Page 7

Chapter seven

Dinner and a Show

L ater that night, Bylelle's Maman-La, a young Verit female of about twelve, arrived at Rowen's quarters to announce the evening meal. The girl also informed her that their lady was "indisposed" and would dine privately with Varian.

Rowen stood in front of the mirror in her small cabin, eyeing her reflection critically. A month of living in practical work clothes, hair scraped back and minimal fuss, had left her feeling...functional. Like she'd forgotten how to be anything but an engineer. Not that there was anything wrong with that—she loved her work. But sometimes a female needed to remind herself she was more than her profession.

Thank the Goddess she'd had the foresight to pack at least one nice dress. She pulled the sea foam green gown from her bag, shaking out the wrinkles. The fabric caught the light as it moved, shimmering slightly. It was one of her favorites, saved for special occasions, though she wasn't quite ready to examine why she'd felt compelled to bring it on this trip.

"This is ridiculous," she muttered to herself as she slipped into the dress. "It's just dinner."

Just dinner on a Verit ship, her mind supplied unhelpfully. Just dinner where she'd have to face Petre in something other than work clothes for the first time. Not that his opinion mattered, she told herself firmly. She was dressing up for herself. Because she wanted to. Because sometimes it felt good to be pretty as well as smart.

Still, her hands shook slightly as she tackled her hair. After a month of strict containment, her curls were particularly rebellious, springing free of every attempt at control. Finally, she gave up, letting them fall loose around her face in a wild cascade of fire-bright copper.

She studied her reflection. The dress hugged her curves before falling in elegant waves to the floor, the color making her eyes seem more gold than normal. Her freed curls softened her face, making her look less like the serious engineer and more like...herself.

"There," she announced to her reflection. "Beautiful and brilliant. The perfect combination. You’ve got this."

When she finally emerged, she caught the exact moment Petre noticed her. His eyes widened in shock, all that careful Verit control slipping for just a heartbeat. Then his gaze traveled slowly up from her dress to her face, and the frank appreciation she saw there made her skin warm beneath the cool fabric.

Maybe, she thought as something fluttered in her chest, dressing up hadn't been such a ridiculous idea after all. “You look lovely,” he said.

The compliment took her off guard, and she felt the blush start in her chest and roll up her face. Rowen tilted her head and watched his gaze snag on the sweeping mass of her hair as it moved. “Thank you.”

Little bubbles of happiness burst in her veins. “I don’t get much chance to dress up on the colony.”

“A shame,” he murmured. “It suits you.”

Well. She wasn’t sure how to respond to a compliment from Petre, so in true embarrassed Rowen fashion, she ignored it. “Well, try not to look too scandalized when I inevitably break some deeply sacred dinner rule.”

For a moment she thought he would hold his arm out for her, but he gestured for her to precede him, and they fell into step together. He exhaled a quiet chuckle. “I’ll do my best.”

The dining hall maintained the ship's aesthetic of elegant intimidation, all sweeping crystal and polished silver that made Rowen feel underdressed despite the effort she had gone to.

MakenRoy and Broken were already seated when they arrived.

“You look very nice, Rowen,” Broken said.

“That color is becoming on you,” MakenRoy offered, and Rowen blushed again.

“Thank you. I’m beginning to think I might need to put a bit more effort in on a daily basis, if you’re all so surprised with how I polish up.”

They sat down, and the server presented them with their meals. Rowen stared at her plate, trying to hide her dismay. The others had been served what appeared to be some kind of expertly prepared meat dish. Her plate held a small salad. And a sad-looking piece of fruit.

“Is everything alright, Lady?” the server asked.

“Fine,” she managed, though her stomach growled in protest. “Thank you.”

Petre's expression darkened as he noticed her plate. “This is unacceptable. The kitchen should have been informed—”

“It's fine,” she cut in quickly, not wanting to cause a scene. “I'm not that hungry, anyway.”

MakenRoy's ruby eyes narrowed slightly as he assessed the situation. Without comment, he signaled the server and whispered to him. The server’s face blanched, and he scuttled off. After another twenty minutes, several covered dishes appeared, filled with various vegetarian options.

“The advantage,” he said dryly, “of being heir to an empire is that people are often happy to accommodate my little whims.” He sniffed imperiously. “One mustn’t overuse it, of course. But in this case, it’s warranted.”

