Chapter 17
SEVENTEEN
ARTURE
Some male, some despicable, stupid, disgusting male had Nic-coal’s loving, strong heart in his hands, and he hurt it.
“I'll crush him.” I press my left hand over my hearts, then lay it over hers on the table between us.
“How dare he do that to you? How dare he injure you like that?
It's death for any male to humiliate a female, but that's too good for him.
I'll mangle his sex organs first, make him watch, and then feed them to him.” I clench my metal hand so hard it creaks at the limit of the stellium, then punch it forward, imagining this disgusting mate's jaw shattering in a shower of blood.
“He's ancient history, don't bother yourself over him,” Nic-coal says, wiping her eyes.
She trembles in my arms. She was so scared to tell me, to finally voice her story.
“He's not just history, he's dead. He shamed you for your natural, normal, healthy urges.” Urges I'd love for Nic-coal to exert on me. That droking dirt eater had Nic-coal willing and eager, and he rebuked her harshly. He stripped her innocence from her, made her doubt herself.
“I did agree to no sex before marriage,” she says, tapping the table.
“But then you agreed to something else, something which meant so much to you. Don't make excuses for him, Nic-coal, I'm set on this course. Anyone who hurts you, anyone who ever hurt you, will pay.”
She shakes her head, but doesn't move away from me. “You’re drunk, don't make decisions right now.”
I eye the two glasses of strong alcohol I downed alongside her, and the third keeping company with hers. “I don't think so.”
Gently shoving me, she says, “I guess it'll take more than a couple margaritas to make you tipsy, huh?”
I nod. “It's my nanites processing the alcohol as it reaches my system.”
“Oh.” She pulls away from me. “So… you're sober, and… will totally remember all this.”
“Please don't worry about that. Instead, imagine your satisfaction as he grovels face down on the ground, begging your forgiveness.”
She shakes her head with a smile, her eyes a little unfocused and reddened. “I'd prefer never to see him again, so no, no breaking anything on my behalf please.”
Even unsteady as she is with the alcohol raging in her system, her strong compassion keeps her on track. “Then I'll do it for my own satisfaction. I'll fly us straight to Earth and—” Blinding pain shoves so hard into my right eye, I crash backward from the counter.
It's as if a bolt spiked through my skull. All I can do is writhe on the floor, trying to contain the agony.
“Arture!” Nic-coal is at my side. Through the haze, she comes into focus, voice and movements sure. “Where does it hurt?”
I shove a shaking hand over my eye. “Oloria,” I grind out through my teeth. “We're going… going straight to Oloria.”
The pain recedes as if it never intruded. I drag in breaths, our spilled drinks dripping down the counter and onto the floor next to me.
She holds my shoulder. “Stay down, let me check you over.”
“I'm fine—”
Rolling her eyes, she presses one hand on my chest, the other on my neck. I lift my chin to allow her to grasp my throat with her tiny hand. Her fingers find my pulse, and I stare deep into her eyes as she concentrates, counting my rapid heartbeats quietly.
“What was that?” she murmurs once she's done. “It seemed as though as soon as you said you'd take me to Earth, it hurt.”
I nod slowly, nausea gathering in my stomach. “I can't disobey my orders.”
“I had no idea it was that bad. That's horrible, Arture.”
Shaking my head, I let myself feel her warm touch. She cares so deeply, I can't show her the despair clawing its way up inside me. I can't disobey. I have to take Nic-coal to Oloria.
Whether she wants to go or not. My scales harden all over my body… except where she touches me.
“Hm.” She sits back on her heels, hand sliding to rest on my breast. “Your heart rate is still a little faster than usual.”
“It's because you're close.” I lift up to my elbows, and yes, it pleases me how her gaze rakes over me with a lustful frankness. The sadness quickly follows it, and I press my hand over hers, keeping us locked together. “Feel your feelings, Nic-coal. They're normal, natural, and… reciprocated.”
Samara's grace, if Nic-coal looks down she'll see my raging boner.
So I capture her chin in my fingers, and then all I can do is stare at her plush, ripe-red lips.
I wrench my gaze up to her eyes; they're tinged with pink from her suffering, but my hearts soar to see her rich brown irises shining with her strength.
And need. It sends vigor straight to my cocks. Despite the stars between our places of birth, our bodies speak the same language.
