Chapter 8 Orion
orion
Who Thought a Drinking Game Was a Good Idea?
Lyra stares at me, unable to hide the flash of panic in her eyes.
It’s quick—a heartbeat’s worth of naked fear before her mask slides back into place.
But I see it. The sharp inhale. The tremor that isn’t quite a step backward.
For all her bravado, she’s terrified of what this could mean—of me, or maybe of herself.
Regret slices through me at my admission.
Rousing herself from the awkward moment, she clears her throat.
“I need a drink,” she says.
I drop the lock of hair and step back, embarrassed.
What had I been thinking—closing the space between us like that, baring the truth behind my temper?
Why had I thought to be honest with her about my moment of weakness back on Amphitreas?
Not the throw itself, but the impulse behind it.
That flash of possessive rage I can’t explain, not even to myself.
It’s not my place to protect her or to fight for her honor.
She certainly didn’t ask for it and I highly doubt she’d welcome it.
I turn to head back to my berth. It’s been a long day, and my emotions are still a tangled web I need to parse—the unspent lust from the lab and the clothes shop, the wild fury at seeing another man grab her arm and the swell of violence that followed.
Throwing Iathos into the sea had been a mercy, because what I had wanted to do was rip his arms from their sockets and beat him to death with them.
Not just because he hurt her, but because he’d touched her.
Because the thought of his hands on her skin sent something ancient and ugly roaring through me.
And then the miserable revelation that not only did he touch her, but he’s touched her in all the ways my body longs to.
Pair that with the disturbing realization that it isn’t just her vellia drawing me to her, but something else.
Something more. Something coming entirely from within me.
It feels dangerous, this pull—like standing too close to a dying star and pretending you won’t get vaporized.
Suddenly, being trapped on this ship with her—even with our fools’ bargain—seems to herald catastrophic self-destruction.
I don’t think I can keep denying my growing feelings for her, but I still don’t trust her enough to lay those feelings at her feet.
Doing so would make me too vulnerable when we both have so much to lose.
And yet, as I turn to go, the scent of her hair still clings to my hands—a silent betrayal I can’t wash off.
The guiding voices of my ancestors are conspicuously quiet, which makes the reverberating echoes of my loneliness that much louder.
“I’ll leave you to it, then,” I say.
“Let me guess,” she says, one corner of her mouth tugging up into a smirk. “Xylothians don’t drink. Or if they do, it’s all ceremonial wine in ritual goblets saved for sacred devotion to your gods.”
I bristle, taking the bait. “Hardly. Not only do we indulge, but we do so with alacrity. And still, we manage to hold our alcohol—likely better than both humans and Velusians.”
“Well, now, if you’re challenging me to a drinking contest, no need to skirt the issue. I’ll meet you in the kitchen in a few,” she replies.
“I look forward to reminding you that you asked for this,” I say.
But the challenge in her expression makes me wonder if I’d be the one to regret it.
Twenty minutes later, after I’ve changed out of my absurd bedsheet costume and into the green tunic and brown pants we purchased, I sit across from Lyra with my arms crossed over my chest. She’s removed her Velusian garments—thank the stars—but she’s just as stunning in her soft gray sweatpants and thin white t-shirt.
“I assumed there would be more skill to this,” I say after she explains the rules of the game.
She rattles the dice in the wooden cup and grins mischievously.
“The skill isn’t in the ability to roll a certain way or manipulate the dice,” she says. “It’s in your ability to handle your alcohol. I’ll even allow you the honor of the first roll. Do you have any questions before we begin?”
“Let me get this straight. All I have to do is roll the dice and if I roll a seven, eleven, or a double, you drink. If I roll none of those, I simply pass the dice to you and you try, and we go back and forth until someone calls it quits,” I answer.
“That’s about it,” she says.
“Seems pretty dull,” I reply. “I never enjoyed games of chance.”
“Well, if you want to spice it up, we can,” she laughs.
My cock hardens and I grit my teeth. “What did you have in mind?”
“Easy, Ranger. I told you I’m not trying to seduce you.
I figured since you were so keen on interrogating me back on Xylothia, you’d relish the opportunity to ask some pointed questions.
How’s this: when we have to take a drink, we can abstain if we answer a question.
