Chapter 6
Chapter
Six
FERCER
The pool is perfect.
Crystal-clear water shifts between turquoise and violet depending on the angle of the twin suns. Comfortable lounging chairs are designed for species of all sizes. A gentle breeze carries the scent of exotic flowers from the jungle’s edge.
And absolutely no one asks me for autographs, encores, or samples of my horn shavings.
I could get used to this.
Beside me, Sandra reclines on her own lounger, some kind of frozen drink clutched in one hand.
It’s bright orange and smoking slightly.
I have no idea what’s in it, but she’s already on her second one.
Her eyes are hidden behind tinted lenses she acquired from somewhere, and she’s been quietly cataloging every alien that walks past for the last hour.
The resort provided her with appropriate swimwear—a small mercy I’m deeply grateful for, and also quietly resent.
The fabric clings to curves I’m trying very hard not to catalog: the soft swell of her breasts, the dip of her waist, the way her bare legs stretch out on the lounger, close enough to touch.
I drag my gaze back to the pool.
“That one has tentacles for a face,” she murmurs, not looking at me. “And I think it just winked at me. Do tentacles wink? Is that flirting or a threat?”
“Could be both. Depends on the species.”
“Helpful. Very helpful.”
I stretch out, letting the warmth soak into muscles that haven’t properly relaxed in months. Maybe years. This is what a vacation is supposed to feel like. No schedules. No performances. No Vyla hovering at my shoulder with a datapad full of obligations.
Sandra makes a small sound of interest. “Okay, that’s new. What is that?”
I follow her gaze across the pool deck.
A Volscian male stands near the edge of the gardens. Even from here, I can tell he’s massive. Broader than most, with the kind of muscular build that speaks to physical labor. Scars mark his face in pale slashes. His horn stubs suggest old wounds that never quite healed.
And yet he’s smiling.
He’s also cradling what appears to be a bright orange ball of fluff against his chest, holding it like it’s the most precious thing in the world.
“Is that a pet?” Sandra pushes her tinted lenses up. “It’s so round. And fuzzy. Is it supposed to be that fuzzy?”
The creature nuzzles deeper into the Volscian’s scarred arms. He adjusts his grip with surprising gentleness, murmuring something I can’t hear.
Then a human woman appears at his side.
She’s small. They all are, I’m learning. She says something to the massive warrior, hands on her hips, and he actually ducks his head. Chastened. This scarred, broken-horned giant, cowed by a female half his size.
She reaches up and pats his arm, and the tension in his shoulders eases. He offers her the fluffball, and she laughs, accepting it with obvious delight.
They look happy. A human and a Volscian, together, with their ridiculous orange pet, existing in easy comfort.
Something twists in my chest. I wonder what that feels like—to have someone look at you the way that woman looks at him.
“I think it’s some kind of alien hamster,” Sandra decides. She settles back into her lounger. “Can’t see myself with a pet anytime soon. I can barely keep myself alive. Adding another creature to the mix seems irresponsible.”
“What about anyone else?” The words come out before I can stop them. “Can you see yourself with someone else?”
Sandra’s eyes meet mine.
“Anyone else?” she repeats carefully.
I should backtrack. Make a joke. Slide back into the easy banter that’s become our default. But this is Sandra. I don’t want to perform around her.
“You came all this way looking for your people. A community.” I hold her gaze. “But is that all you’re looking for?”
Her throat moves as she swallows. I track the motion—the delicate line of her neck, the pulse fluttering at the hollow of her throat.
“That’s a heavy question for poolside lounging.”
“You don’t have to answer.”
“I know.” She’s quiet for a moment, watching the orange fluffball’s owners disappear into the gardens. “To be honest, I don’t know what I’m looking for. I spent so long just trying to survive that I never really thought about what comes after, what I actually want.”
“And now?”
She turns to look at me, pulling the glasses from her face. Without the tinted lenses hiding her eyes, I can see her uncertainty.
I want to reach for her. Pull her close. Tell her she doesn’t have to figure it out alone.
“Now I’m starting to wonder if—“ Sandra’s gaze shifts past my shoulder, and her expression falls.
“She’s hovering again.” The words come out flat. Resigned.
I don’t need to turn around to know what she’s seen. “I was hoping she wouldn’t find us this time.”
“Does she have a tracking chip on you or something?”