It's all I can do not to rise up to meet her lips with my own, stealing another taste. But it really would be a theft with her in this state.
“Arture,” she breathes, nearly unravelling my resolve.
I get to standing and help her to her feet. She's unsteady, swaying, so I scoop her up into my arms.
She gasps, then grins up at me, eyelids drooping. “Are we going to bed?”
Drok na. “Nnngh, yes. But only to sleep off the alcohol. I want you to make a decision when you're not influenced by anything other than yourself.”
She pouts prettily. “You're right. So right.” But she plays with my as I carry her to her room, fingertips tracing down the edges of my pectoral scales.
They soften to match her skin, becoming a shimmer of pale cinnamon in a river down my chest, as if she's carving new landscapes into me. Rearranging everything in her wake.
As I lay her on the bed, she slips softly into sleep. I sit next to her to guard her rest, suffering in silence until the hardness in my cocks abates.
“I'll protect you, Nic-coal,” I promise her. “You're safe with me.”
But is that true? There are dark patches of unknowns in my mind still, big uncertainties like pit traps ready to swallow us whole. I still don't know who I am, not really, and my orders don't make me who I am.
Except for one thing. I'd die before I hurt Nic-coal.
With that comforting thought, I slide into sleep next to her.
“Gara. Close the door!” Ilia bellows from planet side.
“You're not in yet,” Gara yells back.
My fingers curl around the yoke, keeping the short hop ship a perfect ninety degrees from the ground.
The cyclic feels like it's fighting me every inch of the way as I work to maintain a steady hover. I’ve got my eyes glued to the attitude indicator, keeping the nose aligned on a steady heading while countering the crosswind with careful pedal input.
Winds gust hard against us, and I’m constantly adjusting collective to hold altitude without dropping into a downdraft or climbing out of control.
My left hand never leaves the throttle, ready to tweak engine power if the torque spikes, and my forearm aches as I make tiny, precise corrections. The turbulence is rough, but the key is staying ahead of the wind—calculating the next gust before it throws me off balance.
“Run,” Gara shouts, beckoning to our leader who's still outside.
Dom was on recon when he took a blow from a tree trunk ripped up by the sudden tornado, which downed Nevare and Arik.
Ilia went out to save him, but if he doesn't return with Dom soon, the short hop ship risks being dashed against the ground, killing all aboard.
But I can't give up. I can't surrender. I have to keep making these calculations, keep our heading and bearing strictly on target. I have to give our leader a chance to return.
Gara waits in the open doorway, hair and pants whipping in the harsh winds of this planet. He shouts at me, “Arture, the wind’s picking up. Can you cope?”
I run an additional calculation: how long it'll take to wear down my mental processes, for an error to creep into my calculations. “I can keep us here for three minutes.” An alarm whoops. Coming straight for us is a bank of faster winds ready to scoop up the space craft. “Two minutes.”
Gara turns back to the door, and my guts twist. Two minutes isn't enough time for Ilia to get onto a bucking ship dragging an unconscious Parthiastock.
Gara's a healer type, used to making life and death decisions.
I'm not. I'm the pilot. My purpose is to get everyone and everything aboard to and from the mission safely.
Just as Gara is about to shut the door and seal Ilia and Dom's fates, I shout back, “Hold. Variables changing.”
But they're not. If anything, they're getting worse. All my calculations point to imminent destruction if we stay here, and Ilia already gave us the order to leave.
Except I didn't factor in the difference I can make.
If I double my calculations, I risk straining my mental load, but that's a small price to pay for the lives of my crew mates.
By factoring in and accepting a risk of burnout, I can keep us here in the full brunt of the storm with a forty percent chance of disaster.
Not good odds, but better ones for Ilia and Dom.
The wind slams into us like a Parthiastock punch, sending the airframe shuddering as I fight to hold position.
My cyclic movements are sharper now, countering the gusts before they throw us into the cliff face.
The torque needle dances, but I ride the collective on a fine edge, keeping just enough lift to hold altitude without surging up or dropping out of the hover.
“We need to get closer,” Gara bellows.
I can’t spare the time to respond. I inch the tail rotor around, using the pedals to crab us sideways, keeping the skids just within reach of the rocky ledge.
The downdraft coming off the cliff is brutal, the ship lurching as the wind shifts again.
My hand tightens on the cyclic, dampening the roll before it becomes unsalvagable.