Chapter 4
The silence woke her.
Back home, morning meant the rumble of the garbage truck in the alley three floors down, the thump-hiss of the coffee maker on a timer she kept forgetting to clean, and Barnaby screaming for his breakfast like he hadn't eaten in a week. It was noisy and chaotic... nothing like this.
She stared up at the ceiling. Here, the silence was thick and wrong. The light in the room shifted subtly, mimicking a sunrise she couldn't see as it turned the white walls a soft, blushing apricot.
She sat up, the silk sheets pooling around her waist. Memories of the previous night crashed into her, sharp and disorienting. The Great Hall. The noise. The sheer, overwhelming scale of it…
And Daaynal.
She squeezed her eyes shut, pressing the heels of her hands against them.
The Emperor hadn't been what she expected. He should have been a monster. Instead, he’d been.
.. charming. He’d held her hand like it was made of glass.
He’d smiled at her and seemed to mean it, introducing her to commanders and dukes as if she were a prize he couldn't believe he’d won.
She ran her hands through her hair. It would be so much easier to hate him if he were a villain. But he wasn't. He was just... nice.
But then there was Raaevik.
The image of the bodyguard’s face as she’d walked away burned behind her eyelids. The stone mask had slipped, just for a second. She’d seen the hunger there. And that made the butterflies in her stomach riot.
"Stop it," she whispered to the empty room. "Just stop. You’re marrying the Emperor."
Which meant his bodyguard was off limits. So far off limits, he might as well be in a different galaxy.
She swung her legs out of bed. Her toes sank into a rug that probably cost more than her entire college education. A robe had been laid out for her, a flowing thing of shimmering blue fabric that looked like water caught in mid-ripple.
She put it on because she had to. But then she went to the closet—a walk-in space big enough to host a cocktail party—and dug past the rows of alien couture until she found the small, sad pile of things that had survived the trip from Earth.
Her jeans were gone. Her favorite sweater?
Gone. But there, shoved in the back corner, were her boots.
She ignored all the pretty alien footwear and pulled them out.
They were scuffed brown leather, the heels were worn down on the outside edge, and there was a stain on the left toe from a dropped latte. They were ugly, practical, and hers.
She pulled them on. They clashed horribly with the silk, bunching the delicate hem around her ankles. She looked like a runaway bride who'd gotten lost at a construction site.
Good.
Walking to the door, she waved her hand over the sensor. She expected Raaevik, and her heart kicked up a beat as it slid open. But the warrior standing guard outside wasn't Raaevik.
He was just as big, but his hair was a deep, burnished copper instead of blond, and his face was broader, less severe.
He wore the black leather uniform of the Imperial Guard and snapped to attention the moment he saw her.
But there was tension in his jaw, and impatience in the set of his shoulders.
This one ran hot. She'd worked with guys like him at the shelter—all coiled energy and short fuses, waiting for someone to give them a reason.
"Your Grace," he rumbled, executing a sharp bow.
She blinked, hiding her disappointment. "Hi. Um. Where is..."
She trailed off. Asking for Raaevik probably wasn't a good idea. "Who are you?"
"I am Thyaar, Your Grace. Sub-Commander Raaevik is attending to other duties this morning. I have been assigned to your personal detail."
His eyes flicked down to her boots. One eyebrow twitched upward, just a fraction, before his face smoothed back into professional blankness.
"Right. Thyaar." She offered a tight smile. "I need coffee. Or whatever the closest equivalent is. And I need to not be in this room for a while."
"Of course. If you will follow me."
He didn't try to stop her. He fell into step beside her, close enough to intervene if someone attacked, far enough away to be respectful. It was professional. Cold.
Raaevik walked closer. She liked Raaevik walking closer, but she didn’t want Thyaar to.
They moved through the corridors, transitioning from the hushed royal sector to the public areas of Devan Station. The architecture opened up, vaulting ceilings giving way to a massive, multi-level Promenade that looked out into the star-strewn blackness of space.
