Page 20

Chapter twenty

Showdown at the Dalat Corral

T he clan welcome ceremony was in full swing. The Dathalka males gathered in Lucius's quarters to celebrate his newborn daughter. It always amazed him how little it took to have the clan of hardened warriors soften to mush. The room hummed with quiet joy, warriors transformed by the miracle of new life.

“She's beautiful,” Broken murmured. “A credit to your line.”

Lucius himself seemed to glow with pride as he presented his daughter, her tiny features already showing hints of Verit heritage. The traditional blessings had been spoken, ancient words that carried the weight of centuries promising to cherish and protect.

Now, the meeting relaxed, the males gathering to catch up and socialize. Petre checked his HUD and reckoned he could get away in another twenty minutes without being rude.

Luken chuckled at his itchy restlessness. “Relax, Petre, she’ll still be there in half an hour. You’re like a wolf with a cub.”

Petre opened his mouth to respond, but was startled when he spotted Kina, dashing between the legs of the assembled warriors. She made a beeline for him and scrambled up his leg, chittering loudly. “What the…?”

His chest tightened. He put his hand on her little body, feeling her racing heartbeat.

He accessed his HUD, opening the feed from his home security system. He flicked through the camera feeds until he stopped at the bedroom window, noting it was ajar, its security screen placed on the ground. He flipped to the front door and saw it was standing ajar. Sweet Goddess.

He rewound the feed, until he saw Varian emerging, Rowen's unconscious form draped over his shoulder with clinical efficiency, Bylelle following.

He growled, low and dangerous. One by one, the males fell silent and turned to him. The reaction was immediate and visceral, a collective recognition of a threat to one of their own that ran deeper than conscious thought.

The joyful celebration of new life evaporated, replaced by something ancient and predatory. Warriors who had been laughing moments before now stood alert, muscles coiled, eyes sharp. The shift wasn't just physical but spiritual—twenty individual males becoming a single entity with shared purpose, moving with the coordinated instinct of a hunting pack.

"What is it?" Luken's voice carried quiet urgency, though his body was already angling toward the door, anticipating action.

"Varian has captured my mate, abducted her from my home." The words emerged through clenched teeth, each syllable vibrating with barely contained fury.

Petre streamed the feed to the main display in the room. Watched understanding dawn in his brothers’ eyes.

Lucius approached Petre, still holding his precious daughter. The contrast was striking; the newborn cradled protectively against his chest even as his eyes hardened with the promise of violence. “Get your weapons. Quietly. We don't want to alert anyone else.”

They slipped away in small groups, ones and twos. Within minutes, a core team had assembled in the corridor. Broken, Lucius, Luken, and Petre. Lucius was grim. “I’ve sent groups out in each direction. They’ve got a small quad bike, so they aren’t hard to track. They haven’t disabled the tracer.”

“Could be a trap,” mused Broken. “Throw us off the scent. Varian is trained as a warrior. He’d know how to do it.”

Petre considered it. “I’m not sure. He’s under Bylelle’s influence, and she wants me to come to her. I don’t think she’ll make herself hard to find.”

“Where does the tracer say they are now?”

“Not too far. In a cave, next to The Garden construction site. The signal's clear.”

“Then let’s move. Bring us a couple of hover bikes. They’ll move twice as fast.”

They moved like shadows through the colony's outskirts, following the trail. Petre's enhanced senses caught fragments of Rowen's scent, twined with fear and pain. It didn’t take them long to find the cave. He was right; Bylelle wanted them to find her.

This was what she craved, after all. His attention.

They took their positions with predatory silence, the warriors of the Dathalka clan moving like shadows in the night. Broken's raised fist halted the advance as they approached the cave entrance. His fingers splayed, indicating the deployment pattern.

Twenty heartbeats of absolute stillness as they confirmed their targets were inside. The warriors' enhanced senses caught fragments of conversation, the scent of blood and fear. Petre's control frayed at the edges as Rowen's familiar scent reached him, twisted with pain and terror. Luken's hand fell on his shoulder, grounding him, reminding him of the plan.

Broken's fingers counted down. Three. Two. One.

The assault, when it came, was precisely targeted and executed with brutal efficiency.

