Page 19

Chapter nineteen

Phase 2

R owen adjusted the atmospheric sensors, humming contentedly as she worked. The past few days of absence hadn't significantly delayed The Garden’s progress. If anything, the construction teams seemed to have worked faster without her and Petre hovering over them. Not many people knew the details of what had happened with Petre and the Maman, but everyone knew that something had gone on, and there had been a steady trail of people “stopping by” fishing for information. She wasn’t entirely sure how to take it.

She felt him before she saw him, his emotional signature now a familiar warmth at the edge of her consciousness. She wasn’t sure if it resulted from the psychic block, or the trauma he had experienced, but she’d realized that some time after the two days in the forest, they had become permanently connected. It wasn’t active communication, just a gentle presence in her mind. Just Petre, moving through The Garden, feeling warm in her soul.

“The humidity ratios look good,” he said by way of greeting, though his hand found her waist as he examined the readings over her shoulder.

“Mm.” She leaned back slightly, feeling his contentment wrap around her. “Though we might need to adjust the mineral content for the northern quadrant. The crystalline formations are affecting the soil composition.”

His thumb traced idle patterns against her hip as he studied the data. “We could redirect the water flow, use the natural grade to—”

“Get a room!” Fila's voice carried clear amusement as she approached, datapad in hand.

“No,” Rowen replied smugly. “We’re enjoying ourselves.”

“I don’t know anyone else that can make engineering analysis sound flirtatious.”

“Then you need to find someone with more imagination,” Rowen teased.

Petre huffed, but his hand stayed where it was. “The Garden opens in less than twelve weeks. Some of us take our responsibilities seriously.”

“I see, so that’s why you took time out of your busy schedule to beat someone up?” Fila teased. But there was warmth beneath it, acceptance. Although most people didn’t know the specifics of their little private drama, enough people had heard the spat to realize that Varian had done something shady.

“To be fair,” Rowen pointed out, “Varian was being an ass.”

“True.” Fila's expression sobered slightly. “I heard that’s he’s requested an off-world transfer.”

Petre's satisfaction rippled through their connection, and Rowen elbowed him gently. “Be nice.”

“I am being nice,” he protested. “I didn't even say anything.”

“Such restraint,” she said dryly, but couldn't help smiling at the happiness humming beneath his words.

They settled into their usual rhythm, moving through The Garden's various sectors with practiced efficiency. If their hands brushed more often than strictly necessary, if Petre's proud possessiveness showed in the way he positioned himself between her and various construction crews, well… no one seemed inclined to comment.

“You know,” Denara observed during a visit to check on how Petre was recovering from his nano surgery, “I don't think I've ever seen him so… relaxed.”

Rowen followed her gaze, catching the ghost of a smile on Petre's face as he chatted with Luken. “He deserves it. They both do.”

“Though I have to ask, did you really need to let him beat Varian so thoroughly?”

“Need to? No. Want to? Maybe a little.”

Denara laughed. “You're terrible.” Then, more seriously, “Just… be careful, alright? The Maman don't take well to changes in their ordered world.”

“We know.” Rowen's voice hardened slightly. “That's rather the point.”

Understanding dawned in Denara's eyes. “Ah. So this very public display is…”

“Exactly what it looks like,” Rowen finished. “A warrior claiming his mate. With all the territorial instincts that implies.”

“Clever.” Denara's smile held approval. “Though I hope you know what you're doing.”

“Actually…” Rowen watched as Petre made his way back to them, his usual elegance touched with playfulness as he leaned in to sneak a kiss. “I think we do.”

He settled beside her, close enough that their shoulders touched. His fingers found hers with unconscious familiarity, and she felt his quiet satisfaction at being able to touch her openly.

After several days of orchestrated public displays of affection, Petre and Rowen found themselves at Rok's. The restaurant had been transformed for the evening, the lighting dimmed to create pools of intimate shadow between tables. They were seated at a small table in the outside courtyard, next to the dance floor, where a Malurien band was setting up.

