Page 20

Chapter Twenty

Z exx stood surrounded by a circle of Crestek females, their bodies pressing closer with each passing moment, their perfumes mingling into a cloying cloud that threatened to suffocate him. The formal clothing K’Nar had insisted he wear felt like a prison—the tunic too tight across his chest, the cloak heavy on his shoulders, the boots confining his feet that longed for the freedom of bare contact with the ground, preferably warm sand.

"Is it true that Dothveks sleep under the stars?" asked a female in a dress so sheer he could count the freckles on her skin beneath it. Her hand rested on his forearm, fingers tracing the edges of his tribal markings where they extended beyond his sleeve.

"Often," he replied, keeping his voice even despite his discomfort. "The desert nights are cool, and the view of the heavens is unobstructed."

"How romantic," sighed another, her painted lips forming an exaggerated pout. "Do you ever get... lonely out there on the sands?"

The suggestive emphasis made her meaning unmistakable. These females weren't interested in Dothvek culture or the peace accord—they were hunting, and he was their prey. An exotic specimen to be captured and sampled.

"Dothveks are never truly alone," he explained, stepping back slightly only to bump into another female who had positioned herself behind him. "We live communally in the village, and even those who venture into the deep sands remain connected through our empathic abilities."

"Empathic abilities?" This from a third female, jewels piercing her ears all the way to the points. "You can sense feelings? How fascinating. What am I feeling right now, Ambassador?"

Her eyes held his, a challenge in their depths as she deliberately pressed her body against his side.

"Curiosity," he said diplomatically, though what he sensed from her was raw, undisguised lust. "And perhaps a bit too much wine."

They laughed at that, the sound high and artificial compared to the honest, full-bodied mirth he was accustomed to hearing around the Dothvek communal fires.

"Tell us more about your daily life," urged the first female. "What do you wear when you're not so... formally attired?"

"Animal skin pants," he answered honestly. "The desert is hot during the day. Excess clothing is impractical."

"Just pants?" The female's eyes gleamed. "Nothing else at all?"

"Nothing else," he confirmed, watching as they exchanged meaningful glances.

"Perhaps you could give us a demonstration sometime," suggested one boldly, her fingers brushing against his chest. "For cultural exchange purposes, of course."

He smiled tightly, aware that he needed to charm these influential women but increasingly uncomfortable with their blatant propositions. He knew the Crestek society had different customs regarding mating, but the aggressive nature of their pursuit was jarring.

"I spent my childhood learning to track sand serpents," he said, deliberately changing the subject. "They can grow to the length of many men and move beneath the surface with barely a ripple to mark their passage."

"How thrilling," murmured a female in blue, though her tone suggested she found him more thrilling than his hunting tales. "You must be very... skilled with your hands."

At least she had not asked about his sand snake. Zexx supposed he should be grateful for that.

He looked up at the night sky, seeking momentary escape in the familiar constellations that shone overhead. They were the same stars he'd grown up beneath, yet they seemed dimmer here, muted by the city's lights and the concentration of smoke from many cooking fires. In the heart of the sands, the points of light blazed a carpet across the inky blackness of the sky.

A pang of homesickness struck him unexpectedly. He missed the simplicity of the sands, the honesty of survival, the clarity of purpose that came with warrior life. Everything in the Crestek city was its opposite—elaborate instead of simple, deceptive rather than honest, convoluted instead of direct.

He reminded himself why he was here: for his people, for the peace accord, for Linnea. Especially for Linnea, whose safety now felt as essential to him as his own.

The thought of her centered him, and he scanned the rooftop terrace, seeking her out among the crowd. The gathering had grown louder as more wine flowed, laughter and conversation blending with the music from the trio of musicians in the corner. Strings of glittering beads were draped from pole to pole around the space, catching the light from hanging lanterns and throwing prismatic reflections across the guests' faces.

Platters of elaborate foods circulated—intricate delicacies he couldn't identify by sight or smell, though the aromas were intriguing. So different from the simple, hearty meals shared around their communal fires and scooped up with wedges of bread, yet another reminder of the gulf between their peoples.

Finally, he spotted Linnea standing near the edge of the terrace, engaged in conversation with an older male in formal robes. Even from a distance, he could sense her emotions—a mix of professional composure overlaying something darker, sharper. When her eyes met his across the gathering, she smiled, but he felt her disapproval like a cold wind.

He excused himself from his admirers, ignoring their protests as he made his way to Linnea's side. The older male bowed and retreated as he approached, either from respect or wariness—he couldn't tell which.

"Am I doing something wrong?" he asked quietly when they were relatively alone.

Linnea's smile tightened. "You're perfect," she said, but the words didn't match the emotions he sensed from her. After a moment's hesitation, she added, "I just hate seeing all these females who want to bed you."

The admission surprised him—not the observation itself, which was obvious, but her willingness to voice her jealousy. "They can want all they like," he replied, leaning closer to her. "I desire none of them. Only you."

He felt her pulse of pleasure at his words, so strong and clear it almost made his knees buckle. The intensity of this mind-mate connection between them was growing stronger, binding them together in ways even he didn’t fully understand.

"We've been diplomatic long enough, I think," she said, her voice steady though her emotions swirled like a sandstorm. As an approaching male in ministerial robes drew near, she smiled brightly and made introductions. "Minister Taal, may I present Ambassador Zexx. Ambassador, Minister Taal oversees our agricultural programs."

He inclined his head respectfully as the minister began to speak about irrigation techniques, but Linnea suddenly pressed a hand to her temple.

"I apologize," she interjected, her voice strained. "I seem to have developed a terrible headache. The excitement of the evening, perhaps."

Zexx understood her strategy immediately. "Chancellor, you should rest," he said, infusing his voice with concern. "Allow me to escort you to your chambers."

Minister Taal looked disappointed but nodded sympathetically. "By all means, Chancellor. Your health must come first."

Zexx offered Linnea his arm with formal propriety, maintaining the charade as they bid farewell to the guests nearest them. Once they reached the spiraling ramp, however, propriety evaporated like morning dew under the desert sun.

The moment they were out of sight, he swept Linnea into his arms, cradling her against his chest as he descended the ramp at a pace that made her gasp.

"Zexx!" she whispered, though her arms wound around his neck. "Someone could see us."

"Let them," he growled, though he kept his voice low.

When they reached the level of her quarters, he made a split-second decision, striding past the door and continuing down the winding interior ramp to his chambers.

"They won't look for you here," he explained, pushing his door open and then kicking it shut behind them. "At least not immediately."

The bubbling pool in the bathing chamber sent tendrils of steam into the main room, the air warm and moist compared to the cool night above. He carried Linnea toward the bed, his lips finding hers in a kiss that held all the hunger he'd been suppressing throughout the interminable reception.

She responded with equal fervor, her fingers working at the fastenings of his formal attire with surprising dexterity. "These clothes suit you," she murmured against his mouth, "but I prefer you without them."

He laughed, the sound rumbling from deep in his chest. "On that, Chancellor, we are in perfect agreement."

As they fell onto the bed together, his diplomatic duties forgotten in the heat of her touch, he thought that perhaps being an ambassador wasn't such a terrible fate after all.