THE MATING CHAMBER
ELENA – RYTHAR’S FORTRESS IN THE GREEN REACH
The world jerks and rolls as Rythar hauls me down a narrow flight of stairs, then through a hall lined with guards. They stand at attention, but they turn their faces away as we pass. One guard startles. He’s clearly never seen Rythar carry a woman through these halls.
The doors open for Rythar on silent mechanisms. At every threshold, the signs of tech grow more obvious. The only noises in the corridor are his footfalls and my ragged breath.
He runs hot in every sense. Temperature. Temper. The rest of him. It’s in the tightness of the muscles along his back, his fingers around my thigh. I try to squirm free at every landing, but it’s like wriggling in a vise.
I try to snarl, “Put me down,” but it comes out breathless and thin. Half-scream, half-plea. He ignores it.
I’m stewing in fear and fury when the next door slides open and he sets me on my feet again. I stumble away from him, arms raised in front of me, wondering how he’s finally going to make me pay for my disobedience.
Rythar watches me, the red crowding out the gold in his eyes as his pupils enlarge.
His black hair falls around his face, wild from my struggles.
His lips are slightly parted, cheeks barely flushed under the coppery tone of his skin.
I expect to see anger on his face, but there’s something else—beneath the anger lies raw attraction.
My heart races as he tilts his head slightly in a subtle invitation laced with challenge.
I’m not afraid of you, Rythar, I think.
But I am.
I am very afraid. But I don’t let it show, and I won’t let the fear get me. I glance around the room. We’re in a spacious, well-lit cave, carved into rock. The air is humid, like when a storm is rolling in. How appropriate.
The walls are a smooth black, revealing the lacy gold veins that run through them.
The floor dips in terraced steps to a broad basin at the end of the room, and I find the source of the humidity.
It’s a pale, greenish blue pool. The water flows slowly across a gentle waterfall, pools, and then exits.
I think it’s a natural spring, tamed with Xytheos tech.
It steams, warm and inviting. The ambient light bathes everything in gold.
The beauty of the room is shocking enough, but it’s the scent that unglues me. We’re underground, but it doesn’t smell like New Terra. This is primal. It’s spiced, green, and sweet in a way that makes my skin tingle.
Cinnamon. It finally clicks. The spice I smell in the Green Reach and on Rythar is a type of cinnamon. It was expensive on New Terra. A rare holiday treat, back when we still had time for holidays.
There are furs scattered about, draped over shaped chairs and platforms, some on the floor, some near the pool.
The large objects are not merely furniture. They are intentional constructions, designed with curves that invite exploration, draped in furs and fabrics that shimmer faintly. They catch the light and drink it down.
I expected punishment. This is a private invitation to surrender—on his terms.
As if I could betray humanity for bowls of fruit and pitchers of water. And clean, massive, luxurious towels hanging in that alcove. And really comfortable looking couches. And that crystal-clear pool.
A few moments of comfort would be so welcome right now.
But this is more than that. There are bottles that look medicinal, and trays of what look like ointments or pastes.
Thinking of the scent of the sap at the Claiming Ceremony, I back toward the doorway, pulse hammering in my throat.
I freeze as Rythar steps in behind me, crowding close enough to block any retreat.
The door seals behind him with a hiss, locking out the world.
He stands so close I can feel the heat coming off him in waves. He might not breathe hard from exertion, but he gets warmer. I expect him to shove me, or order me to strip, or… something. Instead, he just watches.
Moments ago, I wanted to make something happen, anything, but now I’m frozen. The silence is unbearable. I face him, fists tight at my sides. "What is this?"
He doesn't answer.
"A cell? A cage? Do I get an inmate number? Or did you skip that step because I'm the only human unlucky enough to end up here with you?"
His jaw tightens. Still nothing.
"Translator broken again? Very convenient. Does it malfunction every time you'd have to explain yourself, or only when you're dragging me down a hallway like a sack of grain?" I yell.
His answer is a look that coils around me like steam. I can’t blame the mate bond—I’m purely sexually attracted to him. And it’s mutual—but he is barely holding himself back. His silence is not a translator malfunction. He just doesn’t need words—not with the way he’s looking at me.
My anger is only making him want me more. I flinch as he steps around me slowly, and he eases back. As I watch, he makes a full circuit of the chamber, as if inspecting it. He trails fingertips along one platform, then checks the edge of the pool. He tests the water, then turns back to me.
