Chapter 8
The summons had been polite, delivered by a warrior who looked like he'd rather be anywhere else. The Emperor requests the pleasure of your company.
Requests. As if she could say no.
Emily stood outside the door to the Emperor's private study, her pulse hammering as she smoothed her hands over the silk of her dress. The fabric was cool against her palms, soft and strange, and it felt like a lie. Not her clothes, not her life—just another costume they'd dressed her in.
Raaevik stood beside her. He hadn't looked at her directly since they'd left the medical bay earlier and was back to being a wall of muscle and silence, staring straight ahead with that terrifying, disciplined stillness.
But she could feel him. It was like standing next to a furnace.
She rubbed her palm against her thigh, the skin where the seal had knit her flesh back together tight and itchy.
"Ready?" Raaevik asked. He didn't turn his head.
"Do I have a choice?"
"No."
Well, at least he was honest.
The door slid open with a soft hiss.
She braced herself for something like a throne room, with banners and guards and all that pomp and…
It was a library.
She blinked in surprise. The room was smaller than her quarters, intimate and quiet.
The walls were lined not with weapons or trophies, but with shelves holding actual books—paper and leather, spines cracked with age.
There was a desk, cluttered with dataflexes and a mug that had steam rising from the top.
Two comfortable-looking chairs were positioned near a wide viewport, and beyond the glass, stars were scattered across the black.
"Emily."
Daaynal turned from the window.
He wasn't wearing his crown or the combat leathers. Instead, he wore a simple grey tunic and loose trousers, his feet bare against the thick rug. His dark hair was tied back loosely, strands escaping to frame a face that looked… tired.
Very tired.
"Your Majesty," she said, and dipped into a clumsy curtsy.
"Please," he said, waving a hand. "None of that here. Come in. Sit."
He gestured to the chairs.
Hesitating, she glanced back at Raaevik, but he'd taken up his post just outside the door, expression blank as it slid shut. He wasn't going to help her. She was on her own.
Walking forward, she sat on the edge of the chair. It was soft, swallowing her a little. Daaynal took the seat opposite her. He didn't loom or posture, just looked at her with green eyes that seemed too old for his face. She realised she had no idea how old he actually was.
"I imagine you're wondering why I asked you here," he said.
"To discuss the schedule?" she guessed. "Or maybe to tell me which fork I'm supposed to use at the next banquet so I don't embarrass the Empire?"
A faint smile touched his lips. "No. I wanted to ask you about the shelter. In Austin."
The air left her lungs. Whatever she'd expected, it hadn't been that. "What?"
"The shelter," Daaynal said. Picking up a dataflex from the small table between them, he tapped the screen.
"You ran the intake program for three years.
You expanded the outreach to the veterans' encampments under the highway bridges, and according to this, you fought the city council for six months to get the zoning permits for the new wing. "
He looked up at her. "That is impressive work, Emily."
She stared at him, her mouth a little open. Her mother had never asked about the shelter.
"You… you checked up on me?"
"I wanted to know who I was mat… err, marrying," he said. "Not the genetic profile. The person." He set the dataflex down. "You spent your life helping those your society forgot. That speaks to character. It speaks to a strength that has nothing to do with physical power."
She gripped the arms of the chair, her knuckles turning white. This was wrong. He was supposed to be dismissive, treating her like a broodmare. He wasn't supposed to know about the zoning permits or look at her with respect.
"Why does it matter?" she asked, her voice tight. "It's not like I have a say in this. The program matched us. That's the whole point, isn't it?"
Daaynal winced. It was a slight movement, a tightening around his eyes… but she saw it.
Leaning forward, he rested his elbows on his knees. "The Empire needs heirs, Emily. The situation is… fragile. The program selects candidates based on genetic compatibility markers. You were the highest match we have seen."
She huffed. "So I'm a lab result."
"You are a necessity," he corrected gently. "But that does not mean I wished to drag you from your life. This match…" He looked past her, toward the wall of books. "This was not my choice either."
The silence stretched between them. She watched him, saw the lines of strain around his mouth, the shadows under his eyes, and the memory of him in the medical bay slammed back.
This was not my choice either.
He wasn't talking about politics. He was talking about her. The woman sleeping in the pod.
