Page 10

Chapter ten

Reunions

W hen Rowen entered the kitchen the next morning, she paused at the tableau before her. Bylelle sat at the head of the table like it was a throne, though her usually immaculate appearance showed subtle signs of strain. A faint shadow beneath her perfect makeup couldn't quite hide the bruise forming along her jawline, and her golden hair lacked its usual luster.

Varian sat next to her, casually eating breakfast despite the angry red line that ran from his temple to his chin—recently healed, but not completely erased. MakenRoy and Broken both nursed coffees, their expressions carefully neutral.

"Morning!" muttered Varian around a mouthful.

"Rowen." Bylelle took a delicate sip of whatever she was drinking, wincing slightly as the cup touched her lip.

"Maman." Rowen grabbed a bowl and some fruit and nuts from the kitchen, trying to keep her hands from shaking. The adrenaline crash had left her hollowed out, her nerves raw. She had spent another hour after Petre had left, scrubbing his blood from the bathroom tiles, watching crimson swirl down the drain. Now, in the harsh morning light, the reality of it all—that Petre had been shot with what she recognized as Verit weapons—settled like ice in her stomach.

She forced herself to sound casual. "When did you get back? How did your errands go? You both look a bit worse for wear."

Bylelle's fingers tightened imperceptibly on her cup. "Last night. Our errands were productive, thank you."

"What happened?" Rowen gestured toward their partially healed injuries, watching their reactions carefully.

"Nothing serious," Varian replied too quickly. "Power conduit malfunction on the Pearl . A small explosion, easily contained."

Bylelle nodded. "These things happen on ships. Nothing to concern yourself with."

Liar , Rowen thought, keeping her face neutral. I know plasma burns when I see them .

The door to Petre's quarters swished open, and he froze in the doorway, his usual fluid grace gone rigid. Rowen caught the almost imperceptible flinch when he saw Bylelle and Varian, the way his gaze darted to their injuries before cataloging every exit in the room.

Rowen watched him survey the room's occupants before settling on her. She could feel his silent question, the desperate need to know if she had betrayed his confidence.

She smiled tiredly, trying to convey reassurance through her expression alone. "Morning."

His shoulders relaxed a fraction as he picked up her cue, understanding that she had kept his secret. Rowen watched him pour his coffee, noticed how he positioned himself to keep the wall at his back.

"Here." She slid the sweetener across the counter. "You look like you could use it." The unspoken message clear: I've got your back.

He flashed her a surprised look. Thank you , he mouthed.

Rowen looked between Petre and Bylelle again. What have they done to you? she wondered, watching Petre maintain his careful distance from the Maman. And what would make a warrior like you so afraid?

She sipped her tea. Whatever game was being played here, she was now part of it. And she would make damn sure Petre didn't face it alone.

***

The chime at his door sounded like a death knell. Petre had been expecting it since they'd boarded the Pearl for the return journey. Three days of ducking and weaving, finding excuses to be elsewhere, burying himself in technical specs and joining every group meal to avoid being cornered alone. But now, in the quiet stretch of night-cycle, with most of the ship's occupants asleep, his excuses had run thin.

He considered just not answering. Pretending to be asleep. But that would only delay the inevitable and possibly make her angry. The Maman did not appreciate being ignored, and he couldn't risk her taking it out on his father or Luken.

"Enter," he called, setting down his datapad and rising to his feet.

The door whispered open. Bylelle stood in the corridor, her silhouette limned in the soft gold lighting. She had changed from her formal attire into something more casual—though "casual" for a Maman still meant exquisitely tailored fabrics that probably cost more than most warriors earned in a year. The deep blue of the garment brought out the gold of her hair, her eyes. She was stunningly beautiful, and Goddess did she know it. She wielded it with the expertise of a master.

"Petre," she smiled, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation. "I was beginning to think you were avoiding me."

His mouth went dry, but he forced himself to respond. "Not at all, Maman." The lie tasted like ash on his tongue. "I've been busy reviewing the technical data from our meetings."

Her smile widened a fraction. "Always so dedicated." She moved further into his quarters, gaze sweeping over the space with proprietary interest. "I always forget how small the warrior quarters are. May I?"

He gestured to the seating area, the only place to sit beside his bed. His skin crawled as she settled herself in his space, claiming it.