The question can be anything, but it has to be answered honestly. ”
“It’s not my honesty I doubt,” I mumble. The idea of asking her anything and receiving an honest response seems almost laughable given her ability to lie and deflect. Yet, it might prove incredibly valuable in my pursuit of the truth and the end of the Xylothian smuggling ring.
“I don’t usually back out of a drinking contest, but I swear on my father’s grave, if I choose to answer a question, I’ll do so honestly,” she says, holding up her hand.
“Fine,” I agree. “Let’s begin.”
I shake the cup of dice and let them fall on the table between us—a five and a six. I grin. Lyra picks up the shot glass of Zorium moonshine and downs it. She shudders a breath and gestures for the dice.
She rolls a double, two twos. Smirking, she slides a shot glass of moonshine in front of me.
I lift it to my lips, recoiling momentarily when the powerful reek of spirits hit my nostrils.
Grimacing, I tip my head back and let the horrid, burning liquid slide down my throat. Lyra laughs when I cough and sputter.
“Yeah, it’s best not to let it touch your tongue,” she says.
“That stuff is vile,” I says. “Don’t you have anything better?”
She shrugs. “Nope! But you could always offer me a truthful answer instead. Maybe it won’t be so bad—spilling all your secrets to me. Probably better than a belly full of Zorium’s finest.”
“Just give me the dice,” I grumble. She hands the cup back to me and I curse when I roll an eight, and Lyra’s answering turn—a seven—has me choking down another swallow of the pungent booze.
So it goes for the next hour, the only sounds in the kitchen the rattle of dice in the cup, followed by our curses and steadily growing laughter. I have to hand it to Lyra—she’s been handling her drink well so far, but her giggles are coming too often now and her dice rolls feel a little looser.
Her nose wrinkles at the two fours I roll and I grin in triumph.
“Okay, I’ll be the brave one first. Hit me with your best question,” she groans.
I sit straighter, willing my brain into some semblance of sobriety. Now’s my chance to find out about the smuggling ring and Lyra’s resumé of criminal activities. But the words that fall from my lips aren’t about either of those things.
“Why are you working for Brill?” I ask.
She winces. I wait.
“Can I change my mind?” she grumbles. “I’d much rather face tomorrow’s hangover.”
“Hey, you set these rules,” I say. “Honest answers only.”
She glares at me, then sits back in her chair, crossing her arms across her chest. Her breasts squeeze together beneath her shirt and I fight through the pounding of need in my head.
“I don’t work for him,” she bites out, the words sounding like acid. “Brill is my patron. He bid for me when I came of age at seventeen.”
“Your patron?” I ask, suddenly sick with more than just head-spinning moonshine.
The word lands heavy and my stomach knots.
I can already picture the gleaming collar, the transaction that made her his.
I’d suspected, of course—she’d as good as told me back on Amphitreas—but there’s a difference between knowing and feeling it like this, with her eyes blazing across from me.
“I thought you left Velusia.”
“I did. Brill took me back to his home planet, Ooneryx,” she replies.
“That’s not quite the same thing as leaving of your own free will,” I say.
She pulls a face in derision. “What part of my situation gave you the impression I had access to my own free will? You think I lie, cheat, steal, and smuggle for fun?”
Her words shouldn’t hit as hard as they do.
I’ve hunted enough criminals to know deflection when I hear it—but this isn’t that.
There’s no performance in her voice, no laughter-coated coyness.
It’s just bitterness worn thin. The jealousy in me twists into something else—grief and rage at Brill. Or anger at myself for caring at all.
She tugs the cup from my hand and rolls. Nine. She swears.
I roll again, grinning smugly at the eleven dots on the dice below. Lyra flips me off and downs her drink. Her next roll is a double, and while I could stomach the drink, I don’t want to annoy her enough to stop playing. I just have to focus on getting some real information from her.
“Ask your question,” I say.
Her eyes light up and she taps her chin in thought.
“What happened to your parents?” she asks.
“Straight for the throat, I see,” I reply, already regretting my peace offering. “They died on the Arkanium.”
The question hits a hollow I keep carefully barricaded. My chest tightens. There’s a buzzing behind my ribs, a low hum of remembered grief. I stare at the dice like they might rescue me from the answer I’ve already begun to feel rising in my throat.
Lyra stills, the mirth gone from her eyes. “They were on the colony ship?”
“You know of it?”