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“You sought governance with the administration to protect Virelia, and yet, you are meant to throw away all ties to your planet once elected.”

“I protect Virelia by protecting Pentaris.”

“Then protect all five planets by granting us safe passage. Every delay costs us lives. Your sector has great strategic value.We are willing to compensate you generously. Food, medicine, technology. The end of all royalty payments for Aurelian technology you have licensed—this is no small matter, and this will be permanent.”

I raise my eyebrows, taken aback, unable to conceal my surprise. It’s a strange negotiation. I’m used to the initial offer being so low it is insulting, especially when dealing with the cunning merchants of Terosa.

Our own scientists are good, but we’ve used Aurelian innovation, licensing it in trade agreements which ironically cost us near the ten percent protection tax we could have paid if we gave up sovereignty.

It’s too good an offer. It makes me suspicious he has other aims, and yet, it is a fair one considering the state of the war. Obsidian is being pushed back. Planets lost to his forces are being retaken by combined armies of Aurelians and Mark-10 cyborgs.

We are the last piece in ending this war quickly, instead of it dragging out for centuries.

The other two of his triad stay back, on their marble thrones. They do not wish to loom over me. There is already the massive imbalance of being alone in front of the titan.

“You ask me to let Aurelian troops in our borders. This has never been done, in all the histories of my people. You ask me to give up our neutrality. You ask me to declare war. Because that is what this will be—just as if we let the Fanatics go through our territories, you would view us as allied with them.”

“Yes. I did not come here with the cudgel. I did not threaten you. This is a mutually beneficial agreement. We are pushing the Fanatics back. We will end this war, and once the Fanatics are defeated, you will keep the benefits and we will never trespass upon your lands again. The term will be three years, or the endof the war, and any non-military innovation during the term will be granted to your people in perpetuity, without royalty.”

I run the votes in my mind. Terosa and Magnar will push to accept. The other three are nebulous. I’ll influence the Administrators to the best of my ability, but with such an enticing deal, it will take cunning to deny it.

I will make them see the cold, hard truth. That the Aurelian Empire weakened is our benefit. That losing our sovereignty, even for a three-year period, is a mistake we can never take back. We cannot trust an Empire that already split into a civil war.

There is no guarantee that they will not throw away their honor, turning against us once they have conquered the Fanatics, and make their intrusion permanent. The monarchy is only as stable as a single person—and at any moment, a new, hungrier, young Aurelian could fight to claim the throne and wield it against us.

I consider. “The offer is a fair one. And I would accept… but I cannot. Your Planet-Killers are too vulnerable and our people proud. A faction of hardliners on Frosthold, a cell of nationalists working alone could disregard the deal and destroy what you have.”

I will never surrender our autonomy. I just have to make Doman see that it is in his best interest to move his troops around our borders, despite the increase in travel times to the front, despite the cost to his war effort.

“You made your political career representing the hardliners. You made your political career on strengthened autonomy. These people will follow you, if you accept my offer.”

“I’m sorry that this could not work out, Prince Doman.”

He gave up his negotiating tool. He should have used it. He should have avoided my questions regarding his Planet-Killers, but now, he gave his word of honor they would not be used. Eventhe tiniest chance they could end my planets would have forced my hand.

“I had expected you to decline.” The gleam in his eyes worries me. It is not the gleam of a man who has just been defeated. “Very well. You are correct. A trade deal alone could not protect us. These sorts of legal agreements do not have the weight that your hardliners respect. According to your sector’s customs, there is only one way to make this binding and authentic in their eyes.”

I try to keep my face blank, but my confusion must be visible—and worst of all, no matter how statuesque I try to appear, I know he can smell it in my scent, my emotions on display for him.

I keep my mouth shut, and he seems to be savoring the moment. There’s a flash of triumph in his eyes I can’t understand.

“We will be wedded. The Prime Minster of Pentaris and the crown prince of the Aurelian Empire.”

I step back, my heart pounding. “You’re insane.”

“Am I? You’ve been the puppet master of a dozen of these marriages since you became one of the twelve Administrators five years ago. It would be a link between our people so strong we would not fear any terrorist activity.”

We’re alone, and I let myself be me for a moment. “Lies. You’re doing this because you think I am your Fated Mate. This is all trickery, to get me in your hands. I know your species, and your obsessions.”

“You are our Fated Mate, Adriana. This is a certainty. And once this war is finished, I will rip this ring from my finger, and I will chase you down, and I will make you see that you belong to us.” His nostrils flare, and his eyes flash in anger. “But this, this, Adriana, is war. I did not risk my Planet-Killers for myself. My men trust me. They fight for me. They die for me. And any delay—even a day—in moving our reinforcements costs the lives of my troops. Your sector is essential to end this war. And Iwillend this war. This is no ploy to bind you to me. A Fated Mate cannot be won by trickery, only earned.”

His battle-brothers stand from their thrones, stepping forward, until I am confronted by three huge alien creatures.

Doman raises his hand. “This ring blocks the Bond completely. You have no scent of a Mate. Every time I smell you it enrages me, knowing that I should taste it, the one thing we all crave. My troops wear these rings, and so do I, because we do not fight for ourselves, like the savage Fanatics, but for stability and our empire.”

“Three years,” says Gallien. “A three-year wedding contract. The war will be done sooner. Three years of marriage, and then we will divorce.”

“If that is what you want,” growls Titus. His voice has an animalistic snarl to it.