Chapter 7 Xelora – Vexar
XELORA
VEXAR
ASERIES OF sharp, burning sensations pulls me from the darkness and into interminable agony. My head pounds. Pain arcs over my torso in searing bursts. Something brushes against my ribs, and in a desire to stop the pain, I reach out and catch it.
A startled yelp breaks the silence and pulls me from the haze.
A female…
Her large brown eyes snap to mine.
Confusion, surprise, and a foreign feeling I cannot identify rush through me.
Everything stills. Her warm skin vibrates against my palm.
Then the moment shatters. The female's eyes unfocus, and she starts to fold in on herself, collapsing towards the floor.
I act without thought, releasing her wrist and catching her waist before she topples.
Bolts of agony rip through the muscles of my side, and with a deep groan, I hoist her onto the bed. Her head lolls back, draping a river of dark hair across my neck.
Is she …?
I press a finger to her neck and feel the rapid flutter of her pulse.
She is alive.
And she smells … amazing, earthy and sweet, like warm mornings in the veladoo orchards when the soil comes alive in the sun. I suck down the scent and smile as I realize where I am.
I am dead. This is Zarlysa.
The memory of what came before is fuzzy, but the image of blood is clear.
I was wounded. And I died. There is a short moment of sadness before I allow myself to sink into the pleasure of having a female’s skin pressed against mine.
I am free. I smile and nearly laugh. This is what freedom feels like.
True freedom. The weight of responsibility, gone.
I adjust myself to get a better look at the female's face, and as I shift, so does she. One of her elbows drops against my ribs, and a wave of fresh agony ends the fantasy.
This is not the afterlife.
Tears of rage prick my eyes as the memory of where I am comes rushing back. I am still in the Coliseum. Still injured. Still locked in a cell. And a female is lying across my chest.
“Vok!” I shout.
I am not dead, but my vow is broken.
My vow is broken. And I am wounded. A series of panicked breaths shakes my body before I can get control of myself again.
I need information.
My surroundings have not changed from earlier. The door is closed, there are no guards present, and nothing seems out of place—except for this female.
How did she get in here? What was she doing?
I close my eyes, thinking back to the moment I woke up. The female was kneeling next to the bed, her hands were on my flank, and she was doing something to my wound.
Is she a nurse?
If she is a nurse, why is she in my cell? And why is she unconscious?
I take her arm in my hand and examine her wrist, wondering if I harmed her. Her arm feels like a brittle leaf in my grasp, and yet, it appears undamaged. But there is so much blood. Her hands are covered in it.
With a quick sniff, I groan, knowing exactly where the blood came from. It is my blood, and the scent burns my nose and forces me to fight back unwanted memories. I must focus.
The female is human, which is odd, considering the empire’s treaty with Earth. The fabric of her dress is stained with blood. She wears no identifying marks or badges. And her face…
A jolt of recognition runs through me. The resemblance is too clear. Too undeniable. The slightly upturned end of her nose. The way her mouth curves down at the corners. The striking contrast of her blushed lips, dark hair, and starlight skin.
“Xelora,” I whisper.
The only reaction I get is a strange flutter in my chest. I do not know why I expected more.
I shake my head, feeling foolish. She is not a goddess; she is a human, and I am supposed to be looking for answers, not admiring her.
And yet, I am struggling to look away. My willful eyes continue down her body, tracing over the rise of her breasts, along the sloping curve of her waist, and to her hips.
A tremor runs through me as the uncomfortable feeling of desire begins to creep in.
“Vok,” I groan, as I press my head back into the pillow.
Where is my control? I feel powerless against the tempestuous inferno roaring in my chest. I am burning alive from the inside out.
My eyes and mind are not my own, my skin is tight and hot, and my heart is fluttering uncontrollably.
It is too much to ignore. She is too much to ignore.
The way her weight presses into me, the warmth of her body, the goddess-like features of her face, the tickle of her hair on my neck, the scent of her skin, the soft curve of her waist beneath my hand.
My hand.
I have been holding her waist this entire time.
I pull back in a panic and knock her arm off the bed. A flicker of light catches my attention, and carefully, avoiding touching more of her than necessary, I pull a shiny object from between her fingers.
A needle.
She is a nurse. A human nurse. On Calidus?
A quiet moan escapes from between her pillowy lips, and I tense.
“What?” she whispers, her voice carrying with it a thin thread of memory.