“At this point, I’m starting to suspect so.”
Vyla’s heels click against the pool deck as she approaches. She’s dressed immaculately, as always. Not a hair out of place despite the humidity. Her smile is perfectly pleasant—and yet that pleasure doesn’t reach her eyes when they land on Sandra.
I knew Vyla would have no love for my fiancée, my fake fiancée. But somehow that disapproving look still tightens my chest. The urge to step between the two females, to shield Sandra, is strong.
“There you are!” Vyla says it like we’ve been hiding. Which, to be fair, we have. Who would have guessed it would be my manager we’re avoiding, not superfans?
“I’ve been looking everywhere. The concierge mentioned some wonderful excursion options, and I thought—“
“We’re relaxing,” I interrupt, keeping my voice mild. “That is the point of a vacation.”
“Of course, of course. But I just thought your fiancée might enjoy—”
Sandra moves.
Before I can process what’s happening, she’s abandoned her own lounger and draped herself across mine, tucking herself against my side. Her arm slides across my chest. Her head settles against my shoulder. The smoking drink somehow survives the transition without spilling.
“I’m very comfortable right here,” Sandra announces, nuzzling into me. “Aren’t I, darling?”
Every rational thought evaporates.
She’s warm. So warm. Her body presses against mine, soft curves molding to my harder edges like she was designed to fit there.
The scent of her floods my senses: soap and sweetness and something underneath that’s purely her.
My arm wraps around her without conscious permission, palm settling against the bare skin of her waist.
Soft. Stars above, her skin is soft.
“Extremely comfortable,” I manage. My voice has dropped to something rougher than intended. “We’re very comfortable.”
Tell that to my cokas as it grows hard in my trousers. If Sandra stays pressed up against me like this much longer—
Sandra grins up at me, clearly delighted with herself and completely oblivious to my discomfort. She settles back against my chest.
I’m acutely aware of every point of contact: the weight of her against me, the press of her breasts against my side, the way her leg has tangled with mine, her bare thigh brushing my own. Heat coils low in my stomach. Dangerous and wanting.
Vyla’s expression has gone carefully blank. “How sweet. Well. I’ll leave you to your relaxation, then.” Her heels click sharply as she retreats. “Do let me know if you need anything at all.”
She doesn’t wait for a response.
Sandra remains draped across me for several long seconds after Vyla disappears. Then she props her chin on my chest to look up at me, and the movement drags her body against mine in ways that test my self-control.
“Am I living up to your romance novel standards? The fake fiancé bit, I mean.”
The question is teasing. Light. But she’s looking up at me through dark lashes, her lips curved in that wry smile, and all I can think about is how easy it would be to close the distance. To claim that mouth. To show her exactly what my romance novel standards entail.
“It was effective,” I say instead. Which isn’t really an answer.
Sandra hums thoughtfully. But she doesn’t move.
We stay like that: her tucked against my side, my arm around her shoulders, my hand still resting on the bare curve of her waist. I tell myself this is just maintaining the cover. We’re selling the relationship. This is practical. Strategic.
Except my thumb has started tracing slow circles against her skin, feeling the slight hitch in her breathing each time I stroke over her hip bone.
“Excuse me?”
The voice is warm, female, and unfamiliar. Sandra shifts to look, and I have to suppress a growl at the loss of contact as she sits up.
A human woman approaches with a laden plate. She’s got dark, wavy hair, and there’s a streak of flour across one cheek that she seems completely unaware of.
“Sorry to interrupt,” she says, not sounding sorry at all. “Mr. Fercer ordered snacks, and I thought I’d bring them out myself. I’m Laura. Head chef here. Though don’t tell my mate Nelan that, cause he’ll claim the title is his.”
She gestures vaguely toward the main building, where presumably this Nelan is doing chef-related things. Her expression softens when she says his name. Another human with a Volscian mate. Another proof that this can work.
“Fercer ordered these?” Sandra asks with surprise, eying the plate with obvious interest. “Those look amazing.”
“Cinnamon rolls. As close to an Earth recipe as I can make.” Laura rolls her eyes fondly. “They are pretty good, even if Nelan keeps insisting on improving them with alien spices.”
She sets the plate down between our loungers, and Sandra immediately claims one, making a sound of appreciation at the first bite.
