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Chapter One

G race

As I hurry to the bridge at Captain Zar’s request, I don’t know why my thoughts have turned to that day three weeks ago when I was caring for Tyree. Those were dark days when we all feared he would die. Thankfully, Shadow cured him through their psychic connection a few days later.

It’s hard to even think how close to death Tyree was, how worried I was for him. Now he’s healthy and putting on even more muscle every day. He’s happy and seems to be figuring out how to step into his new role. He’s even training to help pilot this vessel.

“Thanks for coming, Grace. I have great news,” Captain Zar excitedly greets me as I step through the doors to the bridge.

I take a moment to glimpse out the expansive floor-to-ceiling windows that encircle most of the bullet-shaped room. In the weeks since we fought for our freedom I’ve come to love this view.

I glance at the endless array of stars and purple nebulae in the vast expanse of velvet black space. It usually relaxes me, but I’m on high alert because Zar’s never called me to the bridge before and despite his upbeat words, my naturally paranoid self is thinking whatever’s coming can’t be good.

Zar beams at me expectantly. I usually enjoy his calm strength, having learned weeks ago how to ignore our physical differences—he’s a huge feline humanoid. Tyree’s sitting casually in his first mate’s chair, his ankle crossed over his knee. Between his handsome face and what’s almost hanging out of his well-packed loincloth, I feel awkward under his warm gaze. I’ve been avoiding him lately—as attracted as I am to him, his obvious masculine interest makes me nervous.

“Sit down, Grace,” Zar motions me into the empty seat at the comms panel, then sits in his wide captain’s chair.

“You must be wondering why I called you here. Were you aware that Callista got bored one night at her comms post and put your music out over the Intergalactic Database?”

I shake my head, not even sure what to do with this piece of information, and certainly not sure why this is such “great news.”

“She told me to tell you...let me check my notes…she put your ‘greatest hits’ on a channel that ’went viral.’ I’m not sure what that means. Do you understand?”

“Kind of,” I hedge even as my mind starts quickly calculating possible catastrophic outcomes that might result from this information.

“She said millions of beings heard it and began sharing it with others and giving it accolades.”

“Okaaay.” My spidey senses tell me something’s coming that I’m not going to like. My stomach clenches and my palms start to sweat.

“In addition to all sorts of messages praising your music and your performance, you also received an invitation to play on planet Emirus—from the Emperor himself.” He’s grinning at me. His golden feline features look more fearsome than happy with his face lifted in a smile, possibly because of the inch-long canines peeking out beneath his cat-like lips.

“They’re going to pay you three hundred thousand credits! Just to sit in a beautiful dress on a fancy stage in a huge symphony hall, and play the music you’ve already composed. This is a fantastic opportunity for us all. It will keep us in fuel and much-needed mechanical updates for an entire lunar cycle. What a lucky break.”

There are twenty-three souls on board this vessel. In the last weeks since we overthrew our slave masters and commandeered this ship, we’ve been roaming the underbelly of the galaxy. Our males have been making money in gladiatorial matches—some state-sponsored, some in sketchy underground venues.

It’s been clear since the beginning of our adventure that credits are in short supply, but this? My hands begin trembling.

“Lucky break,” I repeat Zar’s words dully. My mind finally catches up with what he just told me and now it’s not just my hands that are quaking—anxious tremors are shooting through my entire body.

“A two-hour concert on three consecutive days,” Tyree chimes in happily. “Those three concerts will net more credits than ten gladiator matches. And no one has to risk their life!” He spears me with a proud, encouraging look.

My traitorous body responds before my thoughts catch up. I’m nauseous, complete with a rumble and tightness in my belly. I press the soles of my feet to the floor in an effort to counteract the dizziness that’s making the room spin. Gripping the arms of my chair, I try to stay put as I order my body to stand down, but I soon realize the nausea is more powerful than I am.