"You performed admirably in the negotiations," she said, settling onto the small couch. "Your technical expertise is impressive." She patted the space beside her. "Please, join me. There's no need to stand on ceremony."

There was no polite way to refuse. He sat, ensuring a respectable distance between them, his muscles coiled tight with tension.

"The trip has been productive," he said neutrally. "All of the suppliers can meet the specifications and the schedule. It's been a good foundation for future partnership."

"Indeed." Her gaze was considering, assessing. "Though I must admit, I found myself more impressed by your performance in the training room." She reached out, her fingers brushing over his forearm in a feather light touch. "You have such control, such skill. It's rare to see a male move with such contained violence."

His skin burned where she touched him, and it took every ounce of his discipline not to recoil. He shifted away slightly.

"The training served its purpose," he replied, his voice tight despite his best efforts. "It's important to maintain combat readiness, even in administrative roles."

She noticed his withdrawal, her eyes narrowing. His discomfort seemed to please her, the corners of her mouth lifting. "A Dathalka warrior never truly abandons his nature, does he? No matter how many layers of civilization he wraps himself in."

He didn't answer, unsure where this dangerous game was leading. His heart hammered against his ribs, loud enough that he feared she might hear it.

She shifted, turning toward him more fully. "And your other assignments? The data extraction from Casti? How has that progressed?"

The abrupt change of topic was jarring, but not unexpected. Bylelle seldom did anything without purpose.

"The security is formidable," he admitted. "I've managed to extract some preliminary data, but it's not as comprehensive as I would like."

Her smile thinned slightly. "Frei expects results, Petre. As do I." Her hand moved to his knee, no longer pretending at accidental contact. "I've defended your value to our cause. I would hate to disappoint her."

He refused to give her the satisfaction of moving his leg, of seeing how she discomforted him.

"Thank you, Lady. I appreciate your faith." He swallowed hard, forcing the rest out. "I won't let you down." The fawning response made bile rise in his throat, but he had no choice. Their plan was in tatters, there was no rebellion coming to save them. The only option was to give the Maman what they wanted, to buy more time to work something else out.

"I'm sure you won't." Her eyes never left his face, studying each micro-expression with unsettling intensity. "You know, I've been thinking about you a great deal lately, Petre."

His chest tightened. "Oh?" The word emerged strangled, betraying his unease.

"Mm." She leaned closer, her perfume—something sharp and floral—invading his space, making his stomach churn. "There's a...quality to you. A depth that most lack. You see the reality of the situation and react with pragmatism." She smiled. "I can work with a male like that."

"You honor me with your attention, Lady." His voice remained cool, detached.

"Have you ever considered mating, Petre?"

The question sent a jolt of revulsion through him.

"I serve the clan," he deflected, his voice harsher than intended. "My personal considerations have always been secondary to my duty."

Her laugh was soft, almost musical. "That's not an answer, warrior. It's an evasion." She reached up, one finger tracing the line of his jaw. "I've watched you. The way you move. The way you think." Her touch lingered at the corner of his mouth. "I find myself... curious about what it would be like to be the one who finally breaks that control."

He reached up and gently removed her hand from his face. "Lady Bylelle, you do me great honor with your interest." The formal words sounded hollow even to his own ears. "But I fear I would be a disappointment as a mate. My work consumes me."

She laughed, seemingly delighted by his visceral rejection. "Are you refusing me, Petre?" Her smile widened, showing perfect teeth. "How... refreshing. Most males would fall over themselves for the honor of being my first mate."

First mate. The words echoed in his mind. She hadn't taken another before him, which meant her obsession was still new, still forming.

"I would never presume to refuse a Maman," he countered. "I simply suggest perhaps someone more... suitable...Someone less committed to other matters, that can give you their full attention."

"Time can be managed," she said, unperturbed by his rejection. There was a gleam in her eye now—she was enjoying this, enjoying watching him squirm. "Priorities can be adjusted. And I've decided you're quite suitable, Petre."

"Perhaps." He inclined his head respectfully, though his insides were twisting with dread. "But the colony's needs—"

"Will continue to be met," she cut in smoothly. "I don't suggest this lightly, Petre. I've given it considerable thought." She rose, moving toward him with the languid grace of a predator certain of its prey. "I find your... reluctance... quite stimulating, actually. It will make your eventual submission all the sweeter."