“Thank you,” Rowen said, already reaching for a dish that smelled of fresh herbs and spices.

“We are primarily carnivorous. We rarely have vegetarian options.” Petre’s jaw tightened. “But for a guest, Bylelle should have made appropriate arrangements.”

Broken met Petre’s gaze over the table, and Rowen wasn’t sure what communication passed between them, but it was clear Broken didn’t like it.

Rowen made a face. “Let’s not pretend we don’t know what this is.” She waved at the sad salad plate sitting to the side. “This was a pissing contest.” She paused, food halfway to her mouth. “I’m just not sure who it is she’s trying to poke at.”

Petre had the grace to look embarrassed.

“Speaking of our host…” Rowen glanced around and lowered her voice. “I have to know, are Varian and Bylelle…?” She trailed off, not sure how to phrase the question.

“Together?” Petre's lips twitched. “Not in the way you're thinking.”

“But he's so devoted to her. I can sense it.” She frowned. “Which makes it odd that he'd ask me out, actually.”

“What exactly do you sense from him?”

Rowen considered, remembering the emotional signature she'd caught from Varian. “Absolute loyalty and adoration. Almost… puppyish in its intensity.” She shrugged. “I assumed they were lovers.” She grinned. “New lovers, maybe. Still infatuated.”

“They grew up together,” Broken explained. “When Bylelle came to train with Frei, Varian came as her protector. He's a distant cousin, trained from earliest youth to be her guard, her pilot, whatever she needs.” His lips twisted. “Only a mate would be closer.”

“Is she mated then?” Rowen asked, curious about the politics at play.

“No.” A muscle ticked in Petre's jaw. “She's only twenty. Though she'll need to choose soon. The Maman are expected to mate and produce daughters to continue their lines.”

“Twenty?” Rowen blinked in surprise. “But she acts so…”

“Authoritative?” MakenRoy suggested.

“I was going to say 'terrifying,' but sure, let's go with authoritative.”

“Anyway,” Broken said, clearly trying to change the subject, “how has Petre been looking after you? “

“Broken,” Petre warned, but Rowen laughed.

“He’s only growled a few times,” she teased. “He’s been very restrained.”

“Always was,” Broken agreed, his usual stern demeanor softening with fond remembrance. “Even as a youngling. You should have seen him during combat training. Everyone else was raging, full of coming-of-age hormones, and he’d take them apart, piece by piece.”

“Combat training?” Rowen flicked a glance at Petre. “I thought you were an engineer?”

Petre glanced between them, resignation settling over his features. “Really? We're sharing childhood stories?”

“Consider it part of your continuing education,” Broken replied, his eyes twinkling. “Learning to endure mild embarrassment with minimal fuss.”

Petre threw his hands up. “Fine! All Verit males are trained in combat basics,” he explained, “Though I preferred the engineering courses. Luken was the one always looking for trouble.”

“Looking for it?” Broken snorted. “That brother of yours manufactured it. Like that time he convinced you to help him 'test' the environmental controls during combat practice.”

Color touched Petre's pale cheeks. “That was an accident. I was conducting an experiment with pressure differentials—”

“He created a miniature storm system,” Broken said. “In the middle of combat training. I found him surrounded by datapads, completely oblivious to the chaos he and Luken had created. Half the trainees thought we were under attack.”

Rowen pictured a younger Petre, hunched over calculations while chaos erupted around him. “What did you do?”

“Made him write a detailed analysis of atmospheric manipulation in enclosed spaces.” Broken's chest puffed slightly. “Then used it to improve the environmental systems in all the training facilities.”

Petre's lips curved upward. “You always did that. Channeled our… mishaps into usefulness.”

“Someone had to.” Broken grinned. “Otherwise, you and that brother of yours would have run wild. Too much energy, too smart by half, and not nearly as charming as you thought you were.” His smile faded, eyes distant with memory. “Though I saw it in you both from the start. Minds meant for more than just combat.”

“We were lucky,” Petre acknowledged. “The clan invested heavily in our education. Most males serve their combat rotation before being allowed to pursue their personal or educational interests. Like Father.”

“Turik-De,” Broken explained, to Rowen's questioning look. “My sworn blood brother. He always loved creating things—buildings, gardens, sculptures. He’s a true artist, creates beautiful, incredible pieces. But duty came first.” Broken’s eyes misted for a moment.