I bolt out of my chair with no explanation. My lips are tightly clamped to make sure I don’t hurl in front of my shipmates. Running down the hall to the nearest restroom, I try to choke back the acid making its fiery climb up my throat and threatening to propel out of my mouth.

After gargling, I splash cool water on my cheeks. I don’t like the face in the mirror that’s looking back at me. My eyes are wide and shiny and full of fear. I’m not this person. I have inner strength. I’ve been in jams before. I lived through kidnap and a bloody insurrection. I can power my way through this.

But I can’t, a weak, whiney voice in my head insists. I’ve had a physical reaction to performing since my first recital. Every music teacher I’ve ever had praised me and told me I was destined to play in front of audiences. But I became a barista instead—I’m not built to perform. When I play in front of people my body reacts as if I’m in a war zone. I’ve gone to therapy, taken meds, had sessions of hypnosis—it never made a dent in this anxiety.

Panic. For some people it’s thunder, for others it’s heights or spiders, for me it’s performing. My body makes an end-run around my mind and reacts like this!

Did Zar say “huge symphony hall”? Really? With just that thought, I heave, missing the toilet and splattering all over the sink and metal walls. Crap!

While I’m cleaning up I do all sorts of positive self-talk and calming breaths, and even some crazy tapping technique therapist number three taught me. My stomach is still rumbling, and hot waves of nausea are flowing through me.

Finally, my gut settles, I’m breathing normally, and the walls are clean—although the bathroom definitely needs to be fumigated.

I think of all the reasons my shipmates need me to perform. We’re now in possession of this ship but no money. Even though some of the gladiators have fought on various planets to make income, credits are still in short supply. And our former owners, the MarZan cartel, are pursuing us. Not only do they still consider us their “property”—they want their ship back. They’ve advertised a hefty price on our heads to every slaver, pirate, and crook in the galaxy.

“Grace,” I order the pale, wide-eyed face looking out at me from the mirror, “you’re going to walk back on that bridge and agree to do it. Every person on this ship will benefit from this. You will figure this out—you have to. Every life on board depends on it.”

After one more splash of water, I throw my shoulders back, lift my chin, and drag my feet back to the bridge with as much dignity as I can muster. The room is quiet, with that “oh no, we weren’t talking about you” vibe as I enter the double doors.

“I’ll do it,” my voice is strong with false bravado. “I’ll figure it out.” I’ve survived worse.

The relief on their faces is palpable.

“I have an idea,” Tyree interjects. “You know what I did before the overthrow, right?”

Yes, I certainly know what he did, we’ve talked about it many times. But right now my brain freeze is so severe all I can do is raise a questioning eyebrow because my mind can’t find the answer to his question.

“I calmed the previous captain. That was my job as a slave. I sat at his feet right there,” he points at the floor near Zar’s chair, “and used my psychic powers to reduce his anxiety. I lay at the foot of his bed every night and calmed him to sleep.

“That was before my Transformation. Since then, my powers have increased.” He spears me with his blazing, emerald gaze. “I could do that for you, Grace. We could begin as soon as you’d like. I can relax you, ease your fears. I can help you get through this.”

He just threw me the only lifeline I’m going to get.

“Thanks, Tyree. That’s generous. I’ll take you up on your offer. Can we meet tomorrow at breakfast?”

Tyree

Grace has such a strong effect on me I usually try to avoid her. And now I’ve promised to meet her tomorrow morning? Right now I’ll embarrass myself if I don’t figure out a way to sneak to the restroom to rearrange my cock in my loincloth.

Why did I offer to spend time alone with her? Stupid question. First, she obviously needs help. Second, it gets me increased access to her—both of us in a room, alone, with no intruders. I crave it and dread it in equal measures.

Ever since my Transformation, I spring erections at least five times a day, usually more. My friend Shadow says I’m going through adolescence even though I’m thirty-five. Whether I’m fifteen or thirty-five, these feelings are overwhelming and all-consuming.

Hustling into the private bathroom in my cabin, I begin what is my most frequent pastime as of late. I practically rip off my loincloth and grab my cock. I’ve read that most people use many different fantasies when they touch themselves. I only have one. Grace.

