellia on me?
It’s not sitting right with my image of her, which only makes me more unsettled.
Lyra barks a laugh. “I wouldn’t need to hire anyone to kill you, Ranger. I could do it just as easily myself. Especially when you’re being so damn infuriating!”
Ada’s familiar chime rings through our argument.
If I may offer a suggestion…
“No!” Lyra shouts.
“Yes, please,” I say at the same time.
Ada continues. Lyra is correct that a disguise might be advisable.
Whether Ranger Asterth has run afoul of anyone in Turquin, it’s safe to say a Xylothian Ranger would be a memorable sight.
If our goal is to resupply and make our way to Minaris as stealthily as possible, drawing attention is inadvisable.
Even if Amphitreas is free from extradition, there may be parties happy to sell information as to your whereabouts to the first person who comes asking.
Lyra smirks. “See? Even Ada agrees with me, which, truthfully doesn’t happen that often.”
I agree with you when it is logical to do so.
Ignoring the dig, Lyra sizes me up, her concern evident in the crease between her brows. Then, like a bolt of lightning, her face lights up with inspiration.
“I’ve got it!” she says, dashing from my room. “I’ll be right back.”
I frown. “I have a feeling I’m not going to like this.”
The probability is high that you will not, Ada chirps.
It takes twenty minutes for Lyra to convince me to wear the artfully arranged bedsheet looped over me like an elaborate cloak. She insists the disguise is perfect—a High Lord of Thelaous, a man so rich and politically powerful that no one would dare question his business on Minaris.
“People like that don’t get hassled,” she says, looping a gold clasp at my shoulder.
Her explanation for the disguise makes sense, but her cover story is thin enough to make me nervous—anyone with half a brain would see through it. Still, the confidence in her delivery makes it sound almost plausible, and that might be enough.
On top of that, she’s opened the aft windows and the saline humidity of the sea has already permeated the ship, making the cloak stick to my skin. The air is thick with salt and heat, and every step feels like I’m sweating through my dignity. The fabric itches like guilt.
My outward discomfort is only exacerbated by the fact that Lyra tells me she’ll be wearing the traditional garb of a Velusian pleasure house—her mother’s house, she informs me—and when she appears, I forget how to breathe.
She’s draped in a whisper of pink gauze, the fabric so sheer it seems to hover over her golden skin instead of covering it.
The twist of material crosses her chest, ties at her waist, and falls in soft folds down her legs, catching every light in the room.
The outfit doesn’t just reveal; it commands.
She moves like someone raised in a place where beauty is power and attention is a weapon.
I catch myself wondering how many eyes she’s had to hold, how many hands she’s had to outmaneuver just to survive in fabric like that. Her soft chocolate and pink hair has been tied in an elaborate updo, which she assures me disguises a small dagger, if I think about teasing her.
Oh, I want to tease her, all right. Just not in the way she thinks. Fortunately, the thought curdles fast. The more she jokes, the more I see the ‘don’t-mess-with-me’ under it—the self-defense built into every soft curve…and I hate that part of me wants her, anyway.
“Tell me again,” she demands. “Where are you from?”
“I’m a High Lord from Thelaous,” I say with a sigh. “I’m called Pater Xandar.”
“Good,” she nods. “And who am I?”
I swallow around the fluttering in my chest, my mouth suddenly dry.
“You are my serikka, Luxura of Velusia,” I choke out, desperate to ignore the dark shadows of her nipples beneath her top and the gentle swell of her hips—the way the delicate fabric caresses them just so.
“And why are we here?” she continues, blustering through my misery.
“We’re here to resupply on our trip to Theta-9, where I have a diplomatic conference,” I grumble.
“Good boy,” she says, patting my arm. “Now, take my tether and let’s go shopping.”
My eyes widen when she hands me a finely-wrought gold chain that connects to a matching gold collar around her neck.
“No way! I’m not going to walk around with you on a leash like some kind of animal,” I bite out.
“That’s completely degrading.” The heat rising in my chest has nothing to do with embarrassment this time.
I’ve spent my life hunting those who’ve treated others like property, and now she’s asking me to play one.
