Page 7

Chapter Seven

A ries

Every shift of the mattress, every quiet breath from Callie’s side of the bed, has kept me acutely aware of her presence. The symbolic barrier between us feels inadequate.

Memories of yesterday’s wedding ceremony flash unbidden—the way her fingers trembled as she fed me those honey-sweet fruits, the soft gasp she made when my thumb grazed her lower lip.

Forcing those thoughts away, my focus returns to our current predicament: the morning ritual that requires even more intimacy than yesterday’s ceremony.

“Morning,” Callie murmurs, the word slightly slurred from sleep. The domesticity of the moment makes me squeeze my eyes shut against the wave of images that bombards me of things I’ve imagined over the annums .

“Morning.” Sitting up carefully, the barrier pillow bunches between us. “Ready for our first ritual?”

Her quiet laugh holds no humor. “Does it matter if we’re ready?”

No. The Redemption Committee doesn’t care about readiness. They care about results, about proving this marriage is real enough to save my life. The weight of that responsibility sits heavy as we make our way to the meditation corner.

The cushions face each other, positioned so our knees will touch when seated.

Callie tugs at her sleep tunic, and I force myself to look away from where the thin fabric clings to her curves.

This is already challenging enough without acknowledging how beautiful she looks with sleep-mussed hair, flushed cheeks, and hardening nipples visible through the white silk.

“So…” She settles onto her cushion. “Forehead touch first, then the blessing?”

Nodding, I lean forward slowly, angling my head so my horns don’t crash against her. The first brush of her skin against mine sends heat racing through my body. Her sharp intake of breath suggests she feels it, too.

“The blessing,” she reminds us both, though her voice wavers.

“With the rising sun,” we begin together, the traditional words feeling weighted with meaning, “we greet this day as one spirit in two forms.”

Her skin burns against mine as we continue the blessing. My hands clench against my thighs, fighting the urge to touch her properly. Wait. Properly? And just how would that be?

“May our hearts beat in harmony.”

“May our souls dance in unity.”

“From dawn to dusk, we walk as one.”

The required three breaths after the blessing feel endless. Her scent fills my lungs—something floral mixed with sleep-warmth that makes my head spin. When we finally separate, her pupils are dilated, making the green of her eyes even more vibrant.

“Hair ritual next?” My throat is dry as arena sand.

She nods, retrieving the brushes from the dresser. “Should I do you first? Since yours might be more… complicated.”

My lips twitch despite everything. The horns do present certain logistical challenges.

We move to the padded bench by the window, morning light streaming across the small space.

The first touch of the brush through my hair sends unexpected pleasure down my spine and straight to my cock, which tents the silk of my crimson sleep pants. I’m glad she’s positioned behind me.

“I should warn you,” she says, “I don’t have much experience with this.”

“It’s fine.” The gentle strokes continue, careful around my horns. Her fingers accidentally brush my neck, sending tides of pleasure rolling across my skin.

Her touch is feather light but leaves trails of fire in its wake.

Each brush of her fingers near the sensitive areas around my horns sends sparks of awareness through my body.

That area has always been sensitive, and when her fingers accidentally graze them, my hands grip the crimson satin to keep from reaching for her.

My species’ horns are erogenous zones—something she thankfully didn’t discover in that fetid cell, possibly because I always took her from behind. Now, her innocent, mandatory touches are slowly driving me mad.

“Your turn,” I manage once she finishes, my voice embarrassingly hoarse. We switch positions, and I stare at her golden hair, suddenly uncertain. The last time I touched her this intimately was in that cell, when everything went horribly, irrevocably wrong.

“You can touch me.” Her voice is soft. “It’s part of the ritual.”

Right. The ritual. Not real intimacy—just another requirement to fulfill so she can save my miserable life. The reminder helps steady my hands as I brush. Her hair feels like silk, falling through my fingers like a waterfall. A small sound escapes her at the first stroke.

“That feels nice,” she murmurs, then seems to catch herself. “You’re surprisingly good at this. ”

My hands momentarily pause as memories surface of the gladiator ludus . Of caring for injured fighters, helping them maintain some dignity despite our circumstances. Of learning these small gestures of comfort that were sometimes all we could offer each other when someone lay dying.

“Had practice,” I say simply. “In the ludus . It was… something I could do. To help.”

Working quickly but carefully, I weave her hair into an intricate pattern Petra once braided into Callie’s silken hair.

I watched from afar, noticing how it made her eyes seem impossibly greener.

My fingers brush her neck occasionally, and each time she shivers in a way that makes my jaw clench with restraint.

The intimacy of the moment feels dangerous.

“Almost done,” I murmur. “Just need something to…”

She passes back a leather tie without looking, our fingers brushing in the exchange. More electricity, more awareness that I shouldn’t acknowledge.

“There.” Sitting back, I watch as she reaches up to feel the results. The sight of her fingertips tracing the pattern I created makes my heart swell.

Morning light catches her hair, making it glow like honey as she turns to face me. “Thank you.”

The gratitude in her voice undoes me somehow. “Callie, I—”

A chime interrupts whatever foolish thing I might have said. The Committee’s morning check-in.

“We should…” She stands quickly, grabs a tunic and runs into the refresher to change. Calling out the partially shut door, she says, “They’ll want to verify we completed the rituals.”

“Right.” Rising more slowly, I force my body to respond to my commands. To rebuild the walls that seem to crumble more with each intimate moment. “Wouldn’t want to fail on our first day. ”

The Committee’s daily representative materializes, their multifaceted eyes seem to miss nothing. My still-racing pulse. The way Callie and I can’t quite look at each other. The charged atmosphere between us.

“The morning rituals are complete,” they intone. “You may proceed with your day. Remember, evening meditation begins at sunset.”

They fade away, leaving us alone with everything we’re not saying. Everything we might have said if that chime hadn’t interrupted us.

“So,” Callie says brightly, clearly trying to dispel the tension, “I suppose we should eat something.”

“The Committee stocked the kitchen well,” I observe, grateful for the distraction. The tiny space forces us to maneuver carefully around each other as we explore the supplies. Every near-brush of contact feels charged after the intimacy of the morning rituals.

“Look at this,” she says, opening a cabinet.

“ Drassah beans. Real ones, not the synthetic kind.” Her eyes light up at the discovery of the beverage we’ve all grown addicted to during our time in space.

The Earth women love it, say it tastes like their coffee back on their home planet, only less bitter.

“I’ll make it,” I offer quickly, remembering her disastrous attempt on the ship that had Captain Beast spitting out what he claimed tasted like engine coolant. “You could…” My eyes scan the kitchen, looking for a safe task. “Handle the fruit?”

She laughs, the sound both surprising and welcome. “I’m not completely helpless in the kitchen anymore, you know. But fine—I’ll admit my limitations with drassah .”

Working together in the small space creates a strange sort of awareness, different from the formal rituals, but somehow more challenging. We develop a careful dance of movement, always mindful of each other’s presence, never quite touching but constantly in each other’s orbit .

“We should review the evening meditation requirements,” she suggests as we settle at the small table with our breakfast. “Make sure we’re prepared.”

The Manual sits between us, a silent reminder of why we’re here—although we’re both conscious of how high the stakes are if we fail. Opening it reveals more intimate rituals we’ll have to navigate, more moments that will test the careful walls we’ve built over the last annums .

Eighty-nine days left to convince everyone this is real. The problem is, I’m starting to wonder if we’re the ones who need convincing. And I am not sure which possibility terrifies me more—failing these trials or succeeding at them.