I visualize her from head to toe. I imagine her shoulder-length blond hair and her large blue eyes—they remind me of the sky on my home planet of Larian. I appreciate that she often wears pretty dresses that accentuate her femininity. I picture the way she walks, so graceful and delicate without trying to call attention to herself.

But my thoughts are pulled to the sensations my hand is producing. In my mind, it’s not my hand that’s caressing me, but Grace’s small, soft, nimble one. Closing my eyes, I feel her slim, cool fingers discovering me, exploring from base to tip and back. My engorged cock throbs in time with my swiftly-beating heart. My blood is like hot lava coursing through my veins.

I picture her nude body, pink-tipped breasts swaying as she works me. I imagine the smell of her arousal.

I’m so close to release I skip to the best part of my fantasy—when her knees slowly descend to the floor, her eyes never leaving mine. She sensually licks her lips, and her warm mouth surrounds my cock.

It’s the labor of a moment, working myself hard, manhandling myself, before I spurt into the toilet. I immediately flush the evidence down the drain before my heart rate returns to normal.

Part of me wants to bask in the physical release, the calm bliss of the aftermath of my orgasm, but I don’t allow it. I’m still not used to these base needs. I lived thirty-five annums without them. I resent them.

I step to the sink to wash any remnants from my hands and cock. As I dry myself with a towel, I catch my reflection in the mirror. Shaggy golden hair, glowing green eyes, strong jaw. I still see a stranger when I glance at my reflection.

It was less than two lunar cycles ago when I examined myself in a mirror just like this in the room I shared with the captain. I was only three fiertos tall, so I had to jump up on the sink, my knobby little knees perched on each side of the cabinet, so I could peer at my reflection.

That was the exact moment I realized the Transformation was coming. My round, cherubic face was manifesting harder planes and angles. I observed defined muscles in my calves for the first time in my life.

I was abducted by slavers from my home planet at the age of seven. I had only recently learned about the Transformation. Larians are born sexless, or as Dr. Drayke explained, intersexed. I had two vents between my legs for excretion.

Some of my race never transform. Others do—but only when they’ve met their truemate.

I still don’t understand how it happens. Dr. Drayke says he can find nothing in the literature. My planet was so backward, there was no research available about my homeworld. Two Larians would meet and for some reason, it would trigger the Transformation. One would become male and the other female. Then they’d celebrate with a mating ceremony, and later, perhaps offspring.

I figured I’d be this odd, sexless, tiny person forever because I would never meet another Larian. And certainly never Transform.

Now here I am, stooping a little to catch a good look in the mirror. If I glimpse myself when I’m in the right frame of mind, I can see what the others on the ship see when they view me: a tall, powerful male with broad shoulders, strong muscles, and observant green eyes. But most of the time I still think of myself as I’ve been most of my life: short, slight, and weak.

But when I’m near Grace I never feel that way. I can’t forget I’m all male when I’m around her. I’m protective of her, wanting to keep her away from the other males. I want to get to know her better and learn every memory, good or bad, that made her into who she is today.

I want to take care of her, provide for her, and bring food to her. When we eat together I have to tamp down my urge to feed the best morsels to her—I know she’d hate me doing that in front of our friends.

It’s not just my body and emotions that have changed since my Transformation. I haven’t admitted to anyone how much my psychic powers have increased. Before, I could only enter someone’s mind when they invited me. About the only thing I could do was calm them, which is what kept me alive through all my annums as a slave.

Now my gift is more powerful, I can occasionally catch words or phrases drifting from my shipmates’ minds as I sit next to them or pass them in the hall.

It’s a blessing Grace’s thoughts never stray into my own. I find it calming to be in her presence. Between the lack of mind chatter and her sweet soul, there’s no one on board I’d rather spend time with.

Except for the erections. Those are worse when she’s around. And now I’ve offered to spend more time with her until her concert commitment is fulfilled.