“But luck had nothing to do with you and your brother,” Broken corrected firmly. “You both proved yourselves worthy of the investment. Though you earned more extra combat drills than any other student I’ve ever had.”

Petre smiled smugly. “And I did them. Without complaint.”

Broken smiled affectionately at him. “That you did.”

“Is that why you both stayed in colony administration?” she asked. “To repay the debt?”

“Partly,” Petre admitted. “Though I like to think we've proven Broken right. The clan needs minds, as well as warriors.”

“Even if some of you are better at following orders than others,” Broken added dryly. “That Luken is a menace.”

“Please,” Petre snorted. “You're as bad as I am. You just hide it better.” He flashed Rowen a conspiratorial grin. “Don't let his perfect Verit male act fool you. This one once reprogrammed all the training dummies to dance instead of fight because he was tired of combat practice.”

“I was only—” Broken protested, then caught himself as Petre’s grin widened. “I mean—”

“Got you,” Petre crowed. “After all these years, I finally got you to admit it!”

Rowen couldn't help laughing at Broken’s expression.

“What about you?” Petre asked, signaling for another round. “How does a Falosian engineer end up in Dalat?”

MakenRoy glared at him. “You’ve been working together for a month and haven’t asked her that?”

Petre had the grace to look embarrassed. “We’ve been focused on the project,” he mumbled.

Broken grunted, clearly unimpressed. There was an awkward pause before Rowen took pity on him. “Pretty ordinary story, really. Grew up on Falosia with my mothers. They run an agricultural engineering firm specializing in adaptive crop rotation.”

“Two mothers?” asked MakenRoy.

“Um, yes?”

Petre shook his head in amazement. “That’s unheard of on Verit. There are so few females, they all need to produce as many young as possible to maintain the population. They could never mate with another female. They are only allowed to stay with a male mate for four years, unless they produce females successfully.”

Rowen felt her heart squeeze in sympathy. “How sad,” she murmured. “We don’t tell anyone who they can mate, whether they need to have young. It would be a deep violation of the person.” She cocked her head, thinking. “Where is your mother?”

Petre and Broken exchanged another glance before Petre shrugged. “Somewhere on the other side of the galaxy. She leads a research vessel exploring mining colonies for the clan. We hear from her occasionally.”

“We were raised by our father and his clan brothers. Broken is his sworn blood brother, a second parent.” Petre paused. “Father was our mother’s fourth mate. They did not stay together after they had us.”

Rowen reached out to touch his hand in sympathy, then stopped, remembering the aversion to touch. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to open old wounds.”

He cleared his throat, easing his hand away. “It’s alright,” he replied matter-of-factly. “It’s not a wound. It’s just the way it is on Verit.”

MakenRoy smiled at her encouragingly, “Tell us how you became an engineer.”

“Alright,” she replied. “I spent my youth taking apart every piece of machinery I could get my hands on.”

“Successfully?” Petre asked.

“Eventually.” She laughed. “Though Mama Lin nearly had a fit when she found me dismantling our atmospheric regulator. I was seven, and convinced I could make it more efficient.”

“Could you?” Broken’s eyes sparkled with amusement.

“Actually, yes. Though I probably shouldn't have tested my improvements during peak growing season.” She smiled at the memory. “That's when they realized I needed proper training before I destroyed the whole compound.”

“So you went into engineering?” Petre prompted.

“Started with mechanical systems at Falosian Central University. But during my second year, I took a course on genetic sequencing technology…” She leaned forward slightly, warming to the topic. “The elegance of it, the way small changes cascade through entire systems, it was like finding a language I didn't know I could speak.” She grinned. “I graduated with the youngest double doctorate in university history.”

“Yet you left,” MakenRoy observed quietly. His red eyes seemed to peer into her soul. “Why?”

Rowen took a sip of her drink, buying time to arrange her thoughts. “I realized I was living in a bubble,” she said finally. “University was ten minutes from home. I had a guaranteed position at my mothers' firm and a teaching position there. Everything was… safe.”

“And that bothered you?” Petre asked.

“It terrified me,” she admitted. “The thought of never testing my limits, never seeing what I could really do…” She gestured at the dining hall around her. “When I saw the posting for Dalat, it felt like the universe offering a chance. So, I jumped.”

