Page 96 of Monsters in Love: Lost in the Stars
Veyrith
The deal is supposed to be simple.
I don’t deal in sentiment. I don’t deal in people. I am a bounty hunter, an assassin, a reaper of debts—whatever name they whisper when I come collecting.
But tonight, the Qal’Vuun try to change the rules.
The trade outpost is a stinking pit, thick with the scent of burning oils and sweat, layered with the sour tang of desperation. The air hums with the murmurs of criminals and warlords, scoundrels and thieves.
I stand at the center of it all, unmoving, watching as the gelatinous mass before me—Muurith—shifts between sickly yellow and deep emerald, a sure sign of nerves. Their kind are liquid intelligence, able to mold their forms at will. They think in shifting hues, pulsing with their thoughts like bioluminescent jellyfish.
Right now, Muurith pulses with fear.
“You don’t have my payment.” My voice is gravel, a promise of pain if he dares waste my time.
The Qal’Vuun ripples in agitation. “We…we have no credits, no weapons worthy of your skill.”
I exhale slowly, flexing my claws. “Then you have nothing I want.”
“Wait.” Muurith’s body quivers, extending an appendage in a pathetic gesture of supplication. “We have a prize—something rare. Someone rare.”
I feel the first stirrings of irritation, my patience stretching thin. “If you mean a stolen slave, I’ll carve you down to the marrow and watch you melt.”
Muurith shudders violently, their colors darkening. “Not stolen. A rescue. We found her—adrift in the outer void.” They hesitate, then whisper, “Human.”
That stops me cold.
Humans do not belong in this part of the universe. They are fragile things, soft-skinned and breakable, scattered across the stars like stardust on the edge of oblivion. Some survive. Some thrive. But they are rare. Precious.
Muurith senses my shift in mood and presses forward eagerly. “She was drifting alone. Lost. We saved her, but she is unclaimed.”
Unclaimed.
Something coils deep in my chest, dark and possessive.
Another Qal’Vuun slithers forward, dragging a frost-laced rescue pod into view. The sight of it—battered, old, barely functioning—sends a spike of something sharp through me.
I take a step closer. The glass is fogged from the cold stasis system, still humming faintly. And through the condensation, I see her.
A woman.
Small. Delicate. Alive.
She is curled in on herself, unconscious, her hair a spill of dark silk against the padded interior of the pod. Her pink lips are slightly parted, her breathing shallow but steady. Her hands rest lightly against her chest, fragile, motionless.
I stare. My pulse pounds slow and deep, something ancient awakening in my blood as a spark ignites within my chest.
My cold scales have only known an endless void, yet seeing this precious gift has quickened something within me that I have no words to explain.
Only that to see her is to know that she is mine.
“She is untouched,” Muurith wheedles. “We can prepare her for you. The stasis will leave her slow, compliant. It is a courtesy.”
Rage lances through me, hot and violent. I bare my fangs. “No.”
Muurith stiffens.
“You will not touch her.” The words scrape from my throat like razors. “Open it.”
The Qal’Vuun hesitates. “But?—”
A growl builds in my chest, a deep, rattling sound that makes the beings around us shrink back. “Now.”
Muurith shudders, then taps a sequence into the pod’s panel.
With a hiss, the stasis seals unlock. Cold air spirals outward, mist curling at the edges as the pod unlatched and slowly lifts.
I step forward, drawn by something unseen, something inevitable.
A faint sound escapes her lips—a breathy, fragile whisper.
I flex my talons. She is real.
My greatest treasure.
And soon, I will have her in truth.
She barely weighs anything. A breath of warmth against my chest, a fragile thing in deep slumber. Her head lolls against my shoulder, and for a long moment, I simply stand there, holding her, staring down at the human in my arms.
Her scent—soft, delicate, intoxicating—rises beneath the lingering chill of cryostasis. Something ancient and primal stirs within me, sharpening my senses, setting my blood alight with something I do not understand.
I do not like things I do not understand.
The Qal’Vuun watch me, shifting between shades of green and orange—anticipation, curiosity. “She is yours now,” Muurith hums, his form undulating. “Will you keep her?”
A ridiculous question.
I will never let her go.
But first, I wish to inspect my treasure in private, away from prying eyes.
I do not answer their question. Instead, I turn, cradling her against me as I stride away from the trade floor, my long tail curling behind me in irritation. The onlookers shift away, wary of my mood. I do not blame them. I am not in the habit of sparing those who pry too deeply into my business.
The outpost reeks of filth, a decaying husk of forgotten things, but I navigate it with ease. The scent of her lingers in my nostrils, chasing away the acrid stench of oil and rust.
I do not name the things I take from this galaxy. I do not keep things.
Yet I cannot imagine letting her slip away.
Her breath feathers against my collarbone, the steady rise and fall of her chest pressing against my own. I have carried bodies before—dead, wounded, barely clinging to life. They have meant nothing.
But this…
She feels right in my arms. Curled against my chest, she is an extension of my heart. Even now, my scales shift from a green-blue to a red-purple—a surge of heat to accommodate her soft flesh that lacks a protective cover against the elements.
I reach my ship—a silent predator of black metal and sleek edges, its hull designed for speed and war. The hatch lowers with a hiss, the dim glow of the interior welcoming only me. It is not built for passengers. And yet, I bring her inside.
The door seals behind me. The hum of the engines thrums beneath my boots, a familiar pulse beneath my skin. The ship knows me. Obeys me. I am the only master here.
I cross into the sleeping quarters.
She does not belong in the lower decks, among the weapons and the stasis cells meant for prisoners. I do not even consider it.
I lower her onto my berth. The bed was never meant for two, yet her small form takes up little space. Even in sleep, she curls herself inward, resting on her side, her legs bent gently, her arms folded against her torso.
I step back, studying her under the dim glow of the overhead panels.
She is exquisite. A prized jewel in my hoard. My treasure indeed.
Tashka. The word for treasure in my tongue. That is what I shall call her. Because that is what she is.
Every inch of her is graceful and delicate as I follow the lines of her body. How her face curves from her sloping forehead to a pert chin under full lips. The way her dark lashes flutter against her cheeks. The way her long fingers twitch against the sheets.
She has no defensive features. Even her nails are filed short, and her teeth are blunt.
Her only natural covering is her long, black hair that falls like expensive silk down her back. The light shift she wears while in cryosleep is so thin the dark peaks of her nipples show through.
Face markings adorn her nose and cheeks like stars dotting along the night sky. The rest of her skin gleams like polished moonstone.
Too soft. Too smooth. Begging to be marked.
She stirs, shifting slightly. I catch the slow inhale of her breath, the first signs of wakefulness creeping over her.
Her body will be sluggish. The stasis fog lingers in the mind, making movements uncooperative, dreamlike. She will wake to confusion, disorientation.
And to me.
A slow thrill coils deep in my gut.
I should take her back to the Qal’Vuun. Make them examine her with their medical devices and ensure she has the neural translators updated in her system.
Instead, I ease onto the edge of the bed, the metal creaking beneath my weight. My claws rest on my thighs, curled loosely, but there is nothing relaxed about me.
I watch.
I wait.
Her lips part, and the first shaky breath spills from her throat. She shifts, a soft murmur escaping her, her fingers twitching against the sheets.
She does not know it yet.
But she is mine.