She cocks a brow at me. “We don’t have a lot of time to get into the finer points of serikka tradition. This is how it works on Velusia. If I don’t have one, everyone will get suspicious.”
“Well, I’ll just tell them I trust you,” I say. “I’ll tell them you’re too in love with me to run off.”
Lyra laughs again and looks at me with something like pity in her eyes.
“Stars, you are ignorant. This isn’t about love—Velusians are forbidden to love, Ranger.
We serve our houses, we are respected and sought after as bodyguards, assassins, advisors, and occasionally as pleasure workers.
It depends on the Velusian, and the terms of the contract.
The tether isn’t degrading. The tether is a bond,” she says.
She must see the confusion written across my face, because she sighs.
“It represents the bond of trust between the patron and the Velusian. Realistically, a dinky gold chain can’t protect you from what a Velusian can do with their vellia.
Have you ever seen someone go mad from an irrepressible surge of hormonal lust?
It’s not pretty. The chain is a promise—your patron will honor and respect you, and you won’t use your vellia to control them.
” She delivers this information in a bored sort of tone, as if she’s heard the explanation a thousand times in her life. Perhaps she has.
“Still,” I say, distaste rolling off my tongue. “Don’t those relationships ever sour? Or go wrong?”
“Partnerships—not relationships. And yes, they do.” Something flickers across her face then—quick and sharp, gone before I can read it. Not fear, exactly, or sorrow. Recognition, maybe. The kind of expression that comes from remembering something you wish you could forget.
“Is that why you’re no longer on Velusia?” I ask.
She winces, then glares at me, thrusting the end of her tether into my hand.
“Here endeth the lesson. We have work to do. Just…try not to talk too much. Keep your hood up and your face covered. I doubt we’ll find any other Thelaousian High Lords here, but we don’t want anyone to get suspicious, okay?”
I nod, mulling over everything she’s told me as we make our way to the outer bay doors and down the ramp onto the dock.
The port city sprawls before us like a floating, ramshackle village, gently bobbing atop the cerulean waves.
Most of the small cottages and shops are constructed from recycled shipping containers and corrugated titanium stripped from wrecked vessels, giving Turquin the appearance of a somewhat charming garbage heap set adrift in an aquamarine paradise.
About twenty docks lie on either side of us, each with a different ship anchored in.
I recognize Jovian windjammers, deep space cruisers, even a few pleasure yachts from Cerin.
It’s hard to take in everything—so much life and variety in one small place.
I’ve never seen so many different kinds of people all at once.
Lyra urges me forward, pausing at the end of the long dock that stretches toward the bustling knot in the center of the floating town.
“Stop gawking,” she hisses under her breath. “You’re supposed to be an immortal High Lord from a planet overflowing with wealth. Look bored, for fuck’s sake!”
I try to do as she asks, schooling my features in an expression of jaded disdain.
“That’s better,” she whispers. “Ready?”
As we walk down the dock, a few looks fall on Lyra—her hips swaying seductively, the ocean breeze tugging at the panels of her skirt, a knowing tilt to her full lips.
For a heartbeat, I’m worried her beauty and sensuality will draw too much attention, but she was right.
Gazes seem to slide over her like water off a liotha leaf.
I begin to find the rhythm of our ruse, throwing back my shoulders and casting bored looks on everyone we pass.
“It’s not all bad,” she says quietly. “Velusia, I mean.”
“I didn’t say it was bad,” I reply. “It’s just different from how we experience desire and matehood on Xylothia.” I choose my tone carefully—neutral, curious. On Xylothia, devotion is sacred and private. On Velusia, it’s currency. And yet, the more she speaks, the less transactional it sounds.
“People sometimes think we’re sorcerers, or evil, for trafficking in pleasure.
For courting wealth and protection and power.
But that’s not what Velusians are all about, you know.
They just find beauty in desire. Desire is something every species has in common, whether it’s sexual in nature or otherwise.
Everyone desires something, which is how Velusians believe everything is connected.
They worship the power that it has and they devote their lives to it.
” Lyra’s violet eyes focus on some distant point far beyond the horizon.