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I gape at Darax. Just when I think he’s not going to come out with something unhinged, he manages to prove me wrong.

He dips a finger into a pot containing a red paste and puts it in his mouth, sucking on the digit until it is clean.

“You are sweeter,” he says.

My treacherous core clenches. A growl ripples through Darax.

“This was a bad idea,” he murmurs.

“You’re telling me!”

“Your scent will send my warriors wild,” he rasps. “That means I will have to remove their heads from their bodies.”

He glances over his shoulder where the dining hall is swiftly emptying.

“And I spent so long training them.”

“You can’t do this,” I say. “It’s not fair.”

“My warriors, my ship, my rules,” Darax rumbles. “They know when to fight and when to find somewhere else to be.”

“But they still need to eat.”

“Ah, little mate, always thinking of others and not herself.” Darax trails a finger over my cheek. “No wonder your kind are not warlords.”

“I think you’ll find humans have plenty of monsters,” I retort.

Darax’s mouth reveals an impressive set of fangs as he grins. “But not warlords,” he suggests.

“Not like the Sarkarnii, although plenty of humans do what you do.”

“And what is it I do”—Darax settles himself into his chair like a hen on eggs, cocking his head to one side to contemplate me—“that you dislike so much? I provide for my warriors. I provide for most of Vorostor Central. We have meat, we have ale-wine, we have a good life, as far as we can.”

“But you’re exploiting others.”

Darax leans forward. “Believe me, little snack, there is no exploitation. They are glad of our protection, and if for any reason they cannot provide the supplies we need, there are no consequences.”

“What?”

“We were never enforcers.” Darax chuckles. “Pirates once, maybe, certainly homeless and wandering our galaxy, but never enforcers.”

Without warning, I’m plucked from my seat and placed on his lap with a cry of alarm.

“Hush, little mate. You’re right where I want you.”

“This is not funny, Darax,” I squirm on his lap, one which is covered by pants on this occasion.

“I wish to feed my mate, and I cannot do so whilst you squirm.” Darax leans close to my ear. “But I can give you my cock if you so wish.”

I debate what might be the best outcome in this scenario—being impaled by Darax publicly or fed by him.

I opt for the lesser of the two evils.

“Fine.” I fold my arms and go still. “What does the feeding entail?”

I feel Darax relax under me. Or at least most of him. There’s one part which is very much enjoying this situation. One very big part.

“It involves me providing my mate with food until she has sufficient,” Darax rumbles. “You are very tiny and you need to be fed.”

“It doesn’t exactly…” My words are cut off as Darax pops a sliver of meat into my open mouth.

Part of me is too dumbstruck for a second or two to start chewing. But when I do, the flavor bursts over my tongue, and I groan involuntarily.

It seems this is Darax’s turn to squirm.

Another morsel is offered up to my mouth which I take eagerly, even if this whole situation is weird beyond belief. But the food is good as always, and I skipped breakfast because my stomach was filled with butterflies.

“Hungry little mate,” Darax growls.

He doesn’t eat, and I snatch up a piece of meat, offering it to his lips. For a second, he hesitates. I’m obviously breaking with protocol or whatever it is which makes his rut tick.

Then he encloses my fingers with his mouth, sucking in the food and his wicked forked tongue swiping over my digits in a way which makes my core heat.

My knickers are not going to get out of this situation alive, I know it.

“Delicious, my Kerra,” Darax says. He lifts another piece of food to my mouth. “This is my favorite, roasted aravax over a bed of symr.”

The scent of the spiced meat reaches me. I open up and he puts the food in. This is better than the last, the subtle spices, the taste of meat cooked over charcoal—it’s all exquisite.

“Who cooks this?” I ask, unable to imagine any of the Sarkarnii warriors I’ve seen hard at work in the kitchens.

“We are Sarkarnii. We love to roast,” Darax rasps, with mirth in his eyes.

“Being able to prepare and cook meat is a skill taught to Sarkarnii males from an early age, along with all the accompaniments.” He gestures to the dishes in front of us.

“Our aim is to be able to please our mates, to be allowed to rut, to mate and not to be envenomated.”

“You get taught all of this?”

“It is no hardship,” Darax replies. “In fact, outside our warrior training, it is a relaxing alternative. Do hoo-man males not get lessons in this way?”

“I mean, some do learn how to cook, but, well…” I rub the back of my neck as I swallow the remains of the meat. “It’s not the same for men.”

Darax hums deep in his throat, the purr which he used on me earlier resurfacing. “All males should be able to please their females in whatever way is necessary.”

“Or they get envenomated?”

Darax nods sagely. “Females can be bitey,” he says. “My warriors will not touch you because you are mine, but the other females are safe because of the risk of a bite.”

I snort, looking forward to imparting this information to my friends.

“Now eat,” Darax says, holding up more food. “I want your belly round and your eyelids closing.”

“I’m not sure it works exactly like that, but I am hungry,” I reply.

Which means I get offered even more food, eating until I cannot eat any more, and neither can Darax.

He wasn’t wrong. I have a food baby, and I’m not sure I can move.

I pat myself, and the rumble I get from him suggests it might not have been the best thing to do.

A huge hand slides over mine, cupping my stomach.

“I wish for you to carry my sarkarnling, my Kerra.”

“Will that help your rut?” I ask. “Because I’m not sure how I feel about any of this.”

“My rut will end once you are filled. In the meantime, it will do what it will do,” Darax replies.

“And if it doesn’t end? If we aren’t compatible?”

He fires out a long stream of smoke into the air.

“Fate found you for me. I believe fate will make this right.”