Chapter 7
“I need to hit something. Lots of somethings.”
Raaevik stared down at Emily in the corridor outside her quarters. She looked like she was vibrating, still wearing the shimmering blue silk robe from the docking bay, creased and twisted as she clenched and unclenched her hands.
“You cannot fight in that,” he said, his voice too loud in the still corridor. “The silk will tear, and you will trip.”
“I don’t care about the dress,” she snapped. “I care about not exploding.”
“I care,” he countered. “If you trip, you will break your neck, and then I will have to explain to the Emperor why his mate is dead because she was angry at her mother.”
Letting out a sound that was half-growl, half-sob, she spun on her heel. “Fine. Give me two minutes.”
She vanished into her quarters, the door sliding shut behind her
He stood guard, staring at the grain of the metal wall opposite. His jaw ached from clenching. She was hurting, and there wasn't a draanthing thing he could do about it.
The door slid open, and then there she was.
The silk was gone, replaced by grey leggings and a loose black tunic she must have scavenged from station stores.
The clothes were meant for a Latharian adolescent, or perhaps a very small adult of a different species entirely.
On her, the tunic hung off one shoulder, and the leggings were rolled at the ankles.
She looked ridiculous. She looked dangerous. She looked… perfect.
“Find me a place where I can break something without getting arrested,” she said. “Please.”
The please was what did it. It wasn’t a plea. It was a warning. If he didn’t find her an outlet, she was going to create one right here in the hallway.
He should have refused. Protocol dictated that he keep her safe and away from anything resembling a weapon.
But he remembered the look on her face when her mother had dismissed her, and the hollow sound of her boots on the deck plates as she walked away.
She was drowning in helplessness. He knew that feeling—the itch under the skin that screamed for impact, for pain, for anything to prove you were still real.
“Follow me,” he said.
He took her three levels down, not to the main training arena, but to a smaller auxiliary gym near the maintenance shafts that the guard used. It smelled of old sweat, with a metallic tang of recycled air that the scrubbers never quite managed to clear down here.
It was empty apart from a few maintenance bots recharging in the corner.
Tapping the access panel beside the door, he locked it behind them. The silence in the room was heavy, broken only by the hum of ventilation and the rapid, shallow rhythm of Emily’s breathing.
“Here,” he said, gesturing to the expanse of grey mats. “You can hit the bags or the practice dummies.”
She walked to the center of the mat and spun around. “No. I don’t want to hit a bag. Bags don’t hit back.”
He frowned. “You wish to spar?”
“I wish to fight,” she corrected. She raised her fists, tucking her thumbs in wrong. “With you.”
“That is not a good idea.”
“Why? Are you afraid you’ll hurt me?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Maybe if I hurt, I’ll stop thinking.” She bounced on the balls of her feet in a clumsy imitation of a fighter’s stance. “Come on, Raaevik. You’re the Emperor’s big bad bodyguard. Show me what you’ve got.”
She lunged.
It wasn’t a sophisticated attack. It was a wild, telegraphed swing aimed vaguely at his chest. He didn’t even move his feet. He just caught her wrist, absorbing the momentum with a slight shift of his weight.
Her arm was twig-thin in his grasp. He could snap the bone with a twitch of his thumb.
“Emily,” he warned, releasing her. “Stop.”
“No!” She swung again with the other hand.
He caught that one, too.
“Fight me!” she demanded, the sound tearing out of her throat raw and ragged. She tried to kick him, her boot connecting harmlessly with his shin guard. “Do something. Don’t just stand there like a statue!”
Blocking a flurry of strikes, he moved automatically… left, right, parry. She was fast, fueled by adrenaline and rage, but she had no technique. Instead, she threw herself at him like water crashing against a cliff.
He didn't stop her. Didn't want to. She was fierce and furious and he wanted to see what happened when she stopped holding back.
She grunted, throwing her whole weight into a shove. He didn’t budge, but he let her push him back a step.
“Is that all you have?” she panted, hair falling into her eyes. Sweat beaded on her forehead, and dampened the collar of the black tunic. “You’re supposed to be a warrior.”
“If I fight you,” he said, his voice dropping to a growl he hadn’t intended, “you will break.”
“I’m already broken!”
She launched herself at him. Not a strike this time, but a tackle. Slamming into his chest, she wrapped her arms around his waist and tried to drive him back… tried to move him.
She was as weak as a day old deearin, and in a fight against him, she stood no chance, but the impact still knocked the breath from his lungs as she touched him.
