17. Choosing
CHOOSING
ELENA – RYTHAR’S FORTRESS IN THE GREEN REACH
I wake to the feeling of being held by someone huge and warm.
Hours must have passed. Rythar is wrapped around me, his bitten arm banded tight over my middle, his breath slow and even above my head.
I turn my head enough so that I can check his status.
There’s no fever in him, and the black marks of the venom under his skin are practically gone.
There’s just the deep, pulsing warmth of a male who’s come back from the dead.
Rythar’s body turned my antidote into a victory.
Relief shudders through me, only to catch when I realize how snugly he’s got me pinned.
The blanket is kicked half off. I’m still wearing my white dress, but it’s bunched up high, baring my legs.
I lift my head and see Rythar’s exposed hip, the way the muscle dips to the center of it.
He must have stripped down to nothing in his sleep, and every time his chest expands, it presses the whole length of his body tighter into mine.
I try to shift, and his grip tightens, fingers flat against my stomach, drawing my back even closer to his front. The hard length of his cock presses against my ass—and I feel it throbbing against me. I freeze, unsure if he’s awake or just running on instinct.
The answer comes when he buries his face in my hair, inhales deeply, like he’s savoring me. Then he lets out a half growl, half groan.
“Hey,” I mutter, trying to twist away, but he’s not having it.
His hand slides from my stomach to my hip, his fingers pressing hard, possessive, and he pulls me tighter against him. Every inch of him is pressed into me now, his chest against my back, his hips grinding into my ass, his cock pulsing against me.
“Hey?” he echoes, his voice low and rough, thick with sleep and desire.
“I want to go.”
His brow pulls tight, like he’s trying to figure something out. His grip tightens, just enough to remind me of his sheer size, the power held in every muscle. It’s not painful, but it’s not gentle either. It’s powerfully sexual, pure desire, and my body reacts to it.
I keep the tension in my body, my spine rigid.
“No. No go. No run,” he says, the words clipped and oddly placed, like he’s grabbing at the wrong meaning. He ran hot enough last night to denature human proteins. The translator under his skin never stood a chance. There’s an edge to his voice now, frustration or need, I can’t tell.
“I want to go,” I say again, wiggling.
“I want, too,” he grunts. His voice is low in my ear, rumbling down my skin.
For a second, I wonder if his patience with me is finally cracking. But it’s passion, not frustration. I wiggle more, but my wiggling only makes him hold me tighter, his cock grinding into my ass with every movement. I can feel the heat of him, the way his body tenses like he’s barely holding back.
“Did your brain get fried or is your translator broken again?” I snap, trying to sound pissed off instead of breathless.
He shifts suddenly, rolling me onto my back so fast I don’t have time to think. I’m pinned under the weight of his arm, staring up into his ember-gold eyes as they glow like wildfire. He’s studying me.
And he looks confused, like he’s lost the thread of what I just said. Still, his gaze drops to my lips, and I swear I can feel it like a physical touch.
He doesn’t kiss me.
Instead, the confusion lingers while we look at each other.
“You fried my brain?” He frowns. Then his mouth twitches. He understood more than his words let on.
“Yes,” I lie, because my body is screaming at me to stop talking and just give in.
He grins. "You lie." He taps his ear where the translator sits. “Broken.” Then he taps his head. "Not broken."
“Get off me,” I say, voice breathy.
He rolls off, but only far enough to cage me with his body, his thigh pushing between my legs and spreading them apart as he plants one hand beside my head. His cock throbs against my hip while arousal pools between my legs.
Leaning in, he brushes his nose along the curve of my jaw before lowering his mouth to the pulse pounding at the base of my throat. My breathing hitches as he flicks his tongue over sensitive skin, and a shiver rolls through me.
I want to yank him closer so he can do exactly what he’s doing—just a little rougher.
He pulls back, just enough for his face to hover over mine. There’s a questioning look on his face. The first time I’ve seen him look uncertain. “You want me? Say.” His eyes flick to my mouth, waiting.
I stubbornly remain silent. The desperate need I feel wars with my pride. I hold his gaze, unyielding.
For a moment, he studies me. Then his hand slides beneath the hem of my shift, skimming the sensitive skin of my thigh. My body shivers as his fingers slowly glide higher. He pauses, eyes narrowing with satisfaction as he finds the wetness on my thighs.
“You like.”
A sudden jolt courses through me when he slides his hand up my body. Heat surges up my spine, and instinctively I arch into him, biting back a moan that would admit too much.