Her throat tightened. Oh shit, he was trapped too. He was the most powerful man in the galaxy, and he couldn't marry the woman he loved. Instead, he was stuck with… with her. And she didn't even know which fork to use at a formal banquet. Did the lathar even use forks?
"I don't expect love," Daaynal said, bringing his gaze back to her. His voice was soft, devoid of the command she'd heard him use with others. "I know I have no right to ask for it. But I would like us to be allies, if nothing else. Partners in this… arrangement."
"Partners," she echoed. It sounded like a foreign word.
"Yes. I do not want a prisoner, Emily. I want a mate who can stand beside me, not cower behind me. Here, I thought you might like this."
Reaching into the pocket of his tunic, he held out a dataflex.
"What is it?" she asked as she took it.
"Media," he said. "Books. Music. Films. From Earth. I thought… I thought you might miss home."
She looked down at the device in her palm and her vision blurred. He'd gotten her books… because he was worried that she might be homesick.
"Thank you," she whispered. The words felt inadequate somehow.
"You are most welcome."
She looked up at him. The questions burned on her tongue. Who is she? Who is the woman in the medical bay? Does she like books too?
She wanted to ask. She wanted to tell him she knew, that she understood what it was to want something you couldn't have, to feel trapped in a life that didn't fit. But she couldn't. If she asked, then she admitted she'd been snooping—and exposed Raaevik's failure to control her.
She held the dataflex tighter.
"I should go," she said, standing up, before she started crying or confessing anything that would get her in trouble. Spying on the emperor had to be bad, right?
He stood with her. "Of course. Rest, Emily. I'm afraid tomorrow will be… busy."
He didn't try to touch her, kiss her hand, or anything. Instead, he just nodded, a respectful incline of his head.
Turning, she walked to the door. It slid open in front of her and Raaevik stepped aside without a glance at her or the Emperor. He fell into step behind her as they walked in silence.
She clutched the dataflex against her chest, mind churning. Daaynal was good. Decent and kind in a way that mattered, in a way that saw her. It should be enough. It should be everything.
Other warriors moved past them in the corridor—lean, battle-scarred, efficient—but she barely registered them.
She looked at Raaevik as he stepped in front of her. The broad span of his shoulders under the black leather. The way his hair was braided, tight and severe, exposing the vulnerable nape of his neck.
Her pulse didn't race for Daaynal…
It raced for Raaevik.
* * *
This damned gown was a torture device disguised as fashion.
It had pale, shimmery fabric that half-choked her, with a collar so high and stiff it forced her chin up. The sleeves ended in points over the backs of her hands, because apparently she needed to look like an elegant weapon. Beautiful, she supposed, but a bit like a bedazzled straitjacket.
Standing next to Daaynal in the center of the Event Hall, Emily plastered a smile on her face that felt brittle enough to snap in a stiff breeze.
"You are doing well," Daaynal murmured, leaning toward her slightly. He wore formal robes tonight, in black and silver, and the simple metal crown of the Latharian Empire. He looked every inch the warrior-emperor feared across the galaxy.
"I feel like a glow-stick wrapped in cling film," she murmured out of the corner of her mouth, keeping her smile fixed on the approaching dignitaries.
His lips quirked. "I am unfamiliar with the reference, but I assume it means uncomfortable?"
"It means I'm shiny and I can't breathe."
"Just a little longer," he promised, his deep voice a low rumble. "The delegation from the Outer Systems is the last formal greeting. Then we can circulate, and you can hide behind a glass of wine. A large one."
"Is that an imperial order?"
"It is a strategic suggestion." He slid her an amused sideways glance. "It's what I'll be doing. And remember, the empress cannot be accused of being tipsy, merely… a little happy."
She bit back her snort of amusement, hiding her turmoil. She was trying, she really was, but every time she looked out at the sea of faces, her stomach twisted and she wanted to throw up.
The hall was all obsidian and gold, the ceilings so high they disappeared into shadow. Floating globes cast cold light over the crowd below. And what a crowd…
Warriors. Every single one of them. There were no Latharian women—hadn't been for generations, thanks to the plague that had wiped them out—so the sea of faces was entirely male.