His jaw clenched, the muscles standing out in stark relief. "Lady Bylelle—"

"Hush." She placed a finger against his lips, and it took every ounce of his control not to bite down. "Your protests only make me more certain. A male with spirit, with pride—breaking you will be so much more satisfying than taking some eager sycophant."

He stepped back, unable to bear her touch a moment longer. "I am honored by your assessment, Lady." His voice was glacial. "But this is... unexpected. I would need time to consider such a significant change in my circumstances."

"Of course." She smiled, though it didn't reach her eyes. "But not too long. I dislike being kept waiting." She trailed a finger down his chest, clearly reveling in the way his body tensed beneath her touch. "And I've waited for my first mate for a very long time. I want one that's mine alone, to shape as I see fit."

"I understand, Lady." The words felt like they were choking him.

"I'm not sure you do. Not yet." She stepped back, studying him with a gaze that seemed to strip away layers. "But you will. When I'm done with you, you'll understand exactly what it means to belong to me. Body, mind, and soul."

She moved toward the door, pausing on the threshold. "I expect great things from you when we return to the colony, Petre. Both with your work on Casti and... in satisfying my other desires." She smiled. "Sweet dreams, warrior."

The door closed behind her, leaving Petre standing rigidly in the center of his quarters.

She wanted him. She wanted to own him, break him, reshape him to suit her desires.

He needed a new plan. And quickly.

***

The Frost Pearl's landing struts settled into Dalat's soil with a soft hiss of hydraulics. Rowen stood at the viewport, watching the familiar, purple-tinged landscape emerge. After days of being battered by everyone’s emotional baggage, she’d never been more grateful to see a landing pad in her life. The trip back from IntGal1 had felt like an alternate reality. The excitement and hope, the laughing, teasing Petre, all of it had vanished. He’d withdrawn into himself so far, she’d barely seen him in three days. Broken and MakenRoy knew something was wrong, she’d caught them whispering together on several occasions, but no one told her anything. It was the most alone she’d felt in the months since she’d left home, and it made her desperately homesick.

“Rowen!” Fila's voice carried across the landing pad. She approached with Zera, both women grinning. “Welcome back! How was the trip?”

“Actually, tell us later,” Zera said. “We're having dinner at my place tonight. Odran's cooking. You should join us. You can tell us all about your adventures off-world.”

Rowen hesitated. “I wouldn't want to impose—”

“Nonsense.” Fila linked her arm through Rowen's. “After days trapped on a ship with that lot, you need proper food and better company.”

“Well, when you put it that way…” Rowen smiled, letting herself be drawn away. She glanced back once to see Petre watching them from the gang plant, his expression unreadable.

Whatever mess he’d gotten himself into, she really hoped that he could find his way out of it.

Odran's cooking lived up to its reputation. The table in Zera and Odran's quarters groaned under the dishes. Fila sat next to Lucius, who sat next to his pregnant mate, Denara. Across from them sat Zera and Odran, with Rowen completing the group.

“I still can’t believe that Casti voluntarily shared the seed stores,” Denara said, refilling their glasses. “It’s been painful to get even the slightest bit of technology from it, then it just volunteers a treasure trove for you.”

Rowen accepted the refill gratefully. “After dealing with Bylelle the past few days, Casti seems positively reasonable in comparison.”

“So she hasn't changed then,” Odran observed quietly. “She was like that even during early training— always…intense about what she considered hers.”

Rowen snorted. “Intense? Try completely unhinged. The way she looks at Pe—” She caught herself, but not quickly enough.

“At Petre?” Fila finished, eyes bright with interest.

“She looks at him like he’s a calf she’s buying at market.” Rowen couldn't quite keep the edge from her voice. “It's disturbing.”

“That's fairly standard for most Maman,” Zera said carefully. “Though Bylelle takes it to extremes.” She smiled slightly. “Not all of them are like that, though. Scara helped us, actually. When we wanted to mate.”

Odran's expression softened as he looked at his mate. “Scara stepped aside, made it possible for us.”

“Scara's different,” Fila agreed. “More… progressive. Though she has to be careful about showing it.”

Rowen traced the rim of her glass, considering. “I just wish I understood what was happening with Petre. One minute he's warm, friendly, and I think that maybe there’s something there for us. The next…” She gestured vaguely. “Complete emotional deep freeze. I'm getting whiplash trying to keep up.”

