Chapter 1
Present Day
Cody
I'm not stalking her.
I'm not. What I'm doing is… strategic loitering.
There's a difference. A stalker would hide in shadows and watch from a distance.
I'm sitting in plain sight in the bride volunteer lounge, nursing a cup of coffee that went cold fifteen minutes ago while I wait for A'Vanti to finish her weekly therapy session.
Totally not stalking.
The ship hums around me, a constant, almost subliminal vibration of an engine in orbit. I've been aboard long enough now that I barely notice it anymore. Hard to believe it's only been – what, four months? Feels like a lifetime since everything changed.
When the military first assigned me to the Cerastean alliance, I figured I'd be doing what I'd always done: flying combat missions and following orders.
I assumed I would learn to fly their fighter darts, help defend Earth from the Ostium threat, and if I was lucky, maybe see some action.
Honestly? I was glad for the assignment.
My last deployment had ended badly, and the chance to start fresh aboard an alien ship in outer space felt like exactly the distance I needed.
The mission on Osti was supposed to be straightforward.
Take control of the facility producing reshen, cutting off the Ostium's poison supply.
No one knew there'd be prisoners. Never expected to find survivors in that facility, and certainly not Cerastean females who weren't supposed to exist anymore.
And I definitely never expected one of them to grab hold of something inside me and refuse to let go.
I glance at the door to Dr. Singh's office for the hundredth time. Still closed. A'Vanti's sessions usually run about an hour, and we're coming up on that mark.
The book in my hands is heavy. It's a real, physical book with paper pages and everything.
It cost me a small fortune to have it shipped up from Earth, but when I saw it in the Requisitions Office catalog, I knew I had to get it.
Architecture Through the Ages: A Visual Journey Across Earth's Greatest Structures.
The cover features a gorgeous shot of the Colosseum at sunset, all golden stone and ancient grandeur.
I hope A'Vanti likes it.
Movement near Dr. Singh's office draws my attention.
I sit up straighter before I can stop myself.
But it's not A'Vanti. It's A'Shael, one of the other Cerastean females rescued from the Osti facility.
She's smaller than A'Vanti, with scales that lean more copper than gold, and she moves through the lounge with her head down, a tablet clutched to her chest like a shield.
She looks better than she did a few months ago. They all do, the rescued Cerasteans. But A'Shael still has that careful way of moving, like she's bracing for the floor to drop out from under her. She doesn't glance my way as she passes. I'm not sure she even notices me.
I watch her go, then settle back in my chair and flip the book over in my hands. I glance past A'Shael, but Singh's door is still closed.
Voices draw my attention away from Dr. Singh's door. A familiar golden-scaled Cerastean is guiding his mate toward the lounge, one hand pressed protectively at the small of her back.
L'Awai and Paige. I suppress a grin as I watch them approach.
Paige is maybe five months along now, her belly a gentle swell beneath her loose tunic.
L'Awai hovers over her like she's made of spun glass, one hand at her back as if she might tip over at any moment.
His eyes dart around the lounge, scanning for threats, in a room that contains exactly one human, three empty couches, and a food replicator.
"Here, my love." L'Awai guides Paige toward the nearest sofa, practically lowering her onto the cushion himself.
"L'Awai." Paige's voice is patient but firm. "I'm pregnant, not injured. I can sit down on my own."
"I know." He doesn't stop hovering. "But I am here, so why should you?"
Paige shoots me a look that clearly says help me, but I shrug.
I've learned better than to get between a Cerastean male and his protective instincts.
These guys were already hardwired to guard their mates like dragons hoarding gold.
Add in the fact that Queen Diamalla's genocide wiped out most of their species, including almost all of their females, and their protective instinct has been kicked into hyperdrive when it comes to women.
Hell, I can't really blame him. Apparently, Cerastean males get hooked on their mate's pheromones – like, actually addicted. Their whole biology rewires around that one person. So yeah, I get why L'Awai acts like Paige is the most precious thing in existence. To him, she is.
L'Awai gets Paige settled on the couch, arranging pillows behind her back with the kind of intense focus usually reserved for defusing bombs. "What do you need? Are you hungry? Thirsty? Is the temperature in here acceptable?"