“So good,” she mumbles around a mouthful. She beams at me. “Thank you!”
The sound goes straight through me. I file it away, wondering what other sounds she makes, what sounds I could draw from her.
Laura tilts her head, studying Sandra with open curiosity. “You’re new, right? Are you planning to stay with us for a while? We’re always happy to have more humans around. There’s a whole group of us now. We look out for each other.”
Sandra freezes.
It’s subtle. Someone who wasn’t watching closely might miss it.
But I’ve been watching her for days now, cataloging every micro-expression, learning her the way I learn a new song.
I see the way her shoulders tense. The way her hand tightens on the half-eaten cinnamon roll.
The way her easy smile flickers, just for a moment, into something more uncertain.
“I’m not sure yet.” She glances at me. Just a flicker of a glance, but I catch it. “We’re just figuring things out.”
Laura nods, understanding in her eyes. “No pressure. The offer stands whenever you’re ready. We’ve all been where you are. It gets easier.” She pauses, her gaze dropping briefly to where my hand still rests on Sandra’s arm. “And it helps to have someone.”
She excuses herself with promises that more snacks will be forthcoming, and then it’s just us again.
Sandra takes another bite, but the enthusiasm has dimmed. She’s thinking. Processing.
“You hesitated,” I say quietly.
“What?”
“When she asked if you were staying. You hesitated.”
Sandra sets down the food. Her fingers are trembling slightly. I don’t think she realizes it.
“I don’t know what I’m doing,” she admits finally. “I came here looking for other humans and a place I could belong. They’re right here, offering exactly what I wanted.” She shakes her head, something wry twisting her mouth. “So why does the thought of saying yes feel so terrifying?”
“You don’t have to decide right now,” I tell her. “We have time.”
Sandra goes very still.
The air between us shifts. Thickens. She’s looking at me with something new in her eyes. Hope. Raw and fragile and barely daring to exist.
“We?” she asks softly.
My chest tightens. We. I said we. Not you.
This is the moment. I can feel it. The precipice. I could laugh it off, make it a joke about the fake engagement, and slide back into safe territory.
Instead, I hold her gaze and let her see the truth.
“We.”
Sandra’s breath catches. Her pupils dilate. The pulse at her throat jumps, and she leans toward me—just slightly, probably without even realizing it. Her body responds to something her mind hasn’t caught up to yet.
She’s not acting right now. This isn’t for Vyla. This isn’t for the cover.
This is real.
I reach out and brush a strand of hair from her face, letting my fingers trail along her jaw. She shivers at the contact, her lips parting.
“Sandra.” My voice comes out rough. Low. “I don’t want to be interrupted again. Not by Vyla. Not by well-meaning humans. Not by anyone.”
Her breath shallows. “What are you suggesting?”
I let my thumb trace the curve of her lower lip. I watch her eyes flutter half-closed at the touch.
“Come back to the room with me.”
The words hang between us, heavy with implication. There’s no misunderstanding what I’m asking. No plausible deniability. I’ve laid myself bare—my want, my intention.
And now I wait.
Sandra doesn’t answer immediately. Her gaze searches my face. I hold still, letting her look, letting her see whatever she needs to see.
“Yeah,” she says, and her voice has gone husky in a way that makes heat coil tight in my stomach. “Yeah, okay.”
I’m on my feet before she finishes speaking, reaching down to pull her up. She comes willingly, her hand warm in mine, her body swaying close enough that I can feel the heat of her through the thin swimwear.
We leave the cinnamon rolls behind.
The walk back to our suite feels endless and instant at the same time. Sandra’s fingers are laced through mine. Her hip brushes against my thigh with every step. Neither of us speaks.
We don’t need to.
The suite door slides open, and I guide her through, my hand settling on the small of her back. Possessive. Protective. The door closes behind us with a soft click, sealing out the rest of the world.
Finally. Alone.
Sandra turns to face me, and there’s a challenge in her eyes now. A dare.
“So,” she says, tilting her head back to meet my gaze. “Are you going to show me what happens next in those romance novels of yours?”
I step closer, crowding into her space, watching her breath quicken, but her feet stay planted. She doesn’t retreat. Doesn’t back down.
Good.
“I’m going to show you,” I promise, my voice dropping to a growl, “exactly how the hero treats his heroine.”
And then I stop talking.