Page 82

ADRIANA

M y frustration melts away as we shoot straight up, the Reaver humming as Doman pushes it to full power. The anti-grav strains to keep up with Doman’s wild ascent to the heavens as he pilots us skyward.

I gasp as we twist, twirling straight upwards as if he is driving us into the sun, then dives, almost clipping the palace walls as he darts over them and divebombs us downwards.

“Doman!” I yell, the second before we slam against the ground, but he hoots, pulling us upwards and skimming over the fields. I swear we’re less than an inch away from the grass, screaming forward at full speed away from the palace.

I grit my teeth, looking over at Doman to tell him to slow down, but I see the pure focus as he pilots with mastery, joy in his eyes, grinning.

“What a rush. Been too damn long since I was in a Reaver!” He seems to sense my tension and glances over, and the attack ship slows, ascending to a safer distance from the ground.

“Forgive me. I’ve been in command of a warship so long, I forgot how good it felt to pilot a dogfighter. ”

Titus is standing behind the captain’s chair, his hands on the back of it. “You remember in the second year of our hundred when we got drunk with Lukas and his boys, and Calien bet they could beat us in a race?”

“Damn good pilots,” says Gallien, somberly, from his seat at the second Orb-Beam gunnery that mirrors mine. “Calien and Tiber were taken from us too soon.”

“What were the terms?” Asks Titus, nostalgic. “No shields, through the iron mine shafts on that hollowed out planet with no maps. It ended up in a tie and two dinged up Reavers and every one of our unit swearing they had no idea what happened.”

Doman chuckles. “I would have won, if it wasn’t for that dead-end shaft we nearly plowed into. And then we all got half rations for a week, but no one ratted us out.”

We fly over the rolling hills where estates, given to those who complete the hundred years of service, spread out as far as the eye can see.

There was a time when each estate was full, when the Aurelian species numbered tenfold its current population. Now, I see more humans working on the homes, tending to the gardens and cleaning the pools, than Aurelians living in them.

Hovering over a sprawling estate, Doman guides us expertly downward, touching down without a jolt beside a Reaver identical to ours.

The mansion before us, like everything else on this planet, is ridiculous.

Three extravagant stories of marbled, pillared majesty, the stone shining in the late afternoon light.

The swimming pool could fit two Olympic-sized lengths, surrounded by a grove of trees and winding paths.

All this, for a single triad and their Fated Mate. If this was a palace reserved for a prince, I could almost fathom it. Bruton gained this palace not by his birth, but by attaining the status of an Elite, and there are hundreds of identical opulent estates spreading out in every direction.

Two servants stand before the entryway of the manor. One is a little older than me, with pleasing rosy cheeks, and the other, matronly and prim, with a freshly pressed uniform and her gray hair in a tight bun, standing behind Bruton’s Mate Evelyn.

I’d seen holo-vids of her before. The head of research at the cyborg program, leading a facility my intelligence agency was unable to penetrate.

She alone turned the Mark models of cyborgs from individualistic, unpredictable warriors into a harmonized legion that turned the tide of battle against Obsidian.

The Bond has changed her. It’s hard to tell from the cockpit of the Reaver, but she might be taller, and she’s got strong posture, radiating health and vitality.

Her breasts are the most shocking change.

They’ve swollen up, at least twice their former size, and she has a baby bump under her elegant, flowing white dress with a button-down front that cascades gracefully over her form, the professionalism of a classic blouse extending into fluid lines. She’s glowing.

Her changes make me look up at Doman, who stands from the pilot’s seat.

His raw power can’t be hidden by the formality of his long white robe, the fabric flowing over the mass of his muscles.

All that primal strength, and he can change me, just as Evelyn has been changed.

She’s a reminder of what will happen to my willowy frame, and this is just the beginning of the transformations of an Aurelian pregnancy.

By the time she is ready to bear her firstborn, her already swollen breasts will be even larger, leaking milk for her hungry babe.

The transformation of the Bond is more than just mental.

If I finally let my triad link me to them, people will no longer see me as Adriana, Prime Minister of Pentaris.

All my accomplishments will fade away as they watch me turn into a breeding sow for the crown prince, my body molding and shaping to its purpose as an incubator of his sires.