His body shudders in response.
I want him. But I can’t have him. What if I get rescued by humans and I’m pregnant with an alien baby? I’d be banished. Probably punished, then banished.
“Rythar,” I whisper urgently. “Stop.”
He stills instantly, then withdraws.
Propping himself up on one elbow, he stares down at me. For a long moment, he just breathes, chest rising and falling as sweat glistens in the hollow of his throat.
He sits up and swings his legs off the bed—allowing me to fully take in the sight of him, the way his cock stands rigid between his thighs, aching for release.
I sit up, pulling the blanket over my lap to keep myself from reaching for him. He’s rubbing the side of his ear, where the translator sits under his skin.
“What’s wrong with your translator?”
He doesn’t look at me. He busies himself with a pitcher of water on the bedside table.
There is a tray of simple foods, neatly sliced and arranged, next to it. He pours two glasses, hands me one, and drinks deeply from the other.
“Nothing.” He says it like he doesn’t trust himself to speak.
He sets the glass down, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and turns to face me, utterly naked and unashamed.
"You want translator fixed," he says. The look on his face says he doesn't need words for what he wants right now. But he's going to fix the translator anyway. For me.
“I want—” I start, but the words stick.
He grins again, a slow, dangerous curve of lips. “You want.”
I roll my eyes.
He stands, stretches, and his nakedness—the play of muscle under his skin—makes my mouth dry. He moves the way the serpent-panther moved, smooth and athletic. I swallow hard.
“You are thirsty?” he asks. “Drink.”
I blink, thrown off by the sudden drop from flirting to command. I drink the water.
He notices my confusion and frowns. He strides to the door and opens it with a hand motion. The hallway is empty, but he orders something in Xythean. A minute later, a slender technician appears, eyes wide as he takes in the scene—Rythar naked and radiating frustration, me standing behind him.
“Fix,” Rythar grunts, pointing at his ear. Irritated.
The technician fumbles with a kit, hands shaking. He applies a patch to Rythar’s skin, then bows and steps back, eyes never meeting mine.
The technician approaches me, device in hand.
I twist away on instinct. Rythar’s grip closes around my wrists. I strain anyway, breath coming sharp.
“No,” I say again.
Rythar doesn’t look at me. He snaps a command in Xythean, sharp enough that the technician visibly startles.
The technician swallows, then speaks to me.
“Rythar wishes me to explain to you. This translator is not neural,” he says quickly.
“Not implanted in the brain. It is a subdermal translation patch—standard for off-world visitors. There is no cognitive access. Rythar generously makes this option available to you even though you are Starfallen and not a visitor.”
He gestures to the skin just behind his own ear. “I will put it behind your ear. Once in place, you will not notice it, but it is temporary and removable. I highly suggest you agree to this arrangement.”
Rythar looks down at me. “You hear,” he says.
I hesitate, heart racing, weighing his grip, the tech’s fear, the way they’re waiting for my reaction.
Finally, I nod.
Rythar releases me immediately.
The technician moves fast now, eager to be done. He presses the patch to the skin just behind my ear. There’s a brief sting—more surprise than pain—followed by a spreading coolness.
I speak—
“When does it start to work?”
The words come out smooth, perfectly shaped. My mouth forms the alien syllables even while I think in my own language.
The technician exhales in relief.
Rythar studies my face, intent and searching, like he’s hearing my real voice for the first time.
The technician stows his equipment and departs in a hurry. I test the translator, allowing my irritation to bleed into my tone. “I'm not happy about this.” The words flow smoothly from the device, but my thoughts remain distinctly my own.
Rythar raises an eyebrow. “It is removable. And avoids misunderstanding.”
“Avoids misunderstanding,” I repeat. “Not captivity.”
Rythar looks down at me with burning eyes. “Custody.”
The word lands like a shackle snapping shut. If I’m shackled to him anyway, then I’m getting the truth out of him. I cut straight to the point. “Vorak released the serpent-panther, didn’t he?”
His expression doesn't change, but I catch a twitch in his jaw. A hint of his own anger bubbles under the surface.
“Yes. I will deal with him when I am ready.”
“When you are ready?” I step closer instead of backing away. My shoulder nearly brushes his chest. His skin is still warm from sleep. “He released a weapon into your territory. Into your jungle. And I’m supposed to wait while you decide what mood you’re in?”
His chest muscles flex as his arms move. “I choose when blood is drawn.”
“And in the meantime?” I press.
“You stay with me.”