"I'm fine." Paige catches his hand before he can adjust her pillows again. "But I could really go for some gherro and cookie dough ice cream."
L'Awai blinks.
"Can the replicator mix them together in a bowl?"
I watch L'Awai process this information. Gherro is a Cerastean vegetable which tastes similar to a cheesy potato chip. Delicious on its own, but the thought of mixing it with ice cream makes my stomach turn. L'Awai's expression suggests he's having similar thoughts.
But then his face smooths into acceptance. "Of course, my mate. I'll get it for you right away."
"Oh! And chocolate sauce on top!" Paige calls after him as he heads toward the replicator.
L'Awai doesn't even break stride. "Of course."
That's love, right there. Watching an almost seven-foot alien warrior accept without question that his mate wants Cheeto-flavored leaves mixed with cookie-dough ice cream and drizzled with chocolate sauce.
L'Awai heads toward the food replicator, but his path takes him past my chair, and he pauses. His eyes sweep over me, taking in my casual sprawl and the book clutched in my hands, and a knowing look sparks in his expression.
"Goober." He reaches down and claps a hand onto my shoulder.
I manage not to wince, but it's a near thing. L'Awai is careful to temper his strength around the human women, but apparently, being a fighter pilot means I get the full Cerastean experience. I have to force myself not to rub the spot after he lets go.
"L'Awai." I nod at him. "How's it going?"
"Very well." His scales catch the light as he tilts his head. "You flew well this afternoon. Your maneuvers during the supply run were impressive. For a human."
"Thanks. I think."
He gestures at the book I'm clutching. "What is that?"
I hold it up so he can see the cover. "Book about different types of architecture from Earth. You know… buildings, structures, that kind of thing."
L'Awai studies the image of the Colosseum. Then his gaze slides from the book to the closed door of Dr. Singh's office, and his knowing look intensifies into an outright smirk.
"She'll love it," he says.
I arrange my features into what I hope is an expression of innocent confusion. "I don't know who you're talking about."
L'Awai rolls his eyes, a gesture he definitely picked up from Paige, and makes a sound that I can only describe as a Cerastean snort. "Uh huh."
Before I can defend myself, he's already moving toward the food replicator, leaving me sputtering in his wake. I open my mouth to call after him – something witty and devastating, I'm sure, but the words die in my throat.
Because the door to Dr. Singh's office is opening.
A'Vanti steps through.
Everything else fades into background noise. L'Awai punching commands into the replicator. Paige shifting on the couch. The hum of the ship's engines. All of it goes fuzzy and distant as my attention narrows to the Cerastean female crossing the lounge.
She's looking down at a tablet in her hands, her golden brows drawn together in concentration.
Four months ago, that expression would have worried me.
Four months ago, A'Vanti walked these halls like she was waiting for an attack, her shoulders rigid with tension, her eyes darting from shadow to shadow.
Every therapy session left her looking hollowed out, like Dr. Singh had reached inside her chest and scraped out something vital.
Dr. Singh had mentioned to me once, casually, that her door was open for any crew member. Not just the rescued captives. I'd smiled and told her I was good. I am good.
But now… now she looks thoughtful. Her shoulders are relaxed. Her stride is easy and unhurried. She carries herself with a regal bearing, like a queen surveying her domain, but the sharp edges have softened.
I take a moment to just… look at her.
She's dressed in that way she's developed over the past few months – a blend of human and Cerastean that somehow works.
Today, it's slim-fitting rust-colored trousers tucked into soft boots, paired with a flowing Cerastean tunic in deep forest green, the fabric draping elegantly over her tall frame.
The colors warm her golden scales, making them glow like gleaming caramel in the ship's lights.
God, those scales. They shimmer in shades of gold and amber, catching the light with every movement.
Her face has a sharpness to it that's purely Cerastean.
She has high, angular cheekbones that could cut glass, and features that remind me of a viper.
Beautiful and dangerous in equal measure.
Her hair is the same golden color as her skin, more like spun metal than anything human.
It falls past her shoulders in a shimmering curtain.
She's tall and willowy, all long limbs and graceful lines.
Everything about her is elegant. Refined.
Slightly untouchable, like a work of art in a museum.