He’s giving me time to adjust. How much time, I don’t know. But I’m not stupid. I know what this room is for. A mating chamber. Built to breed in, but nothing here is clinically efficient. This is a place to enjoy fucking.
I swallow hard.
I could bolt, but he’s too fast. It would just give him an excuse to touch me again.
He takes two strides, and he’s close to me again. He doesn’t touch me, but he fills my world. I look up, determined not to flinch again. He looks down, eyes burning. We’re so close that I almost feel like we’re touching already. I hold steady, though my heart beats like a trapped bird.
He braces one hand against the stone at my side, his bicep close to my cheek. The other hand hovers, inches from my jaw, and I sense the restraint in every sinew. He could kiss me, touch me, toss me in the pool, pin me to the furs.
He does none of it.
Instead, he waits.
My breath comes fast and shallow, but it’s not from fear.
There’s something worse—the awareness of being desired so strongly.
My skin prickles. I curse the Stone, the way it rerouted my nerves, made me soft to the possibility of him.
Even if it’s not in my mind now, it’s still to blame for how I’m even considering the pleasures I might find here, with this alien male.
Right?
His lips part, just a little. He draws in my scent slowly, eyes fluttering closed momentarily as if savoring a forbidden treat.
When he opens them again, I find myself caught in an intense gaze.
His pupils dilate until the gold disappears entirely, leaving black rimmed in ember red, like coals waiting for breath.
I whisper, “Are you going to hurt me?”
Rythar gives me one small shake of his head, and his hand at my jaw curls, then relaxes.
He leans in until his mouth hovers at my ear.
His breath is light. He says no words, but I close my eyes, parsing the meaning.
He draws back, studies my face, and finally lets the hand drop.
He turns away, shoulders rising and falling as if steadying himself.
He kneels by the pool and scoops up a double handful of water.
He splashes it over his face, then repeats.
He sits back on his heels, face dripping, then fixes me with a look. It's a question.
"Am I supposed to read your mind now? Is that part of the bride package, or an upgrade?"
“Come here,” he says.
I shake my head.
His eyes narrow. "You’re afraid."
"You're very pleased with yourself." My voice is flat. "Congratulations. You've correctly identified that the woman locked in a room with you is afraid."
He tilts his head. "You talk more when you're afraid."
"I talk more when I'm furious. Take notes," I snap. I walk to him, to show both of us that I’m not afraid.
He stands, and water slides down his throat and gathers in the hollow at its base—the one place on him that feels exposed despite all that power.
My gaze catches there. I imagine my mouth there, the slow drag of my tongue through the droplets, the path I would trace up his neck to his jaw.
The thought almost overrides my need to escape him.
I don’t know what he would do if I touched him like that.
The thought is terrifying and magnetic. I want the answer far more than I should.
I bend to the pool and let its beauty distract me from Rythar. I can see all the way to the clean-swept light blue bottom. I dip a hand in. The warm water is soft against my fingers. I can’t help the sigh that escapes.
Rythar's voice comes from above. "It heals soreness. Any soreness. From all activities." The emphasis is loaded.
I rise fast. "That's the most thoughtful thing anyone's ever said to me at knifepoint."
Rythar’s brows knit together. "You are not at knifepoint."
"Your hands are weapons. The door is locked. Splitting hairs, Rythar."
His frowns deepens. "You are not bleeding. You are not bound. You are not—"
"Home." I cut him off. The word comes out sharper than I meant. "I'm not home. Everyone I have ever known is dead or lost or running, and you want to talk to me about soreness. From activities."
His face does something complicated.
I pushed him too far.
He is quiet for a long moment. "What do you need?"
"Give me back my life." My voice shakes. It's too high, choked. "My friends. Find Sophia, because she's still out there. Can your magic water fix any of that?"
He is very still. "No."
"Then don't sell it to me."
He lifts a hand and brushes a strand of hair from my cheek.
His other hand ghosts lightly over my hip as I inhale, sharp and shaky.
He bends, nose to my neck, and draws a breath so deep it tugs at my hair. I feel the rasp of his jaw against my collarbone. He pulls back, lips brushing my ear.
I step back. My legs shake.
He stays still, watching, but his pupils are huge, and the tension in his body says if I ran, he’d be on me in a second.