Broken engaged Varian without hesitation or mercy. There was no challenge, no warning—only the lethal application of skills honed through decades of warfare. The younger warrior managed one abortive attempt at defense before Broken's strike connected, the sickening crack of vertebrae severed with surgical precision echoing off the stone walls. Varian's body crumpled like a marionette with cut strings, dead before his knees hit the ground.

Simultaneously, Lucius and three other warriors secured the perimeter, neutralizing potential escape routes and establishing a defensive position. The operation unfolded with machine-like precision, decades of training distilled into these critical moments.

But Petre's focus had narrowed to a single point, the rest of the world falling away as if it had ceased to exist. Rowen lay crumpled against the cave wall, blood matting her hair, her beautiful face marked by precise cuts that spoke of calculated cruelty.

But it was the spreading stain across Rowen's torso that made his heart stutter, the metallic scent of her blood overwhelming his senses.

Time seemed to fragment around him as he crossed the distance between them. Later, he wouldn't remember how he reached her, only that suddenly she was there, beneath his hands, her skin too pale, her pulse too faint. His training asserted itself through the haze of panic and rage—assess, stabilize, protect.

He barely registered Luken taking down Bylelle, though some distant part of him catalogued her shrieks of rage echoing off the stone

Petre's entire world had contracted to the fading pulse beneath his fingers as he gathered Rowen close, untying her restraints. His enhanced senses tracked each labored breath, each weakening heartbeat. He catalogued her injuries with clinical detachment that belied the storm raging beneath his surface—multiple lacerations to the face and neck, more wounds on her hands and arms, and the most critical: a deep penetrating wound to the abdomen.

"My stomach," she whispered, her voice so faint that only his enhanced hearing could catch it.

“You're safe,” he murmured. Even as he cradled her with infinite tenderness, he roared for the medic, the sound reverberating through the cave with such raw power that dust showered from the ceiling.

Odran materialized beside them as if summoned by sheer force of will. His gentle hands moved efficiently, stabilizing her wounds, applying pressure where needed, administering emergency treatments from his field kit.

"We need to move her," Odran said sharply, his voice cutting through the chaos. "Now. She needs emergency surgery."

Around them, the clan responded, establishing a secure evacuation route, calling in transport, relaying medical data ahead to the colony's medbay.

As they lifted her onto the stretcher, Petre glimpsed Bylelle's face, triumph warring with madness. She had lost, but she had wounded him where it would hurt most.

“Get her out of my sight,” he snarled, “before I forget my training.” He met Bylelle’s gaze. “If she dies, you die.” She blanched, before Luken hauled her away.

For Petre, the world had narrowed to the rhythm of Rowen's breathing.

***

The medbay's environmental controls hummed discordantly around him, setting his teeth on edge. Petre had memorized every subtle variation in that sound over the past two days, marking time by the steady beeping of monitoring equipment. He hated medbays.

His fingers traced idle patterns on the back of her hand, avoiding the medical sensors. The healers had worked miracles, rebuilding damaged organs with a combination of Casti's technology and their own expertise, or replacing them with genetic duplicates. But seeing her like this, pale and motionless, her vibrant spirit dimmed by trauma and medication; it shredded what was left of his soul.

The cuts on her face were healing, angry pink lines that would fade with time. Denara had assured him there would be no scarring. Dermal regeneration was highly effective. It just took time.

It was the deliberate precision of those cuts that shook him. Every time he saw them, it hurt anew. It was the way Bylelle had marked his mate with such cold meticulousness.

He should have expected this. Should have seen past Bylelle's apparent retreat, recognized the calculation beneath her seeming acceptance. Goddess wept, he’d known she was plotting, and still he left his mate alone.

Instead, he'd ignored his instincts. Had left Rowen vulnerable while he performed his clan obligations.

Some protector, he thought bitterly. Some mate.

Motion caught his eye, a flicker of an eyelid. Her fingers twitched in his grasp, and appallingly, he felt tears welling in his eyes. He watched her eyelashes flicker, her eyes clouded. Fear spiked through her scent until she met his gaze.

“Hey,” she managed.

“Hey, yourself.”

She coughed, and he helped her take small sips of water, his movements gentle despite the tremor in his hands. “How's the pain?”

“Fuzzy. Everything's… distant.” Her eyes focused on his face, and he felt her empathic senses brush against his mind. “You look terrible.”

A surprised laugh escaped him. “That's what happens when I spend two days watching you try to die on me.”