It is the voice from the other side of the door.
She was trying to help me. She mumbles something else I do not understand, and her eyelids burst open.
A look of horror takes over her face, and she jumps from the bed, jostling me and sending a wave of pain through my ribs.
“What the hell?” she shouts, breathing heavily and pressing a hand to her chest.
English. She is speaking English.
Gritting my teeth through the pain, I respond in her own language. “You were unconscious. Are you hurt?” The language feels stilted and strange on my tongue, but I am pleased I have not forgotten it.
“Wait … what?” She looks at me with what I believe is confusion, then shakes her head. “I’m fine.”
“Then why did you fall unconscious?”
“I …” she stammers, looking both puzzled and annoyed. “It’s called vasovagal synco— uh, fainting … because—” She lets out a sound of what I assume is frustration before saying, “What the hell is happening right now?”
“Why did you faint?”
“It doesn’t matter! Why did you pull me onto the bed? And … and … you aren’t even supposed to be awake!”
“Me?”
“Yes, you!”
Despite her small stature, she admonishes me with such fervent ferality that I find myself captivated. No one yells at me, ever, and it is surprisingly disarming—at least coming from her. She is fearless. But also making very little sense.
“Would you prefer I pretend to sleep?” I ask.
Her eyes go wide, and she presses a fist to her forehead. “What the fuck is happening right now?” she whispers.
“I am not certain. I just awakened.” Is ‘awakened’ the correct word?
Her hand drops to her side, and her cheeks turn a lovely shade of pink. “Well, this isn’t going the way I’d expected. I thought you’d be … messed up? But clearly you’re some sort of alien miracle, because you seem…” She shakes her head. “Are you ok? You lost a lot of blood.”
I move to prop myself up on an elbow, but an intense surge of pain stops me. My injury is worse than I thought.
“Stop moving!” she shouts, rushing towards me. “You’re going to ruin my hard work.” Her hand contacts my shoulder, and a bolt of euphoric electricity shoots through me.
“Zar’vok,” I groan, surprised by the intensity of her touch. “I—” I need to ask her to stop, but the words die on my lips as her hand slides onto my chest and absolute ecstasy spreads across my skin. Gods, is this what a female’s touch is supposed to feel like?
It feels too good, and yet, I know it should not.
None of this should feel good. I should push her away.
Command her to stop. But instead my eyes are drawn to her face, to her beauty and her fire, to her complete lack of fear.
I could crush her head with my hand, and yet, she is more concerned for my well-being than her own.
“Just lie down,” she orders as she drops into a squat next to the bed. She prods the sore flesh on my side, and I clench my teeth.
“Your work?” I ask.
“What?”
“You said I was going to ruin your work.”
“Uh … yeah.”
Another prod sends hot agony through me, and I suck in a breath. “And what work is that? Torturing me?”
“I’m trying to help you.”
“By stabbing me with your tiny sword?” I hold up the needle I pulled from her hand, and she frowns.
“I was closing your wound.”
“By making more wounds?” Am I teasing her?
“I was sew— Wait. You’re speaking English? How?” She stands and looks at me like I’ve done something impossible.
“The same way as you. With my mouth.” Her expression pinches in annoyance, so I add, “I learned it. Now, explain what you were doing to me with your sewing sword.” I cannot tell if I am being playful or mean, but both are out of character for me. Perhaps I have lost more blood than I thought?
“I was stitching your wound closed.” She makes a sewing gesture with her hands, and I nearly smile.
“Ah, a seamstress of the flesh.” I give her a wink and offer the needle back.
She doesn’t take it, but her cheeks burn a brighter shade of red. “Do you really not know what stitches are?”
“It is much more fun to pretend I do not.” I am teasing her.
Her lips betray a smile, and she shakes her head, sending another strange flutter through my chest. “Is it safe to say you aren’t mad I kept you alive?”
My stomach drops as the reality of my situation comes rushing back with sickening speed.
The joy I was feeling disappears, and I am left with a hollow pit in my chest. She saved my life, but she also cost me my throne.
I should not be enjoying light conversation; I should be determining if she is a threat.
My claws bite into my palms. I need to know why she is here. Who sent her? What is her purpose?
“How did you gain access to my cell?” I ask, my tone both commanding and sharp. To my surprise, her expression hardens into a look of disgust.
“So you are pissed I saved you.”
“How did you gain access to my cell?” I repeat more firmly.