“Just like that?” There was an odd tension in his posture.

“Just like that,” she confirmed. “Though I suspect my mothers are still hoping I'll get it out of my system and come home.” She smiled ruefully. “They don't quite understand why anyone would choose uncertainty over security.”

“And do you?” Broken’s question was gentle. “Understand why?”

Rowen drew little patterns on her glass, acutely aware of the three males watching intently. “I understand that safety can become a cage,” she said slowly. “And that sometimes the biggest risk is never taking any.” She swallowed her drink to give herself a second, suddenly in deeper emotional waters than she expected. “I don’t want to lie on my deathbed and regret the things I never tried.”

“To taking risks.” MakenRoy raised his glass.

“To new adventures,” she countered.

The conversation flowed easily after that, touching on colony life, technical challenges, the upcoming negotiations. Rowen watched Petre as much as participating. He was… not the same male she’d worked with for the past month. He was actually funny and warm, when he forgot to be so proper.

“I should go,” she said finally, noting the time. “I want to do a review of the Muha specifications before we arrive tomorrow.”

“I'll walk you—” the Verit males said, then looked at each other.

“I've got it,” Petre said quietly.

They walked in comfortable silence until reaching her accommodation unit.

“Thank you,” she said, turning to face him. “For the dinner. It was nice to have time to get to know you a little, away from the project.”

He smiled slightly. “And you, Rowen. I’m sorry if I have been rude these past few weeks. I’m not usually so…” he trailed off. “I haven’t been at my best,” he said lamely.

“I would like us to be friends, Petre, or at least friendly colleagues. We have months more left to work on this project. Let’s try to enjoy it. Hmm?”

He smiled. “Friendly colleagues, I think I can manage that.” He gave her a final long look that she couldn’t decipher. “You really do look lovely in that dress.”

***

Rowen nursed her coffee, watching Varian demolish what appeared to be his third helping of breakfast with enviable enthusiasm. After another tussle over food, she’d managed to get two pieces of fruit, and a nut bar.

MakenRoy sat quietly next to him, drinking his own coffee. Broken had not yet surfaced. Petre was sitting working on his datapad.

“I didn’t know Maluriens liked coffee,” she said.

MakenRoy smiled evilly. “Maral started a new fashion in the empire for it. There are only three Malurien worlds where conditions are right for it to grow, so it's frighteningly expensive. There is a whole black market that has arisen around triple roasted Malurien coffee beans.”

Rowen coughed a laugh. “Aren’t you supposed to be stamping out black market activities? I thought you were in the royal family?”

MakenRoy laughed. “Not when we’re taking thirty percent of all exports. Maral has built herself quite the nest egg for Varis from it.”

“The warriors are training this morning,” Varian announced between bites. “You should join us, Petre. Let’s see if all that administration has dulled your edge.”

Petre didn't look up from his datapad. “Perhaps another time. We have preparations to make before reaching Muha.”

“Come on,” Varian cajoled. “When was the last time you had a proper sparring session? You're getting soft playing engineer all the time.”

Attempting to divert Petre’s growing irritation, Rowen picked up a piece of fruit and said, “I've never actually seen Verit warriors train. Can I come and watch?”

Varian's grin widened. “You are most welcome, Lady. I will happily stand escort for you if Petre does not wish to attend.”

The datapad thudded down on the tabletop. “Lady Rowen is in my charge, Varian. I will stand as her escort.”

Varian’s smile was sharp enough to slice. “Wonderful. One hour, in the sparring gym.” He stood up and sauntered off.

Rowen looked back and forth between them in confusion. “I’m sorry, Petre,” she said. “I was trying to give you an out, but I feel like I put my foot in it. What did I do?”

He pinched the bridge of his nose. “It’s alright, you didn’t know. He challenged me by suggesting that he would stand as escort to another warrior’s charge. It implies the warrior is not capable.” He sighed. “He was taunting me.” He met her gaze. “It’s a stupid dominance game. I’m sorry you got caught in it. It’s my fault. I’ve spent too much time away from the warriors, focusing on the colony. I forgot about the drama. It is poor form for a lady’s escort on a ship not to train with the warriors stationed there. It’s usually only the injured or elder companions that are excused, or unless the lady orders them not to.”