“Wasn't trying to,” she protested weakly. “Besides, I knew you'd come.”

The simple certainty in her voice broke him. “I'm sorry,” he whispered, pressing his forehead to their joined hands. “I should have been there. Should have seen what she was planning-”

“Stop.” Her fingers tightened on his. “This isn't your fault. None of it.”

“I left you alone—”

“At a clan ceremony. For a new life.” She tugged until he met her gaze. “That's what we're fighting for, isn't it? The right to have normal lives? To celebrate with our people without fear?”

He exhaled shakily. “You could have died.”

“But I didn't.” Her thumb traced his knuckles. “Because I have this incredibly overprotective mate who came charging to my rescue with an entire warrior squad.”

Despite everything, his lips twitched. “I believe the technical term is 'hunting party'.”

“Of course it is.” Her smile was tired, but genuine. “Very dramatic. Very warrior-like. Though next time, maybe arrive before the stabbing part?”

He made a sound that was half laugh, half sob. “There won't be a next time.” His voice hardened. “Bylelle won't hurt anyone else. Ever.”

“What happened? After…”

“She's contained.” The words emerged clipped, precise. “The K'Dec has her under guard until the Matriarch's representatives arrive.” His fingers ghosted over the healing cuts on her face. “Though if Luken hadn't been there to stop me…”

“Hey.” She caught his hand, pressing it more firmly against her cheek. “I'm here. I'm healing. And I wasn't afraid, not really.” At his questioning look, she elaborated, “I could feel you, you know? Even through the pain, even with whatever they drugged me with. I knew you were coming.”

His throat tightened. “Always,” he promised roughly. “Wherever you are, whatever happens, I will always come for you.”

“I know.” She tugged him closer, ignoring the protest of healing wounds. “That's why I wasn't scared. Because you're mine, just like I'm yours.” Her voice softened. “And no amount of Maman manipulation can change that.”

He gathered her into his arms, mindful of medical equipment and healing injuries. Her presence in his mind was like sunlight after a storm, warm and steady and absolutely certain. This was what Bylelle had never understood, could never understand. That true belonging couldn't be forced or manipulated. It had to be freely given, freely chosen.

“Rest,” he murmured against her hair. “I've got you.”

She hummed agreement, already drifting. But her fingers remained tangled with his, anchoring them both in the simple truth of being exactly where they belonged.

When she woke again, her mind was clearer. “What happened to Varian?” she asked.

He clamped his mouth shut, and she poked his chest. “Tell me!”

He sighed. “He’s dead. Broken killed him.”

He watched her absorb the information. “When?”

“When we rescued you. He was standing guard and stupidly got in Broken’s way.”

She covered her eyes with a shaking hand. “Is it crazy that I feel bad for him?” she asked.

“Yes,” he replied, unwilling to lie to her again, even about this.

She laughed wetly. “He was an asshole, but he was so damaged. I wonder how long she had been working on him.”

Petre bent forward and kissed her fingertips. “Years.”

Rowen’s gaze narrowed. “Someone should take a look at her clan. If it could produce two such damaged people like them, Goddess knows what else is going on there.”

“I think that sort of care will be a long time. It would require them to admit that there’s a problem with her behavior. Unfortunately, the way that Verit is governed, people like her float to the top.”

“What do you mean? Surely they have to admit they’ve got a problem now?”

He hesitated, and she tugged on his hand. “Tell me! I’m recovering, but I’m not fragile.”

“Frei is demanding that Luken and I are punished for Bylelle being harmed in your rescue.”

“WHAT?”

He winced. She grabbed the covers and started pulling them off, and the alarms started shrieking around them. “Rowen, what are you doing?”

“I’m going to tear that bitch Frei a new one. Get me out of this medbay right now!” she hissed, and he couldn’t help himself. He swept her up in his arms and kissed her, aware of her furious pounding on his shoulders. “Put me down, Petre! I’m going to kill her. How dare she threaten you again!”

Denara and Odran peered around the medbay door, clearly enjoying the drama. “Are you alright in there?” Odran called.

Petre laughed and settled Rowen back on the bed, getting in to lie beside her. “Just fine, thanks.”

“No, I’m—” He cut her off with a kiss, cradling her face, aware of her healing scars. When he pulled back, she glared at him grumpily. “You can’t just kiss me into submission any time you don’t like what I’m saying.”

