Chapter 6 Orion #3
“Devotion to that kind of ideal must come with a heavy price,” I reply.
I mean it with respect, but the thought lodges like a stone in my chest. To devote yourself to desire is to give yourself to something that never stops hungering.
I wonder what it costs her—to know how to wield that kind of power and still be at its mercy.
I don’t ask. She wouldn’t answer, and I’m not sure I could stand to hear it.
She tilts her head, considering. “Devotion to anything is costly. It’s not my chosen path, but I don’t look down on them for it. It’s just that at the end of the day, I don’t want to have to trust anyone with my tether.”
The bitterness in her tone nearly stops me in my tracks.
The word trust lands heavier than tether.
Is that why she’s running from Brill? Is he her patron?
The thought sends a wave of nausea rolling through my insides.
It’s not jealousy—at least, that’s what I tell myself.
It’s the idea of her belonging to anyone that twists in my gut.
An alien feeling of possessiveness and anger rises in me, but I let it go as quickly as it comes.
It’s just from playing this part—from physically holding the tether of someone I’m supposed to honor and protect.
There can’t—there won’t—be anything else to it.
Before I know it, we’re standing at the edge of a long, flat barge that has been converted into a kind of market.
There are stinking rows of rotting fish and some other aquatic creatures I don’t recognize, a few still twitching in the midday sun.
Boxes of desiccated fruits and wilted vegetables, along with crates of bug-infested dried goods stand along the back, tucked behind half a dozen barrels with suspicious-smelling yellow liquid bubbling inside.
Lyra sees the disgust on my face and chuckles.
“Don’t worry, my lord. We’ll be getting our consumable goods from a different shop.”
I suppress a shiver at how the honorific affects me. Blood rushes to my cock, and an alarming tightness throbs in base of my spine. No…there’s no way she’s my…no. We’re just playing our parts.
Lyra sashays to the back stall and begins haggling with the shopkeeper over the price of fuel. The insect-like alien’s huge compound eyes keep flicking in my direction, adding to my nervousness. Reminding myself to act the part, I glower at him. Lyra catches the look and arches a brow in amusement.
“Would you rather negotiate with my lord?” she asks with acid-laced sweetness. “Only I wouldn’t recommend it. He has a habit of removing limbs when he feels he’s being cheated.”
The shopkeeper swallows and shakes his head. I have to fight to keep from laughing.
Over the next hour, Lyra manages to bargain for enough goods to fill the ship’s hold and then some.
She even finds a couple of replacement parts for the water filtration system so Ada will stop pestering her.
Finding spare clothing for me is proving to be more of a challenge, partly because the selection is limited.
“Stop complaining,” Lyra calls to me from outside the makeshift dressing room. “Turquin isn’t exactly a fashion hotspot.”
“I’m not looking for fashion,” I mutter. “I’m just looking for something that fits!”
Lyra’s hand appears over the curtain, clutching a moss green tunic and a pair of soft brown pants. As soon as I grab them from her, her hand reappears with a piping hot pie wrapped in brown paper.
“What’s this?” I grunt, my mouth already watering with the smell of buttery pastry and fragrant, spicy filling.
“Don’t get your knickers in a twist,” she says in between mouthfuls of her own food. “I got you the veggie one.”
“You…what?”
“You don’t eat meat, right?” she asks. “Ada told me it’s forbidden for your people. Taboo, or whatever.”
“That’s correct,” I reply, taken aback by the fact that she’d cared enough to ask. She waves the pie over the curtain enticingly.
“Are you going to eat it, or not? It smells amazing. I’ll happily have yours if you’re going to be all weird about it.”
I pluck it from her hand and bite into it, unable to contain my moan of pleasure.
After a full week of pills, powders, and bland bars that hardly qualify as “food” beyond their ability to meet basic nutritional requirements, sinking my teeth into the flaky, golden crust and zesty, creamy vegetable filling makes me almost weep with relief.
After I demolish the remaining lunch, I turn my attention back to the pile of garments Lyra has instructed the shop owner to supply.
“Hurry up and pick some stuff out,” she whines, her mouth still full.
I’m light years more tolerant of her attitude after eating, so I comply by tugging on the tunic and trousers she’s just handed me.
They fit me adequately, though the tunic is made to hang to one’s knees and only comes to mid-thigh on me.
I shuck the outfit and try on another one—an Earth-style suit of smooth black fabric.
“This is too…formal,” I say. “I’ll just take the green shirt and brown pants.”
“You need the suit for Minaris,” Lyra says, her mouth full of food again. “We’re going to be in disguise there, too, but more so for my sake than for yours. I’m less than welcome on that planet.”
I feel a flare of guilt at endangering her, all so I can get some names to hand over to the Feds—especially when there’s no guarantee they’ll do anything with them.
“Is it unsafe?” I ask quietly.
She chuckles. “This whole mission is unsafe, my lord.” The last words drip with sarcasm since we’re alone in the shop. “I did warn you about that back on Xylothia.”
I open my mouth to reply, but the wet sounds of her licking crumbs from her fingers kindles the desire in my blood like a forest fire in the dry season.
My cock hardens in the black silk trousers and I bite my lip to fight for control again.
I don’t trust it. It’s not real. We’re playing parts, which would make her more anxious, so maybe this is just a spike of vellia.
Or maybe…maybe it’s worse than that. Maybe she’s trying to drive me into mindless want so I’ll let her go without the names of her buyers and without informing the Feds.
The pounding of blood in my veins goading me with the feral need to claim her seems to be answer enough.
Every lesson I’ve ever learned about restraint is collapsing, one heartbeat at a time.
But no. She wouldn’t do that, would she? We’re supposed to be working together here.
Logic is the barest whisper in my mind, but it’s quickly drowned out by the steady drumbeat of my pulse, which throbs in time to the salacious fantasies of pumping into her in some sacred, doomed, perfect rhythm. Her musical voice cuts through my attempts at concentration.
“If you hurry up with the shopping, I’ll let you have dessert.”