Rowen watched with quiet amusement as Petre examined the menu with the same focused attention he usually reserved for engineering schematics. “You know,” she said, “I’ve just realized this is our first actual date.” She looked around at the courtyard, at the cheerful bustle of people. “For someone who spent months maintaining detachment, it’s a pretty good choice.”

His lips quirked. “It’s the only restaurant on the colony. There aren't really much options. Although, I may have… planned this. Several times. In my head.” A faint flush stained his cheeks. “When I should have been focusing on other things.”

“Really?” She leaned forward, delighted by this admission. “Tell.”

“I imagined bringing you here,” he admitted. “Watching you enjoy a meal. Dancing with you under the violet sky…” He trailed off, looking almost shy. “Though in my imagination, I was much smoother about it all.”

“I don't know.” She reached across the table to tangle their fingers together. “I think you're doing pretty well so far.”

The way his thumb traced patterns against her palm sent little shivers of awareness through her.

AriatRok herself appeared to take their order. Her ruby eyes sparkled with approval. “The K'Dec recommended the shae-vin,” she said. “It’s a traditional Malurien courtship dish.”

Petre's expression softened. “That would be lovely, thank you.”

As they waited for their food, Rowen studied him. He'd changed from his usual practical uniform. It was still black, but looser and cut to emphasize his warrior's build. His hair was caught back in an intricate braid.

“You're staring,” he observed, though his pleasure at her attention colored their connection.

“Can you blame me?” She grinned. “You clean up rather nicely.”

His eyes darkened as they traced over her own outfit. It was a deep-blue dress, not the same one she’d worn with Varian. It was a pity; she loved that dress, but she suspected she might never wear it again. “So do you.”

The shae-vin arrived in a cloud of fragrant steam, accompanied by small glasses that sparkled like captured starlight. “There is an alcohol pairing for this dish.”

The food was incredible, delicate flavors that seemed to dance across her tongue, each bite enhanced by sips of the effervescent drink. But more than the meal itself, Rowen found herself enchanted by this new, more relaxed side of Petre.

When the music started, a slow melody like honey, he stood and offered his hand elegantly, a wicked smile on his face. “Dance with me?”

She let him lead her to the small dance floor, where other couples moved in elegant patterns beneath the night sky. His hand settled at her waist as he drew her close.

“I should warn you,” she murmured as they began to move. “I'm terrible at dancing.”

His laugh rumbled through his chest. “Just follow my lead.”

She rolled her eyes at him. “Yeah, I suck at that as well.”

He spun her in a graceful turn before pulling her back against him. “Balance isn’t your strong suit. You keep falling off gantries.”

She huffed in mock outrage. “It was one time!”

He took on a martyred expression. “Since my mate seems determined to give me heart failure on a regular basis, I suppose I shall have to spend my life protecting her, even from herself.”

The casual way he said “mate” sent warmth curling through her chest. “Your mate, hm?”

“Yes.” No hesitation. Just absolute certainty. “Mine to love. Mine to protect.” His arms tightened fractionally. “Mine to cherish.”

She reached up to trace the line of his jaw, feeling the way his pulse jumped at her touch. “I like the sound of that.”

His response was to kiss her. It was most certainly not a kiss intended for public viewing. It was a warrior claiming what was his—proper behavior be damned. When they finally came up for breath, her cheeks were a scandalized scarlet, and he laughed wickedly.

Then she felt it, the familiar presence that made her empathic senses recoil. She smiled up at Petre, seeing her own fierce determination reflected in his eyes.

“Ready?” she whispered.

His smile showed teeth. “Always.”

As one, they turned to look at Bylelle, standing in the open archway of the courtyard, oblivious to the surrounding merriment. The Maman's face was white with suppressed rage, her golden eyes fixed on where Petre's hand rested at Rowen's waist, on the intimate way they swayed together to the Malurien melody. Through their connection, Rowen felt Petre's satisfaction as he deliberately pressed a kiss to her temple, marking his choice with quiet certainty.