He grinned. He liked the sound of that. “Be reasonable, love. You can’t even walk yet. Rest for a few more days. The K’Dec is holding off the trial until you’re well enough.”

Just as quickly as her fury had arrived, it disappeared. “I have to be there?” she asked, eyes wide.

“Yes, you’re the injured party we were defending.”

“Oh.” She worried at her lip. “I guess that makes sense.”

She sank back onto the bed. “I'm still tired.” He tucked her in. “Stay with me?” she asked, her voice drowsy.

“Giant pre-historic Dathalka couldn’t drag me away.”

***

The little conference room in the security building was full to the brim. Petre, Luken, and Broken surrounded Rowen, who sat in a hover chair, still unable to walk for long distances. Opposite them, Bylelle sat in her containment restraints, her usual golden splendor dimmed. But her eyes, her eyes still held that peculiar gleam that put the warriors on edge. Even caught, even bound, she radiated the absolute certainty of someone who had never faced real consequences in her life.

The K'Dec entered, MakenRoy a silent shadow at her shoulder. Frei followed, the rap of her cane the only sound in the room. The contrast between Maral's practical uniform and Frei's ceremonial garments spoke volumes about their differing approaches to power.

“We are gathered,” Maral began, her voice carrying quiet authority, “to address serious charges of attempted murder, kidnapping, and assault.”

“We are gathered,” Frei cut in smoothly, “to address an unconscionable attack on a Maman by her own clan warriors.”

The temperature in the room seemed to drop several degrees. Maral's golden eyes fixed on Frei with a dangerous intensity. “Interesting interpretation. Would you care to explain how defending a kidnapped female from torture constitutes an 'unconscionable attack'?”

“It is irrelevant. In Verit law, there is no crime that a Maman can commit that is so serious that it gives a male a right to harm her.”

“The female,” Maral's voice could have cut diamond, “is a Falosian citizen under my protection. And your Maman-La attempted to murder her.”

“An unfortunate misunderstanding.” Frei's smile was precise, practiced. “One that could have been avoided if certain males had remembered their proper place.”

Petre and Luken stiffened, but before either could speak, Maral laughed. The sound held no warmth.

“Their proper place?” She gestured to where Rowen sat, pale from her injuries. “Their place was exactly where they were, protecting Rowen from a psychopath with delusions of ownership.”

“You overstep,” Frei hissed. “The Maman's authority—”

“Means nothing here.” Maral's voice dropped dangerously. “This is my colony. My jurisdiction.”

She slashed her hand at the assembled witnesses. “The colony charter, signed by the Matriarch herself, says that I can govern how I see fit.” Maral pinned Frei with a golden glare. “I understand you were warned about Bylelle. There were several complaints, and you were given the chance to curb her behavior.”

“I did,” Frei said through gritted teeth. “I ordered her to cease her pursuit of Petre. He is unworthy of her.”

“Yet she ignored you. Her own senior Maman, and representative of the Verit government here. Tell me, Frei, what is the punishment for disobeying the Matriarchs of the clans on Verit?”

Frei didn’t have to respond. Everyone knew. No one disobeyed the clan matriarchs and lived.

Maral softened. “The young female is clearly ill. I will not order her execution—” There was a mutter of protest, which Maral ignored. “But I will order that she is committed to a psychiatric facility, where she can't harm anyone else with her obsessions.”

“Unacceptable,” Frei shot back. “Bylelle is a Maman, acting within her rights. The males must be punished. The Matriarch will hear of this! Examples must be made—”

“Or what?” Maral's smile showed teeth. “You'll withdraw from the alliance? Leave?” She leaned forward. “Go ahead. We don't need you anymore.”

The words landed like physical blows. “You… you can't…”

“Can't I?” Maral's voice was silk over steel. “Times change, Maman. Power shifts. Perhaps it's time for Verit to evolve or be left behind.”

“This is a Verit owned planet!” shrieked Frei.

MakenRoy flashed a red, fanged smile. “Try and take it. The entire human alliance couldn’t. Do you really think you can?”

There was a tense silence.

“Enough! Please.” Scara surged forward. “There may be a compromise.”

All eyes were on the young Maman. She stood straighter under the scrutiny. “I apologize, K’Dec, to you, to Rowen, and to our clan brothers for Bylelle’s conduct.” Frei inhaled sharply and opened her mouth to retort, and Scara sent her a slashing glance. “I agree. My sister is sick. I ask that you let us take Bylelle back to Verit. She will never return to this colony, never have contact with these warriors again.”

