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Chapter Ten

G race

I know I’m twenty-six, but I can’t help swaying in front of the mirror like a little girl in her first fancy dress. Petra did my hair in what she calls a “simple chignon.” It’s a fancy, slightly messy style pulled back in a low bun. Between the dress, the hair and the great job she did on my makeup, I find it hard to tear my eyes from the mirror.

I never wanted to attract attention to myself. As a young woman, I didn’t experiment with makeup or hair. I either wear my hair down or pull it into a ponytail without benefit of looking in a mirror. In my head, I always described my looks as “okay.” I would never use the words cute, pretty, or attractive.

But now, looking in the mirror, I’ve got to admit the word “pretty” wouldn’t be too much of a stretch.

I’m wearing the green gown. It’s the exact emerald color of Tyree’s eyes, and of the three, I think it looks best on me—I really need my confidence tonight. First of all, there are sixty-five hundred patrons out there who will be scrutinizing me. Second, the Emperor of the entire freaking planet will be in his box watching me. Third, Shadow recently informed me that Emperor Quirinus apologized for his faux pas of inviting me for an aperitif before my program, and offered dinner afterward in his private suite.

I don’t know how to weasel my way out of this. No pressure!

“All you have to do is slip on your shoes and you’re ready to go,” Petra pulls me out of my fear-induced reverie. “You look beautiful. Ready?”

I glance in the full-length mirror one more time. “I look...good. Thanks, Petra. You worked a miracle!”

“You’re so pretty, Grace. You didn’t need a miracle worker. You have great bone structure. Let’s get a move on.” She motions toward the door.

I take one last look in the mirror and have a quick internal fight with myself. The little girl inside thinks all everyone will see is the fifth-grader who wore smelly clothes to school. The grown-up Grace can see what I really look like in this exquisite green dress. The deciding factor will be the look on Tyree’s face, although I know in my heart he thinks I’m attractive in anything I wear. And especially when I’m wearing nothing at all.

The hem of the dress is so wide I have to squish it through the doorway. The males are out in the hall, half looking one way, half looking the other—all on high alert. I hear crowd noises from the auditorium, even though we’re several long hallways from there. Soft music is drifting in, maybe there’s an orchestra playing as people take their seats. For some reason, the sound of the crowd is the thing that amps my anxiety into overdrive. Everything just got real.

Where is Tyree? I frantically look around for a moment, then see his broad back, flashes of his bronze skin peeking out from behind the strip of leather crossing his back. Then perhaps he feels my eyes on him and turns almost in slow motion.

The expression on his face when he sees me is a moment I want to keep in my mental photo album until my dying day. His face is at first impassive, then his eyes widen as he sees me. Almost like a double-take, he glances down to my shoes and up to my hair one more time. Then it’s like he’s convinced himself it’s really me and his mouth turns into a grin that stretches wider and wider.

‘Wow,’ he mouths, then “Wow,” he says more loudly. “Grace you look…what’s the best word in your language? I want to get it right. What would be the most beautiful word in the Earth language?”

“Gorgeous,” Petra offers. “Or Exquisite. Try Exquisite.”

I don’t know what word actually comes out of his mouth. It doesn't sound like English, nor does it translate from Larian. But the look on his face says all I need to hear. My stomach tightens, my clit pulses, and rivers of fire flow through my veins.

Now all the males turn to look at me. A few immediately glance back around, knowing they need to do their jobs, but many do the same hair-to-toes once-over. None of them say anything; I assume not wanting to set off Tyree’s blazing protective instincts. But the look on their faces was...impressed? Appreciative? Whatever it was, it gives me confidence.

Petra grabs my instruments, and we all surge down the hall. Half the males behind me, half in front.

“Do you want to carry these on stage?” She asks lifting them toward me. “Or should I put them on the table they’ve set up near your chair?”

I’m on overload; the simple question is too hard to decide.

“I’ll put them out there.” She glides onstage and leans them against the small table that holds a glass and a pitcher of water.

Tyree edges closer, looking around. Surrounded by so many males, we feel invisible. “Want a quick treatment, Amara ?”

I nod and furtively touch the hand that’s resting at his side. I’m bathed in warmth and serenity.

“You know you’ll do well, Grace. We all know how magnificently you play. Want advice?” I nod again. “Look at the back doors. Focus on one of the shining gold knobs. Not the faces, not the people, not whether they appreciate your music or not. Just the knobs. The knobs and your music. Dive into your music, play your program, then stand up and receive your applause. I’ll be right here when you’re finished.”