“What will you do?”

Petre cursed. “I’ll have to take part. I’ll never hear the end of it otherwise.”

“What if I order you not to?”

He shook his head. “It won’t work. You’re not a Maman.”

“I’m so sorry.” She felt awful.

Petre grinned wickedly. “It’s alright. Varian and I never got on. Might be fun to take him or one of his males down.” He stretched his neck. “All in the spirit of friendly competition, of course.”

“Can you beat them?”

He sent her a withering glance. “Broken-De and Lucius-De trained me. They are the greatest warriors the Dathalka clan has ever produced. I could beat them with one arm tied behind my back.”

MakenRoy huffed. “Let’s not get over-confident. Beating them with two arms will be just fine.”

The ship's training facility was impressive, a large space with mats covering most of the floor and exercise equipment lining the walls, leaving a wide-open space for sparring in the center. Nearly two dozen warriors were already there, moving through practice forms with fluid grace, Varian among them. When MakenRoy, Petre and Rowen entered, they stepped back to create an open arena.

Rowen found herself a spot against the wall, fascinated despite herself. She'd seen hints of the warriors' feline genetics before but watching them prepare to spar was different.

Varian stepped into the middle of the ring. “Brothers, we have a guest today. Petre-De from the Dathalka clan, stationed on Dalat, is visiting.” He unleashed a charming smile on Petre. “Do you wish to join our training session today, brother?”

Petre examined the males with a small smile. “I’d be delighted. It’s been a while since I sparred with new opponents.” It was truly impressive how he managed to convey, without uttering the words, that they were entirely beneath him.

Broken slipped in the door and moved through the males to stand beside her. “I came as soon as I heard. What in the name of the Goddess is going on?” he whispered.

“Varian invited Petre to spar, and he felt like he couldn’t refuse.” Broken’s eyes hardened as he saw Varian motion to a male on the far side of the room, a huge hulking brute, to step forward.

“This won’t end well. Varian and Petre have a history.”

Rowen sent him an enquiring glance.

“Varian came with Bylelle to the clan. He wasn’t quite sixteen at the time, so like all the young males he joined the clan training groups.” Broken huffed in annoyance. “In his home clan, he was one of the top warriors and being picked to accompany a Maman to her training clan only stoked his ego more. Her home clan specialized in more…clandestine warfare. Among the Dathalka, he was middling at best, and it wasn’t easy for him. He decided the best approach would be to pick a fight to prove himself, and he chose Petre to do it.” Broken grimaced. “It was dishonorable. Petre was a couple of years younger, and small for his age; his growth spurt came later. Even then, he was more inclined to take apart a scanner than pick up a weapon. Varian thought he would be easy prey.”

Rowen’s eyes widened. “He beat up Petre?”

Broken snorted. “He wishes. Petre wiped the floor with him in front of the entire training group. I trained that boy since he could walk, and he and that idiot brother of his are some of the best the clan ever produced. Varian never quite got over it.”

On the sparring mats, Petre shed his outer layers, leaving them in a neat pile on the floor, stripping down to loose black training pants. Rowen couldn’t help but take an appreciative glance at Petre’s sleek, muscled form. Unlike his opponent’s massive bulk, Petre looked designed for endurance, for running, all long, lean muscle. She fanned herself slightly. Damn, he looks good.

Petre saw her looking, and she winked at him, causing him to laugh as he moved through his stretches. She would have said more, but she couldn’t help feeling the growing weight of the Verit stares. She edged closer to MakenRoy and Broken and magically all the Verit males found something fascinating to look at elsewhere.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

“Any time. Stay close,” MakenRoy rumbled, eyeing the assembled warriors. “I don’t like the feel of this ship. Last night at dinner should not have happened. I’ve spent a lot of time with Broken and Lucius and the other Dathalka males. I’ve learned a fair bit about Verit culture, and no respectable Verit warrior should even think of staring at an unknown female, whether she’s a Maman or not. They pride themselves on their manners and elegance. It’s unheard of for them to be disrespectful to a female guest.”

Broken nodded, crowding in her other side, his eyes hard. “There’s something off here. Stay alert.”