The first crack in Bylelle's composure was subtle. A slight tremor in her hands, a wavering in her usual composure. Confusion. Denial. The bewildered hurt of a spoiled youth.

For a moment, Rowen saw genuine grief in her. Not love; Bylelle wasn't capable of that kind of depth. It was the crushing realization that her fantasy was crumbling, that her perfect warrior had chosen another.

Then rage began to cloud her signature. The injury of rejection burned through her like acid, twisting her beautiful features.

Rowen felt Petre's muscles coil, ready to meet the challenge. But Bylelle didn't advance. Didn't make a scene. Only her eyes betrayed her, cold and sharp as midwinter frost, promising retribution.

She spun on her heel and glided away.

“That,” Petre murmured against her hair once Bylelle had disappeared, “was not the reaction we were hoping for.”

Rowen nodded slowly, remembering the cold purpose that had replaced Bylelle's initial shock. “She's planning something.”

“Of course she is.” His arms tightened fractionally around her. “The question is what?”

They continued to dance, maintaining their performance of new lovers lost in each other. But beneath their casual intimacy, both felt the weight of understanding settle between them. They had hoped to push Bylelle into a public display of instability. They had miscalculated. Badly.

***

The days passed in an almost deceptive calm. The Garden’s progress continued steadily, with rows of seedlings thriving under the meticulous engineering of Casti’s environmental systems. Petre spent his days overseeing structural developments and refining the integration of Verit and Falosian agricultural techniques.

Rowen threw herself into the project, ensuring each bio-dome was optimized for plant growth. It was easy, almost too easy, to settle into the rhythm of work, to let the fear of Bylelle’s retribution fall into the background.

Bylelle had not moved. Not yet. They waited, and it lulled them all into a false sense of security.

Lucius arrived at The Garden site one afternoon, his imposing figure a sharp contrast to the delicate flora around him. “Petre,” he greeted, nodding in acknowledgment. “The project’s shaping up well.”

“We’re on schedule,” Petre confirmed, folding his arms. “Assuming there are no further… disruptions.”

Lucius’ lips twitched in amusement. “We’re monitoring that. In the meantime, I came here for a different reason.” His gaze flicked briefly to Rowen before settling back on Petre. “I want you to come with me to the celebration tonight.”

Petre frowned, caught off guard. “Celebration?”

“The birth of my daughter,” Lucius clarified, though his voice carried an edge. “We’re holding a clan welcome.”

“Oh, that’s lovely!”

Lucius clapped Petre on the shoulder. “It would be good to see you there, brother.” He nodded politely to Rowen and continued on his way.

She quirked an eyebrow at Petre. “You don’t want to go.” It was a statement, not a question.

Petre exhaled sharply, looking anywhere but at her. “It’s not that—”

“Then what is it?”

He sighed. “It’s a male-only ceremony. I don’t want to leave you alone. I don’t trust the quiet.”

She hesitated, then nudged him. “Then why are you letting him strong-arm you into it?”

Petre gave a wry smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes, and pulled her into a hug. “Because he’s right. Some duties can’t be avoided. Lucius, MakenRoy, and the others went out on a limb for us. I owe them.”

Rowen studied him before shaking her head. “If you say so.” She squeezed his hand. “For what it’s worth, I think you should go. A new life deserves a celebration, and you need to remember that there are good parts of Verit culture too.”

He nodded reluctantly. “Alright. I’ll go.” He gave her another squeeze and let her go.

As she walked back toward the planting beds, Petre watched her, anxiety churning. He owed his clan brothers everything, for their help and protection, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that this was a mistake.

That evening, as he prepared to leave, he stood in front of Rowen, hands resting on her shoulders. “Promise me,” he said, his voice low. “that you’ll stay here, in my quarters. You won’t open the door for anyone.”

Rowen frowned. “Petre, I’ll be fine. It’s just for a few hours—”

“Promise me.”

The seriousness in his voice made her pause. She swallowed her protest and nodded. “Alright. I promise.”