It was crowded. Lathar warriors, tall beings with ash-colored skin and curving horns, and other species she couldn't name… some with feathers, some with blue scales. It was a bustling, noisy flow of life.
Until they saw her. Then the silence spread outward, killing conversations as heads turned.
Then, the parting began.
It wasn't subtle. As she walked, the crowd pressed themselves against the walls, clearing a path twenty feet wide. Warriors bowed their heads. Civilians averted their eyes. It was the kind of reverence you gave a religious icon, or a bomb you were afraid might go off. Probably the latter, considering Raaevik’s reaction in the transport.
"This is ridiculous," she muttered as her steps echoed in the quiet.
"It is respect, Your Grace," Thyaar said softly. He wasn’t looking at her. Instead, his gaze scanned the crowd for threats.
"It feels like I have the plague."
She kept her head down, hating the way the silk robe swished around her ankles. She wanted to scream. She wanted to tell them she ate cereal for dinner and didn't know the first thing about running an empire. She was going to make a crap empress.
Ahead, near a cargo lift, a worker was struggling.
He was a spindly creature, his skin a mottled greenish-brown, wrestling with a hover-cart piled high with crates.
The cart was listing dangerously, one of the repulsor nodes whining in protest. Then it lurched.
The worker scrambled, his boots slipping on the polished deck, but the weight was too much, and the crates started to slide.
"Hold on, I've got it!"
She raced across the gap, her boots finding traction where the workers hadn't. She slammed her shoulder into the side of the cart just as it began to tip, bracing her weight against the slide.
"Okay," she grunted, shoving hard. "On three. One, two—"
The worker looked up. He saw her face, then he saw the blue silk, and the color drained from his face. His massive, dark eyes went wide… not startled, not embarrassed. Terrified. She'd seen that look before, on kids who flinched when adults raised their voices.
"Do not—" he gasped, snatching his hands away as if the cart had suddenly turned white-hot. "Mercy, Your Grace! Please!"
"Don't let go, you idiot, it's going to—"
Without his support, the weight was too much for her. The cart slammed down onto its skids with a bone-rattling crash, and purple, spiky fruit rolled everywhere.
"Oh god," she said, reaching out a hand to reassure him. "I'm so sorry. Are you okay?"
The worker threw himself to the floor, forehead pressed against the deck plates. He was shaking. "Forgive me! I did not see you! I did not mean to obstruct the Empress!"
"Stand up," she pleaded, looking around. "Please stand up. It's just fruit."
"Your Grace."
Thyaar was there in a heartbeat, stepping between her and the cowering worker. He didn't draw a weapon, but his presence was a wall of black leather.
"Step away," Thyaar ordered the worker, his voice low and hard.
"He didn't do anything!" She snapped, grabbing Thyaar’s arm. His heavy muscles were as hard as stone under her fingers. "I was trying to help him!"
Thyaar looked down at her hand on his arm, then at her face.
"It is not appropriate for the Emperor's mate to perform manual labor.
And it is dangerous for him." He gestured to the worker, who was still trembling on the floor.
"Your favor could cost him his position.
Or his life, if it is perceived he endangered you. "
She froze.
She looked at the worker. Oh shit. He wasn't afraid of the cart. He was scared of her.
"Get up," Thyaar told the worker. "Go. Cleaning bots will handle this."
The alien scrambled backward on hands and knees, then bolted into the crowd without looking back.
She stood there, biting her lip. The crowd was dead silent. Hundreds of eyes, all terrified, all watching the emperor’s new mate.
"I need to go," she whispered. "Anywhere. Just... away from here."
Thyaar nodded once. "There is a terrace on the upper level. It is less crowded."
He led her away from the spilled fruit. She walked blindly, her cheeks burning.
They found a café tucked into an alcove on the upper level. It was quieter here; the clientele seemed to be mostly high-ranking warriors who knew better than to gawk, though they still gave her a wide berth.
Thyaar secured a perimeter near the entrance, allowing her a semblance of privacy in a corner booth. She collapsed onto the seat, pulling her knees up to her chest, heedless of the silk.