And that’s just what I do. When I’m given my cue, I walk to the oh-my-God golden throne sitting center stage. The applause is thunderous and I know I can’t just sit down. I open my arms and raise them, giving the impression I’m receiving their adoration. In reality, I’m focused on a shiny gold knob that seems like a football field away.

As the applause dies down, I take my seat, grab String Thing for my first piece, and dive in. I sink deeper into the music with every lilting note. I soar with the lively compositions and become melancholy with the serious ones. I’m so immersed in the music I realize I’m improvising during one of my favorite songs, Transformation , that I composed for Tyree. I have such a deeper connection to him now—new variations of music simply flow from my fingers.

Before I know it, I’ve come to the end of my program. The hall is still. I don’t even hear a cough or the rustling of fancy silk gowns. Nothing. Now I’m even more fearful of tearing my eyes from the shiny gold knob. But as if on cue, the hall erupts in clapping and appreciative shouts. If I thought the applause at the beginning of my program was thunderous, this is louder by tenfold.

I read once that the best sign of recognition after a performance was immediate silence. It signifies the audience was so mesmerized they were completely transported. I think that’s what happened. Warmth spreads through my body as I bathe in their approval.

People are stomping their feet. I finally get the nerve to sneak a peek from the golden knob. Most in the audience are Emirusians and look extremely human. Then I see more unusual aliens peppered throughout the house. A shiny silver one that must be from Steele’s planet, an amphibious female wearing a bubbler over her mouth and nose to be able to breathe the air on this planet. So many others I can’t take it all in.

And then the hall quiets as a tall male on the first balcony rises to his full height and is escorted by the royal guard toward the stage.

Emperor Quirinus. His uniform is the same blood red as the curtains. His shoulders are covered with gold epaulets. There is a huge red gem, large as a drink coaster, hanging around his neck and resting on his chest. Hair, long and midnight black, is pulled into a braid trailing halfway down his back. And he’s heading right toward me.

He’s smiling. That’s a good sign. He looks younger than I’d expected, maybe a few years older than Tyree. For someone ruling an entire planet, he isn’t at all what I’d imagined. For starters, he’s gorgeous. Straight nose, square jaw, and amethyst eyes. The contrast between those blazing purple eyes and his jet-black hair is startling...and attractive.

Mauritious, the captain of the guard, joins us on stage and makes quiet introductions, the applause still rolling like thunder in the background.

“Lord Quirinus, may I introduce Miss Grace. Miss Grace, Lord Argento Quirinus.”

“Call me Arge,” the Emperor croons in a deep, melodious voice.

Am I now on a first-name basis with the Emperor of a planet? Really? Just like that?

Mauritious puts his hands up in a motion designed to quiet the crowd and they do, instantly. After all, their Emperor is standing right there.

“Miss Grace, I want to thank you for your brilliant performance,” the Emperor intones in a voice loud enough to be heard throughout the perfect acoustics of the auditorium. “I’m sure everyone in the audience enjoyed your music as much as I did. I’m certain we would all agree you earned the name ‘Musician of Angels.’” Oh no, the applause starts up again. I just want to get off this freaking stage before I barf all over his Highness.

Mauritious quiets the crowd again, and the Emperor continues, “As a token of my appreciation…,” He lifts the humongous ruby necklace off his neck and places it over my head. My knees start to buckle, not from the weight of the necklace, although it is considerable, but from complete overload. I’ve reached my limit. Dear Lord, this thing must weigh a pound.

The Emperor is the first to notice that I’m falling in slow motion. He steps closer, grabs me under one arm and pulls me upright.

“Thank you, Your Highness. I’m afraid…”

“Let’s get you off this stage,” he whispers in my ear, then addresses the crowd, “Thank you all for coming.”

Tyree

My chest swelled with pride for Grace. She far exceeded expectations up on that stage. I wonder if she did what I suggested and didn’t look at the faces in the crowd. It would be wonderful if she could appreciate the adoration she’s receiving from the audience. I hope so—she deserves it. My Gods, her music is amazing. Listening always wrings so many emotions out of me.

I was surprised to see the Emperor approach her on the stage, stunned when he put that expensive, ostentatious gem around her neck, and shocked when her knees began to buckle. I tried to make my way to her side, but without the aid of flight, I could never get there in time.