“No.” Petre's voice emerged as a pure predator, stripped of civilized pretense. “She needs to be punished! For what she's done, what she'll do to others—”

Scara sent him a sad glance. “She will probably be stripped of her rank when she goes back.”

For the first time during the proceedings, Bylelle showed emotion. “No!” she hissed. “You can’t!”

Scara’s expression hardened. “The Matriarchy does not accept failures, Bylelle, and you have publicly embarrassed us and cost us the loyalty of several highly trained warriors.”

Maral looked at Scara consideringly. “I will accept the compromise. She will be exiled into the custody of the Matriarchy, if you guarantee she will be stripped of her rank and will receive mental health care.” She looked at Rowen. “You are the injured party. The decision is yours. Do you wish to seek retribution?”

Rowen took a deep breath, focusing her attention on Bylelle. The Maman sat rigidly in her restraints, her golden perfection dimmed but not extinguished. Even now, even after everything, there remained an air of entitlement about her, as if this were merely a temporary inconvenience rather than the consequence of her actions.

But beneath that facade, Rowen's empathic senses detected something else; a fractured mind, sharp edges cutting inward as much as outward. The echoes of the broken clan that had produced her, warped her, convinced her that ownership was love and possession was right.

Rowen weighed her options. She could demand justice. Colonial justice, harsh and final. It would be her right. No one in this room would fault her for it, least of all Petre. The marks Bylelle had left on her body were healing, but they had been meant to be permanent and disfiguring.

She felt the barely suppressed bloodlust from the Verit warriors in the room. It would be so easy to give them what they wanted. To give Petre what he needed and deserved. But something held her back.

She thought of the larger picture, of the corrupted system that had produced Bylelle, of the countless other males who might even now be suffering under similar manipulation. Of the way forward for Verit as a society. Would Bylelle's execution change any of that? Or would it simply reinforce the cycle of violence and control?

Her gaze drifted to Scara, the Maman who had found her conscience, who was working from within to change a broken system. To Broken, who had defied decades of conditioning to stand with his clan brothers. To Petre himself, who had broken free of manipulation through love rather than violence.

The path to healing wouldn't be found through retribution. And yet...she couldn't deny the anger that still burned within her. It might be selfish and petty, but the violation of being hunted, captured, cut open like an object haunted her. She wasn’t a holy woman, and the memory of Bylelle's knife against her skin made her stomach churn. Did someone capable of such acts deserve mercy?

She closed her eyes, reaching deeper into herself. Beyond the anger, beyond the fear, what did she truly want? When she opened her eyes again, her decision had crystallized.

"I accept the compromise," she said, her voice steady and clear despite the emotions churning beneath. "Bylelle is sick. She's a product of a system that encouraged her worst impulses, that taught her that ownership equals love. Killing her won't fix that system. It won't prevent more Bylelles from being created."

She met Petre's gaze directly, sensing his conflict. "But she must face real consequences. She must be stripped of her position, separated from those she would manipulate and harm. And she needs help, not because she deserves forgiveness, but because understanding the roots of this sickness is the only way to prevent it from spreading further."

She turned back to Maral. "I want her gone from this colony, never to return. I want her to lose the power and position she's abused. But I don't want her death on my conscience, not when there's a chance, however small, that she might one day understand the gravity of what she's done."

“Very well. Frei, you have the offer,” replied Maral.

Frei looked back and forth between Scara and Maral, like she was trying to work out a complex puzzle. Eventually, her lips thinned. “Fine. I accept.”

“Petre.” Rowen's voice was gentle but firm. “Sometimes living with the consequences of our actions is a harsher punishment than death.”

She could see that he wanted to argue. Wanted to demand the blood price for harming her.

“Alright,” he said finally, “But know this, if she ever returns, if she ever threatens those I love again, I will hunt her down and kill her.” He let the promise hang in the air between them.

Frei's lips thinned, but she nodded once. “Acceptable terms.”

As the Maman swept from the room with their broken sister, Petre felt Rowen's hand slip into his.

“It's not enough,” he murmured.

“No,” she agreed softly. “But it's a beginning.” Her smile held quiet vindication. “And sometimes that's all you need to bring down an empire.”