She examined the assembled warriors again, this time extending her empathic tendrils to their limit, but it didn’t help. She was inundated with emotions, but nothing out of the ordinary. Anticipation about the fight, anger, irritation, fatigue, worry…She sighed. Empathy was only useful so far, and in situations like this, not at all. Was a warrior angry because he had an anger problem, or because someone drank the last of the coffee? Unless she was one to one, and not even then sometimes, it was impossible to tell.

Petre and the male circled each other on the practice mats, testing distance, assessing. At least, Petre did. The other male stared at him fixedly, a predator’s unblinking stare. His claws were already partially extended.

“Are they meant to have their claws out when they train?” Rowen whispered to MakenRoy.

He shook his head. “I don’t think—”

All of a sudden, they were fighting. There was no warning.

Petre was in the middle of the traditional bow at the commencement of the bout when the male struck. Rowen winced as the male unleashed a brutal combination that would have taken most opponents off guard, his claws slashing at Petre’s neck and face.

But Petre moved like liquid metal. He flowed away from the strikes, letting the male’s momentum carry him past.

“That’s it. Stay balanced, keep centered.” Broken watched his moves like a hawk.

The warrior struck out again, and again, but each time Petre weaved away with ease, elegant and light like a dancer.

“Why so eager, brother?” Petre's voice taunted. “Or is your training so bad that you don’t know the basics of sparring? What are you doing? Have you forgotten we are males, not beasts?” Rowen winced. She didn’t know much about Verit culture, but even she knew it was a deep insult. They were decidedly touchy about their feline DNA.

Apparently Broken agreed with her. He cursed, “Keep him distracted, don’t push too hard!”

The male snarled in response, abandoning any pretense of proper form. His attacks came faster, more vicious, clearly aiming to wound rather than train.

“Dammit, he’s lost in his rage,” Broken muttered.

“Can you stop this?” she asked.

“No, once it starts, if I stop it now, it’ll reflect badly on Petre.”

“But the other male cheated!”

“And he’ll wear the shame of it.”

“That won’t matter if Petre is dead!”

Almost as if he’d heard them, Petre taunted his opponent again. “Take a step back, warrior. You shame your father and your brothers with this. This is not who we are.”

The other warriors shifted uneasily. Rowen felt the emotional charge in the room change, split into two clear camps. The majority were increasingly angry and disgusted with what they were witnessing. They did not approve of the warrior’s underhanded tactics.

But there was a small group that made her blood run cold. She shifted through the crowd until she saw them, clustered together on the far side of the fight. They were enjoying it, their bloodlust up. More than one of them had bared his fangs, their claws exposed, and it chilled her to her core to realize how close so many of them were to losing it entirely.

She reached out to grab Broken’s arm.

“Across the room—” she murmured.

“I see them,” he replied, his eyes glued to the aroused warriors.

MakenRoy bared his own fangs. “When this goes wrong,” he rumbled, “you protect her, Verit.”

Broken nodded in agreement.

The attacking male roared, drawing her attention back to the fight, and he executed a leap designed to take Petre from his feet. Petre blocked his dive, gripping his leg and pivoting on his hip, throwing the other male into the crowd on the far side. He launched himself again, all instinct and fury.

The end, when it came, was devastatingly simple. The male overextended on a particularly aggressive strike, and Petre moved . He was so fast, like lightning. A sweep, a redirect, and suddenly the male was flat on his face on the floor, Petre's knee in his back and his hand at his throat, claws just barely pricking skin.

The warrior snarled in rage, and Petre bent down, speaking to him in a low voice. “Be calm, brother. Come back to yourself. The battle is over.”

Gradually, the male’s breathing slowed and eventually he gasped, “I yield!”

Broken nodded in approval. “That’s how it’s done.”

Petre released him immediately, stepping back to a safe distance.

Rowen tried to push past Broken, to go to Petre to inspect him for injuries, but Broken barred her way. “He’s fine. Look at him, Rowen. Not a single one of his opponent’s blows landed.”

At Broken’s words, she looked at Petre properly. Broken was right, apart from the way his pupils had contracted to feline slits, the slight extension of his claws as he helped the warrior up, there was no outward indication of the fight. He wasn’t even sweating.

MakenRoy grunted in satisfaction and noticed her concern. “He’ll be fine. He is an excellent warrior, your Petre.”

“He’s not my anything,” she replied absently, her attention drifting from Petre to the other males. She couldn’t quite put her finger on it…something wasn’t right.