His shoulders relaxed slightly, but his grip tightened before he let go. “I’ll be back soon.”

She watched as he left, the door hissing shut behind him. The quarters felt larger without his presence. She curled up on the small couch, scrolling idly through her datapad to pass the time.

A chime at the door startled her.

Her heart jumped into her throat. Slowly, she stood, stepping toward the panel. The screen flickered to life, showing the visitor outside.

Bylelle. The Maman stood in the hallway, an unreadable expression on her face. Rowen hesitated, then pressed the intercom. “What do you want?”

Bylelle’s smile was slow, deliberate. “Open the door, Rowen. We need to talk.”

Rowen’s fingers hovered over the controls. “No.”

Bylelle’s smile didn’t falter. “That’s disappointing. But expected.”

Rowen’s pulse pounded in her ears. She scrabbled for her HUD earpiece to call Petre—

Pain exploded in the back of her head. The world blurred, tilting wildly before plunging into darkness. The last thing she saw, before the blackness claimed her was Kina’s eyes peering at her from under the sofa as she crashed to the floor.

***

Darkness. Then flickers of awareness, like bubbles rising from murky depths.

Consciousness returned sluggishly. First came sensation—a dull throbbing at the base of her skull, pulsing in time with her heartbeat. Then cold, seeping through her clothes from the hard surface beneath her. Her body felt impossibly heavy, limbs unresponsive as though they belonged to someone else.

Sounds filtered in next; the soft crackle of burning wood, water dripping somewhere in the distance, the whisper of her own shallow breathing echoing against stone. The air hung thick with unfamiliar scents—damp earth, smoke, and something else... something musky and primal. It smelled like an animal den.

Rowen tried to open her eyes, but her eyelids felt weighted. She struggled against the heaviness, managing only the barest slit of vision at first. Blurry shadows danced across her limited field of view, cast by what seemed to be firelight flickering against the rough surface.

With monumental effort, she pried her eyes further open. The world swayed and doubled before reluctantly settling into focus. Uneven stone walls surrounded her, their surface glistening with moisture. A small fire burned in a crude pit, its flames casting long, restless shadows that seemed to crawl along the cave ceiling.

Her mouth was painfully dry, her tongue feeling swollen and foreign. She tried to swallow and tasted copper—blood. Memory shimmered just beyond reach. How had she gotten here? What had happened?

She attempted to move her arms, to push herself up. Pain lanced through her shoulders, sharp and immediate, clearing some of the fog from her mind. Her wrists were bound behind her back, the restraints cutting into her skin. Panic flared, sending adrenaline coursing through her system.

Instinctively, she tried to reach out with her empathic senses, seeking to understand her surroundings, but the effort sent a wave of nausea rolling through her. She closed her eyes against the dizziness, forcing herself to breathe through it.

When she opened her eyes again, a figure sat across the fire from her, watching silently. As her vision cleared further, recognition dawned with chilling clarity.

Varian.

He watched her with an unreadable expression, his face half-illuminated by the dancing flames, half-hidden in shadow. There was something different about him, something in his eyes that made her blood run cold.

"Finally awake?" he asked.

"You hit me." Now that she'd said it, she felt the pulsing pain from the back of her skull, the gritty wetness on the back of her neck. Rowen's stomach twisted. "Where am I?"

"A safe place," he replied.

She waited, but nothing more was forthcoming. "Why am I here?"

Varian finally looked at her properly, and his gaze chilled her to her core—not madness, exactly, but the absolute certainty of someone whose moral compass had been calibrated to a different north entirely. "The Maman has given us a gift." His voice carried the reverence of a priest announcing divine favor. "Bylelle has decided we should mate."

Her blood ran cold. "And what, exactly, does that mean?"

Varian hesitated for a fraction before he smiled. "She thinks we're compatible. That we'll be able to produce daughters for the clan." A note of genuine pride entered his voice. "It is an honor for a Maman to assign a mate."

Rowen glared at him. "And if I refuse? Are you going to force me? The way Bylelle tried to force Petre?"