My jaw set in anger and my eyes narrowed when I saw that pompous motherdracker grab her in front of the entire auditorium. Part of my brain understands he was trying to keep her from crashing to the floor. The other part of my brain wants to dismember the bastard one limb at a time.

The front curtain closes, so the audience is hidden from view. The other gladiators and I rush to Grace’s side. I ease her into the comfortable chair she performed on. Petra produces a glass of water, and the males form a circle around all of us—backs toward us, faces turned outward.

“I’m fine,” Grace sputters as she pushes the water away. Petra’s having none of it and keeps urging her to drink.

“I watched you, Grace. You didn’t take a sip, not one sip, during the entire two-hour performance. Drink!”

Grace complies, then tries to rise from her chair. I step behind her and gently press her shoulders down before she’s six inces out of the chair. “Please, my lady, sit. At least for a moment until you’re more stable.”

I push my calming treatment at her, but I’m not certain she needs it or if she’s simply exhausted and dehydrated.

Shadow steps forward and approaches the Emperor. He’s taller than the monarch, so he crouches slightly and keeps his eyes obsequiously on the floor. “Your Highness. I know Miss Grace was looking forward to supping with you after the performance, but it appears she will not be up to the task. I apologize for all of the effort you dedicated to what I’m certain would be a most sumptuous meal. Perhaps we could reschedule for another time?”

His eyes remain cast downward; he’s still as a statue. Although everything sounds innocuous, every male in the room is on guard, hands surreptitiously on their weapons, waiting to see how the Emperor receives this rebuff.

“Of course. It appears the concert took more out of her than I’d imagined. Do you need help moving her to her rooms?” The Emperor’s lips press into a thin line, but his words remain gracious.

“How kind of you to offer. I’m certain we can take it from here.” I’ve got to give Shadow credit; he managed that like a champion.

I sweep Grace into my arms and stalk toward the dressing room. The other males fall in around us, and we’re back in our quarters in a moment.

“She didn’t eat all day,” I bark at no one in particular. “Can we get her some soup, a sandwich and one of those pastries they filled the room with earlier? Didn’t we have like a hundred of them? Aren’t there any left?”

“I think I ate them all,” Dax admits sheepishly. “They were so dracking delicious.”

I try not to chuckle. Dax is the tallest of us all, pushing seven fiertos . He looks as if he could bite someone’s jugular for sport. He obviously has a weakness for sweets.

A moment later, it’s just Grace and me in her room. She’s sitting in a chair and I’m plying her with food.

“I’m not a baby,” she protests when I try to feed her soup.

“Well, you didn’t exactly use your best judgment by not eating all day. Here.” I press half a sandwich into her hand.

She takes a bite, then, “Oh my God. I don’t think this is mystery meat. I think this is beef.” She pulls the bread off and eats the roast beef with her delicate fingers. A moan escapes her mouth. “Dear Lord, rare roast beef. Best thing I’ve eaten in months. Don’t you dare tell me what this is. I want to go to my deathbed believing this is dead, butchered, harmless cow.”

She eats two more sandwiches, passing on the pastries we wheedled out of the Emperor’s personal chefs.

“Dax, I think we found you seconds!” I call. He knocks gently, then practically bowls me over to get to the food.

“If you’d call Petra, she can help me out of this dress then I’m going to crawl into bed. So tired.”

“I could help…” I whisper, but we both cast our glances at the ceiling, assuming there are eyes and ears attending to our every move.

When I return to the room, Grace is sitting up in bed, looking regal in a white lace sleeping gown provided by the house staff from the costume department.

“You look so sleepy, my lady. I’ll lie here by the side of your bed. You go to sleep. The males are taking turns staying awake in the anteroom for your protection. Dax is first. He says his stomach is killing him and he won’t be going to sleep soon anyway.”

“Tyree, I don’t want you…” she frowns at the pallet I’m making on the floor out of extra blankets.

I glance at the ceiling and shrug my shoulders. “I’ll be most comfortable on the floor, my lady. I but live to serve.” I bow respectfully.

“Tyree, my ever-faithful servant.” She smiles.

“I’ll be back in a few minimas , going to take a quick shower.” I haven’t had a moment to relieve my aching hard-on all day. Drackhead and his two friends are causing considerable pain.