Suddenly, she was everywhere. Her body pressed against his, soft curves against hard muscle. Her heat seeped through his leathers to his skin beneath. Her scent—sun-warm earth and something sharper, saltier—filled his nose until it drowned out the training hall's smell of old socks and sweat.
He caught her by the shoulders to stabilize her, but she twisted, trying to trip him. They grappled, a clumsy dance of limbs and leverage.
He forgot she was the Emperor’s. He forgot everything else. All he knew was the feel of her struggling in his grip—the fierce, defiant life of her.
Spinning her, he used her own momentum against her and took her down to the mat.
It wasn’t gentle. It was the instinctive reaction of a predator securing its catch.
They hit the floor with a thud. He landed on top of her, catching his weight on his elbows at the last second to keep from crushing her.
Silence slammed back into the room.
She lay beneath him, chest heaving. Her eyes were wide, dark pupils blown as she stared up at him. Parting her lips, she let out short, sharp gasps that fanned across his throat.
Her legs caged him. His hips were pressed into the soft cradle of hers.
She was his. The certainty was possessive, absolute, and nothing he had any right to feel. She was under him, and she fit there, and every part of him knew it.
The world narrowed to the pulse beating frantically at the base of her throat. He saw the vein fluttering under pale skin, and he wanted his mouth there… wanted to taste the salt on her skin and feel the vibration of her breath against his tongue.
He lowered his head. Just an inch. Just enough to inhale her.
The air around her was hot with exertion, but underneath that… sweetness. A deep sweetness that called to something in his blood.
She didn’t push him away. Her hands, which had been beating against his chest moments ago, went still. Her fingers curled into the leather of his tunic, gripping him. Holding him there.
“Raaevik,” she whispered.
The sound of his name on her lips was like a strike to the solar plexus.
He should move. He had to move. Every second he stayed here was a step closer to the executioner’s block.
But he couldn’t. His muscles were locked. His blood roared in his ears, drowning out duty… drowning out everything but her.
He shifted, and the friction of his body against hers sent a jolt of electricity straight to his groin. He was hard—painfully, dangerously hard.
And he was lying on top of the Emperor’s mate.
Oh draanth…
With a snarl, he scrambled backward, shoving himself off her and getting his feet under him in a rush that was nowhere near graceful.
“Get up,” he rasped. His voice sounded wrecked. “We are done.”
Reaching down, he grabbed her arm to haul her up with a roughness that made his own teeth ache. His grip was too tight, his movements jerky with the effort to put distance between them before he did something unforgivable.
She stumbled, disoriented. Her face was flushed, her eyes still hazy with the same heat that was burning him alive.
“Wait, I—”
She tried to pull away from his bruising grip, but the heel of her boot hit a slick patch of sweat on the mat, and she went down hard. He lunged to catch her, but he was too slow. Arms flailing, she fell sideways, her hand out to break her fall.
Her palm struck the metal edge of the weapon rack.
The scent of copper hit him instantly.
Blood. Her blood.
He froze as a line of red welled up on the side of her palm, bright and shocking against her skin.
A gash. Not deep, but jagged.
Everything in him locked up. She was hurt. He'd hurt her. The red smear across her palm accused him. He’d done this. Lost control, forgotten his damn duty, and now she was bleeding.
Dropping to his knees beside her, he reached out with hands that shook.
“Show me,” he demanded, his voice rough. He grabbed her wrist, careless of his own strength, staring at the wound.
“It’s fine,” she said, wincing. “I just slipped. It’s just a scratch, Raaevik.”
“It is bleeding.” He stared at the blood. It looked like an accusation. “We must go to the medical bay. Now.”
“Raaevik, really, it’s—”
“Now!” he roared.
He hauled her up again, and marched her toward the door, his grip on her arm tight enough to bruise.
She needed to see a healer, fast.
* * *
Weird how hospitals all smelled the same. The sharp, clinical bite cut through the fog in Emily’s head, leaving only the memory of Raaevik’s body pressing her into a gym mat.
Sitting on the edge of an examination bed built for someone seven feet tall, her feet dangled a good six inches off the floor. She swung them back and forth, the scuffed heels of her boots thumping softly against the metal frame.
Across the room, Raaevik stood guard by the door. He hadn’t moved in ten minutes. He looked like a statue in black leather, his gaze fixed on the wall above the healer’s head. His jaw was so tight she could see a muscle jumping near his ear.