"Rough morning, Your Highness?"
She stiffened. Wiping her eyes quickly, she looked up. A woman stood at the edge of the table.
A human woman.
Short, curvy, with a riot of bright red curls pulled back in a messy bun, she wore a simple grey tunic that marked her as an LMP candidate, and she was holding two steaming mugs.
But it was her face that stopped Emily. There was no deference or fear.
Either this woman hadn't learned the rules yet, or she'd decided they didn't apply to her.
"I saw the fruit incident from the balcony," the woman said, sliding into the seat opposite without asking. She pushed one of the mugs across the table. "Nice attempt. Form was good, execution a little lacking."
Emily stared at the mug. It smelled like chocolate. "Who are you?"
"Lucy," the woman said, taking a sip of her own drink. "Lucy Galloway. Unit 44, Intake Group B. Or, as the locals call me, 'Potential Breeder Candidate Seven.'" She rolled her eyes. "Catchy, right?"
A laugh bubbled up in Emily's throat. "Breeder Candidate?"
"Oh yeah. They love their labels. You got the jackpot, though. 'The Emperor's Match.' 'Her Grace.'" Lucy made air quotes with her fingers. "Must be exhausting carrying all those capital letters around."
Emily wrapped her hands around the warm mug. "It's a nightmare. I tried to help the guy with a cart. Just help him. And he looked at me like I was going to execute him."
"Yeah. The pedestal is high, honey, and the air is thin up there." Lucy shook her head, her expression sobering. "We're not people here, Emily. We're like antiques or collectables. Very expensive, very fragile, and definitely not allowed to roll around on the floor with the help."
"I hate it."
"I know." Lucy leaned forward, lowering her voice. "I was a nurse back home. ER. I spent twelve hours a day elbow-deep in trauma. Now? I have a bot that follows me into the bathroom to make sure I don't slip in the shower."
"No."
"Yes. I’ve called him Kevin. I hate him."
Emily laughed again, and this time the tightness in her chest loosened, just a fraction.
"I have boots," she said, lifting her foot to show the scuffed leather. "I put them on this morning because I needed to feel... I don't know. Real."
Lucy looked at the boots, then at the silk robe, and grinned. "It's a look. 'Post-Apocalyptic Princess.' Very chic."
"My mother signed me up," Emily blurted out. "I didn't know. I was at work, and then I got a notice, and then..."
"Then the giants showed up." Lucy winced. "Yeah. My ex-boyfriend sold my genetic profile to a broker to pay off his gambling debts. Romantic, right?"
"God."
"We're all trapped in the same gilded cage, honey." Lucy reached across the table and squeezed Emily's hand. Her grip was warm, solid, human. "But hey. The coffee isn't bad. And the view is spectacular, if you ignore the fact that we can't leave."
"Can't we?" Emily whispered.
Lucy glanced toward the entrance where Thyaar stood like a statue, back turned to them, scanning the corridor. When she looked back, her gaze was sharp and calculating.
"Some people think so," she murmured. "But that's a conversation for another time. Right now? You need to drink that, take a breath, and remember that you're still you. No matter what fancy dress they put you in."
Emily squeezed back. Her eyes burned again, but this time it was relief. "Thank you."
"Don't mention it. We humans have to stick together."
Thyaar turned then, his gaze locking onto their table. He didn't approach, but the shift in his stance was clear. Time is up.
"Your watchdog is getting restless," Lucy noted, sliding out of the booth. "I should go before he decides I'm a threat to the asset."
"Will I see you again?" Emily asked.
"I'm usually at the observation deck on Level 4 around this time. Kevin the Shower Bot likes the view." Lucy winked. "Hang in there, Your Grace."
Sauntering away, she offered a jaunty wave to Thyaar as she passed. The big Lathar watched her go, his expression unreadable.
Emily sat in the booth for a moment longer, clutching the warm mug. The station was still a prison. The Emperor was still a stranger. And Raaevik... yeah. She wasn't going there. She looked at her boots, and then at the empty seat across from her.
But now she had a friend. And that was something.