She didn't miss the quick look that passed between Zera and Odran, though their expressions remained carefully neutral.

“Something's wrong,” she continued. “I can feel it. But every time I try to help, he just… retreats further. I’m sure it’s something to do with Bylelle.”

“Maybe he has his reasons,” Denara suggested gently. “The Maman's influence runs deep.”

“But we're not on Verit anymore!” Rowen set her glass down harder than intended. “This is Dalat. Things are different here.”

“Are they?” Zera's voice was quiet.

“I just…” Rowen slumped slightly. “I want to help. But I can't if he won't let me in.”

“Sometimes,” Odran said, his voice carrying the weight of experience, “the best help we can offer is patience. Understanding.” He smiled slightly. “And maybe a little faith that people will find their way to the right path, even if it takes time.”

“Besides,” Fila broke in with determined cheerfulness, “you have us. And we're much better company than brooding warriors, no matter how pretty they are.” She turned to Denara. “Now, give us something happier to talk about. How’s your pregnancy going?”

***

The trip back to Dalat on the Frost Pearl was excruciating. The whole time, Petre had been on high alert, waiting for Bylelle to approach him again, and…nothing. He had to hand it to her. As a torture strategy, it was ingenious.

Luken’s contact had gone dark. There was no news of his father. They had absolutely no idea where to go next. After all of the activity on the trip, the silence was slowly driving him nuts.

Early morning on the seventh day, Petre was preparing to head out when Bylelle swept into his office.

“Let’s have a little chat, Petre.”

Petre took a deep breath and set his datapad down on the desk. “Of course, Lady. What do you want to talk about?

She laughed throatily. “I do so love our little verbal duels. They always brighten up my day.”

“I live to serve,” he responded cautiously. Despite her interest, he was still half-expecting her to try and arrest him for being a rebel sympathizer.

“Do you?” she asked. “Because the flow of information has slowed. Frei is displeased. You have been back a week, and we’ve had nothing new.”

“Casti’s systems are incredibly complex,” Petre protested. “Most of the critical technology is locked behind security barriers. If I go too hard, I’ll be caught, and then you won’t get anything. I need to wait for Broken to organize the tour he promised. Besides, you’re still receiving information from the first bug I planted.”

“Excuses.” Bylelle's voice was silk over steel. She placed a small device on his desk; sleek, black, almost invisible. “The information you’ve provided so far is surface level only; we’d have gained access to it through our colony alliance anyway. We need you to go deeper. This will help you be more…thorough in your observations. It can penetrate most shielding, create detailed scans of any technology it's exposed to.”

He looked at the scanner like it might bite him.

“Don’t lose your nerve, Petre. Remember, this is about serving your people,” she purred. “The Falosians don't have the vision to leverage what they've found. They'll waste this opportunity, squander it.”

Petre fought the urge to sweep the scanner off his desk, hurl it across the room. Instead, he tucked it into his desk drawer.

I just need to buy more time.

“I have another gift for you. In case you need some motivation after your little trip.”

There was a ping in his HUD, and the incoming message sign floated across his vision. His chest constricted painfully, and he blinked to accept it. An image of his father appeared. He was in a high-tech cell, the red tinge of security shields visible on the right edge of the image. He sat on a cot, glaring at whoever had taken the image. If Petre hadn’t been sitting down, his knees might have given out in relief. He’s alive!

He examined his father with growing anger. He had a large red welt across his neck, and a dark, purplish bruise across the side of his face. He snarled and realized that his fangs were out.

Bylelle tsked him. “Don’t be impulsive, dear. As you can see, we haven’t seriously harmed him. Yet. His continued wellbeing depends entirely on you. Use the famous control of yours.”

She prowled around the desk to him and pulled him up to stand in front of her. She smiled when she saw the rage in his eyes.

“There’s the warrior I want,” she murmured.

She leaned forward and rubbed her cheek against his, covering him in her scent and he forced himself to remain passive, clenching his fists behind his back to stop him from rending her open from her face to her ass.

There was a knock at his door. Rowen poked her head in, “Ready for today's site surveys? I think I've figured out how to—oh.”

Petre had never felt more ashamed in his life than he did at that moment, when Rowen looked at him with Bylelle.

She stopped short. “I'm sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt.”

“Not at all.” Bylelle crossed to Rowen, and he made himself stay where he was, blood trickling down his fists from his claws sinking into his palms.