His face darkened. "I would never force a female!"

"You just knocked me unconscious and kidnapped me!" Rowen hissed.

He crawled over to her and picked up a cloth, dabbing at her face with surprising tenderness. "No, Rowen. You don't understand. I didn't want to harm you, but I needed to get you away from Petre. You need to give us a chance." The absolute conviction in his voice was almost worse than madness. "The Lady has ordered it."

Rowen forced herself to calm, making her voice gentle. "She's manipulating you. You think you have a choice, but you don't. She's using you, Varian."

His expression changed with a swiftness that took her breath away, and he lifted his hand and casually backhanded her. With her hands behind her back, she had no way to avoid it. Her head and cheek swung back, smashing into the rock, her vision swimming alarmingly.

When he spoke again, it was his normal, friendly voice, which was all the more terrifying. "Don't say that. I will not allow a female like you to criticize her." His tone suggested he was simply explaining an obvious social rule she had failed to grasp, like a parent correcting a child.

Rowen lay there, stunned, tears streaming down her face. She tried to reach out with her empathy, to sense Petre, and the rebound made her vomit, the yellow bile coating her face and hair as she fought to breathe.

Varian picked up the cloth again and cleaned her face. A dark mockery of care. "I will not tolerate my mate disrespecting my lady."

Rowen croaked out a laugh. "I will never be your mate, Varian. She'll kill me, to keep Petre for herself."

Varian wavered uncertainly. "No, she wouldn't. She—"

"That's enough, Varian." Bylelle emerged from the shadows, her movements graceful despite the rough surroundings. "Stand guard outside."

He hesitated, then obeyed, disappearing into the darkness.

"You have become a problem for me, Rowen." Bylelle spoke with the measured calm of someone discussing a minor inconvenience rather than a kidnapping. She adjusted the sleeve of her formal robe—incongruously elegant in the primitive cave—with fastidious precision. "I'm actually somewhat impressed, you know. If you weren't attempting to disrupt the natural order of things on Verit, I think I might have liked you."

Rowen lay back and closed her eyes, the dancing light from the fire making her head spin. “The natural order? What natural order?”

“Petre is to be mine. I’m a Maman, and I have decided that he will be my mate. My will is his command.”

Rowen laughed rustily. "You can't own a person. He isn’t yours to claim."

"But that's where you're fundamentally mistaken." Bylelle moved to the fire, the flames casting her shadow long against the cave wall. "Our society functions on clearly defined relationships. The Maman guide and protect; the males serve. It's been this way for generations. It's the foundation of Verit stability." She spoke with the absolute conviction of someone reciting established fact. "When you encourage a male like Petre to forget his place, you damage the entire structure. You think you're offering him freedom, but you're really offering chaos."

Bylelle settled on a rock across from her. “Your views are a threat to the stability of Verit society. I have a duty to protect that stability.”

Rowen knew she should focus, but she was so tired...

Pain brought her searing back to consciousness, and she realized Bylelle had slapped her. "Stay awake, please. We are having an important conversation." Her tone remained cultured, calm.

Rowen stared at her muzzily and made her lips move through the numbness. "Probably shouldn't have hit me so many times on my head then."

Something like amusement flickered across Bylelle's perfect features. "Petre is a Verit warrior of exceptional lineage and ability. His talents belong to Verit, to our future. Not to some—" Her lip curled slightly. "Empathic outsider who doesn't understand our ways."

"He will never be yours," Rowen managed. "He hates what you represent."

Bylelle cackled. It was an eerie, high-pitched sound. “Petre is mine, Rowen. You can’t have him.”

Rowen shook her head slowly. “He will never be yours. He hates you.”

Bylelle shrugged. “Hate and love are two sides of the coin. And I will have all of him. His rage, his fear, his hate, all of it. Everything he is or will be is mine. His sentiment is irrelevant." Bylelle examined her manicured nails. "His feelings don't matter. What matters is the continuity of our traditions, the preservation of our bloodlines." Her voice took on the cadence of someone reciting a lesson learned by rote. "Males feel what they're permitted to feel. Eventually, he will understand that what I offer is stability. Security. A place in our society that honors his abilities while keeping them properly channeled."