“As you say,” agreed MakenRoy.

“Again,” Varian demanded, but Petre was already shaking his head.

“No,” he said flatly. “You got your bout.” He cast a searching look at the warriors around the edge, many of whom wouldn’t meet his gaze. “Your warriors need a little time to cool off, calm down. This…This was poorly done.” He shook his head, his lips twisted in disgust. “I'm done. I have things to do. I will not dignify this ship with another sparring battle.”

Petre turned toward Rowen, and that's when the male moved behind him. It was a dishonorable strike at an opponent who had already won, already ended combat. Petre saw her horrified expression and twisted to defend himself, but before Petre could react, MakenRoy was already in motion, frighteningly fast for a being of his size.

A massive red hand caught the male mid-lunge, slamming his attacker against the nearest wall with bone-jarring force.

MakenRoy's roar shook the training room. “You DARE?” The Malurien prince's ruby eyes blazed with fury as he held the warrior pinned. “You attack a warrior who has honorably defeated you? Have you not already shamed your clan enough today?”

The room went deathly silent. Even the male’s struggles ceased as the weight of his dishonor settled over the witnesses.

He blanched. “My lord, I—” MakenRoy's growl cut him off.

“Silence.” Broken’s voice was a whip. “You shame yourself. You shame your clan. You shame your Lady.”

MakenRoy’s voice promised death. “If you ever display such dishonor again, I will ensure you never enter Alliance or Malurien space. You will never set foot on Dalat again. Are we clear?”

The male’s nod was barely perceptible, his eyes wide and shocked as the consequences of his actions dawned on him. MakenRoy released him slowly, letting him slide down the wall.

The warriors looked at Petre, Broken, MakenRoy, and Varian, and nobody moved. Petre did another slow survey of the room, his eyes meeting with those that might think to challenge him.

“You have humiliated me, Varian.” Bylelle's voice cut through the tension like silk over steel. Rowen whipped round. She'd been so focused on the fight, she hadn't even noticed Bylelle’s arrival. The warriors split, allowing her to step up to the mat.

“Your warriors attacked a guest dishonorably. They are your responsibility, as First Warrior on the Frost Pearl . I expect better of you and your males.” Rowen squinted at her. She said the right things, but her emotional signature radiated dark satisfaction. Rowen looked at Varian, and back to Bylelle and her thoughts crystallized. Whatever had happened here, it was by her command.

Varian took a couple of steps towards Rowen and Petre tensed, inserting himself between them, but Varian simply bowed. “I apologize, Lady Rowen. For the dishonor of my men.”

He turned to Petre. “Forgive me, brother. The warriors of the Frost Pearl owe you a debt.”

He walked over and kneeled in front of Bylelle. “I throw myself on your mercy, Lady.”

Bylelle reached over and placed her head on his hand as a benediction, and Rowen’s stomach churned at the surge of pleasure it gave Bylelle to have him on his knees before her. “Your apology is accepted. This is why we train, after all, to rein in your dangerous male impulses.”

Varian stood. “If you would like another bout, Petre, I am happy to rematch. I will spar with you myself to ensure there is no more unpleasantness.”

The other males stood like statues, watching the drama.

“Oh, please continue,” Bylelle said. “That was impressive.” Bylelle’s eyes glittered as her gaze roved over Petre’s naked chest, and Rowen’s chest tightened at the acquisitiveness she saw there. “I would very much like to see more.”

Before Bylelle could press further, Rowen stepped forward. “Actually, I really do need Petre's help with the environmental specifications before we reach the planet.” She met Bylelle's gaze and held it. “I’m sure Maman Frei and K’Dec Maral would not like any delays in the negotiations.”

Bylelle smiled, all teeth, and the moment hung in balance, suspended for a second. “Of course not. Business must come first, after all.”

As Rowen led Petre from the training room, she felt Bylelle's gaze boring into her back like knives. She strongly suspected that she'd just made an enemy, though she couldn't bring herself to regret it.

“Thank you,” he said quietly once they were safely away.

She shrugged. “I got you into it. It seemed only fair to get you out of it.”

His smile was tired. “Still. Thank you.”

Rowen left the rest unsaid. Something dark had happened in that training room. They both knew it. Bylelle had ordered Varian to provoke Petre. She just didn’t know why.