A frisson goes up and down my spine, and my skin feels uncomfortably sensitive under the plain fabric of my uniform.

Behind Evelyn, Bruton is looming. Even standing at rest, I can see how protective he is of her, resting a huge marble hand gently on her shoulder.

“It’s good to be back,” says Titus, and the four of us walk out of the Reaver and onto the packed ground of the small landing strip in the manor’s ground, big enough for three or four Reavers.

“Welcome to my home,” booms out Bruton. “Dinner’s—” He stops mid-sentence.

The atmosphere changes in an instant. Bruton’s kind, honest face transforms into the beastly warlord I had heard a thousand tales of, his jaw set as he strides forward, his blade activating.

My triad’s blades flare to life, the low hum of Orb-Weapons filling the peaceful scene as the four of us turn to face the threat.

There’s a click from the seamless white metal of the Reaver, and a panel opens at the front, under the cockpit.

To my shock, an Aurelian clambers out.

“Cal?” Doman says, confused, and in the same heartbeat, all four blades are de-activated, the hilts holstered in the Aurelian’s belts.

“Yes, well,” says the new arrival, brushing himself off as he gracefully falls five feet to the ground. “There are some rules about the three of us being in the same place. This was my way of getting around security.”

Cal, the third in line to the throne, arranges his rumpled clothes as if he didn’t just come out of a ship, standing nonchalantly like his sudden appearance was the most ordinary occurrence.

He is clad in human clothes, brown, loose slacks and a black hoodie.

Short for an Aurelian, which makes him still well over six feet tall, but he lacks the typical broadness of the alien species.

While his brothers have legs like tree trunks and biceps like bowling balls, Cal’s got a lanky, long frame.

He's unbelievably handsome, almost too pretty to be real, with high cheekbones, a delicately upturned nose, and skin more like porcelain than marble. His green eyes would put the lush forests of Virelia to shame, and he’s got on simple sandals that would be useless in a fight.

He’s also the first Aurelian I’ve seen without an Orb-Weapon at his belt.

“Bloody hell, you’re a magician,” growls out Doman, and the grin splits his face as he strides to his younger brother.

Doman wraps him up in a huge hug, lifting him from the ground while Cal simply freezes up, going practically limp until he’s placed back on the ground.

He puts strands of his hair back in place. “How long were you in that Reaver?”

Cal shrugs. “As long as it took. Security thinks I am in my chambers at present. No reason to worry Mother, not with your wedding coming up. She’s quite stressed out, you know.”

I should be happy to meet the second of Doman’s many brothers—but all I’m thinking is that his knack for getting around security is about to come in handy. I push that thought away and walk closer to him.

“Hello Cal. I’m Adriana. Pleased to meet you.”

“Adriana Hart. Of course.” He makes no move to offer his hand to shake mine, so I just smile at him.

His face remains neutral, aloof without being impolite, and walks straight past me to Evelyn, talking at a feverish clip.

I catch about half of it—he’s excited that smaller ships seem to go missing in the Rift more often, whereas mid-sized and larger ships are more likely to break up in a failed shift, and he darts from one topic to the next, one sentence talking about the Rift and the next about the Planet Killer demonstration.

Evelyn smiles politely at him, then raises her hands. “Cal, could we discuss this after dinner, please? Hey! I’m Evelyn. Pleased to meet you,” she says with a smile that touches me with how genuine it is.

“Hey. Thanks for inviting us. It’s nice to be around another human.”

“Careful, you’ll hurt Bruton’s feeling with that kind of talk,” she laughs, and Bruton feigns insult, but the big man can’t hide his glee at being reunited with his brothers. “You hungry? Dinner’s ready, Grace and Hazel spoil us,” she says, making her two servants swell up with pride.

My stomach rumbles embarrassingly, and we follow her and Bruton into their estate, with high ceilings and double staircases leading up to the upper floors.

Evelyn takes us into a dining room with a huge wooden table, laden with food for any taste, from salads with fresh greens and vegetables, seafood from the pristine oceans resting on ice, and fresh baked bread with churned butter.

There’s a peace to this home, a happiness I see within every glance between Evelyn and Bruton, and as I sit on a human-sized chair between my triad, I’m uneasy. A pang of guilt drives through me.