She was worse than insane, Rowen realized. She was the product of a system that had thoroughly convinced her of her own rightness—a far more dangerous thing than simple madness.

"That's why I have to remove you," Bylelle continued, her tone matter of fact. "Not out of jealousy or pettiness, as you might think. But because you represent disorder. A threat to the natural hierarchy." She picked up a knife, studying its edge with clinical detachment. "When I was a child, my mother taught me that sometimes sacrifice is necessary to preserve what matters. That the Maman's burden is making difficult choices for the greater good."

She gazed at Rowen, tracing her features, her lips twisting in anger. "It's nothing personal."

Rowen barely had time to react before Bylelle was upon her. A flash of metal, a sharp sting—Rowen gasped as a blade sliced across her cheek with deliberate precision. "He needs to see the consequences of disobedience," Bylelle said, her voice still eerily calm. "We cannot allow such dangerous precedents to spread."

Another flash, another cut, this time over her temple and into her hairline. It wasn't wild rage driving her actions, but something far more chilling—methodical purpose, as if she were simply performing a necessary but unpleasant task.

Rowen ducked a third slash aimed at her face but couldn't miss the fourth that dug into her torso, aimed up towards her heart. Rowen felt it cut through organs and muscle, before it lodged in a rib. Bylelle tugged, sending a searing pain through her body, to get it to release.

Time seemed to stretch and distort. Through the haze of pain and blood loss, the scene before her took on a dreamlike quality. The smoke billowed in slow motion, particles dancing in the suddenly disturbed air. Relief flooded through her in a warm, desperate wave that made her eyes sting with tears as she felt a familiar presence. He came. He found me. Even in her dimming consciousness, she never doubted he would.

Silhouettes materialized in the swirling chaos, familiar outlines that her heart recognized before her mind could process them. A wild, primal joy surged through her veins, giving her one last burst of clarity before the darkness closing in at the edges of her vision could claim her completely.

Petre and Luken stormed in, weapons drawn.

Bylelle barely had time to react before Luken knocked her to the ground with an agonizing, furious shriek. The sound of it sent a shiver of vindication through Rowen's failing body. He twisted Bylelle's arms behind her and held her down.

Muffled shouts came from the outside, distant and meaningless compared to the pounding of her heart, weakening with each beat. A strange detachment settled over her—she could feel her connection to her body growing tenuous, like a tether fraying strand by strand.

Petre was at her side in an instant. She looked up into his face, drinking in the sight of him. She knew it was bad when she saw the expression of horror as he reached out a shaking, clawed hand to touch her face. The anguish in his eyes told her everything her own pain-fogged mind couldn't process.

Rowen wanted to reassure him, to tell him that it didn't matter now because he was here. She wanted to tell him how she'd never doubted, never feared, because even in her darkest moment, she'd felt him coming for her. She wanted to say she loved him, that this wasn't his fault, that she would choose him all over again, even knowing this end.

But all that emerged was: "My stomach," she tried to whisper, her voice a fragile thread barely audible over the chaos surrounding them. She could feel the warmth spreading across her abdomen, the life literally flowing out of her.

"You're safe," he murmured, his voice breaking on the words.

She wanted to touch his face, to feel the warmth of his skin once more, but her body wouldn't obey. Instead, she poured every ounce of her remaining strength into her gaze, willing him to feel what she could no longer say. I'm yours. I'll always be yours. Find me again.

The world began to fade, colors bleeding away into gray, sounds becoming muffled and distant. The pain receded like a tide pulling back from shore, leaving behind a strange, floating emptiness. The last thing she heard before slipping into the blessed numbness was Petre roaring for a medic.

As consciousness fled, her final thought was not of fear or regret, but of a simple, perfect certainty: He came for me. I was never alone.