Logically, he knew Bylelle would not harm Rowen. It was an office in broad daylight, and Rowen was an engineer, well beneath a Maman’s notice. But still, his instincts prodded at him insistently that Rowen was in danger. The only way he convinced himself to stay put was the knowledge that showing any protective instinct towards Rowen was likely to provoke Bylelle, placing Rowen in further jeopardy.

Bylelle smiled tightly. “How pleasant to see you again, Rowen.”

Rowen’s eyes widened. “And you.” She cast a cautious look at him. “I'm just here to collect Petre. We’re going to inspect the short-listed construction sites for The Garden today. “

Bylelle turned back to him, and, with a practiced motion, she stepped close, wrapping her hand around his bicep. “Oh, am I holding him up? We’re just visiting.”

She leaned in to brush a kiss on his cheek, and Petre suppressed a shudder at her touch, knowing it for the warning it was. Every muscle in his body screamed at him to step away, but he locked his muscles in place. She met his gaze mockingly, fully aware that he hated her touch, and could do nothing about it.

“I must go, darling. I have an appointment I don’t want to be late for. Think about what we discussed.”

***

Rowen watched Bylelle's retreating form, the Maman's emotional signature leaving an oily residue against her empathic senses that made her want to scrub her mind clean.

“Everything okay?”

“Fine,” he clipped.

She hesitated, then tilted her head, watching him. “Petre…” He looked at her blankly, his face expressionless. “I know I promised not to ask you questions…” She bit her lip, considering if she wanted to go there, “But I have to know. Are you dating her?”

The expression of disgust that crossed his face was so visceral, so unguarded, she almost laughed.

“No,” he said, the genuine shock in his voice almost comical. “We are not dating.”

“Thank the Goddess,” she muttered. “’Cause she’s a raging bitch.”

A startled bark of laughter escaped him before he could stop it.

“You shouldn't say that,” he said, though his lips twitched. “She’s not the most forgiving person.”

“You don’t have to tell me. Be grateful you don’t sense her emotions like I do.” Rowen shuddered, the memory of the possession and malice still clinging to her. “I didn’t like her on the Pearl , and the more time I spend with her, the more I’m convinced that she’s an absolute nut job. And that’s my professional opinion as an empath.”

He grinned in dark amusement. “Nevertheless,” he said, his voice quieter now, “the Maman don’t tolerate disrespect.” His eyes locked onto hers, warning in their depths. “I mean it, Rowen. They’re vicious when they’re crossed.”

“I’m a Falosian,” she pointed out, watching his reaction. “She wouldn’t dare.”

He rubbed a hand over his brow as if she were missing the point entirely. “She won’t care. ” He looked at her again, his voice lower. “Please, Rowen. Believe me. Don’t cross Bylelle.”

It wasn’t his words that got her attention; it was the bone-deep certainty in them. “Alright, Petre,” she said gently. “I’ll be careful. I promise.”

She hesitated, worrying her lip again. “But you should know, her possessiveness? It’s not an act. She means it.” She hesitated before adding, “I think you should take your own advice. Obsession like that isn’t healthy.”

A muscle ticked in his jaw. He swallowed, then nodded once. “Thank you, Rowen. I’ll take care of it.”

Somehow, she doubted he would.

Moving slowly, telegraphing her intentions to avoid spooking him, she reached out and touched his shoulder. “You asked me to trust you and I have. I’ve kept your secrets,” she said gently. “You can trust me.”

His throat bobbed as he swallowed. “Thank you.” He placed his hand over hers and squeezed for a moment. “I don’t know what I…” He swallowed again, and met her gaze, his eyes hot.

Goddess, she wished she could read him at will, not just the odd random spikes of insight, because whatever was going on behind that cool expression…she had the strangest feeling that he wanted nothing more than to grab her and run.

He closed his eyes, and when he opened them, they were shuttered, back to their usual cool remoteness.

“Alright,” he said, voice steadier now. “Then let’s get some work done. I’ve booked us a hover bike.”

She nodded, letting him retreat from the conversation. “I’ve been looking forward to seeing what kind of pilot you are. Did I tell you I used to race hover bikes on the black sand dunes back home?”

“You did.” He smiled slightly. “Give me a couple of minutes to finish things off. Will you grab us some snacks from the mess hall? I’ll be ready when you get back.”