Page 23 of Seven Oars (Rix Universe #3)

Anske hadn’t returned to the Cargo Hold, but Fawn still came around. She’d show up at random times, sometimes laughing and sometimes muttering to herself, with no regard for Rosamma and her friends who dwelled there.

On some visits, she was clear-eyed and boisterous, typical Fawn. Other times, she was completely befuddled.

She mostly came to collect her own and Anske’s food rations to go.

Gro and Eze would swap jokes with Fawn, but the conversations never touched on anything serious.

Rosamma had her period again, and it drained her. She felt weaker and more lethargic. Participating in the daily exercise regimen Eze had established took all she had.

She hadn’t seen Striker Fincros since he’d dumped her at the Meat Locker, and she didn’t think about him.

There was nothing to think about. It was done, his curiosity satisfied.

And hers?

And hers.

The sweet tug of longing made a liar out of her, but she refused to let her thoughts travel down that path.

When Rosamma awoke the next morning, she found Phex sitting next to her. Signs of a serious beating were all over his face.

“Hello, stranger,”

Rosamma murmured, examining his injuries.

She hadn’t seen him in such rough shape in a long time, and he hadn’t set foot in the Cargo Hold for as long.

“Hello,” he said.

“What happened?”

“What usually happens? I fought,”

he said curtly, almost snarling.

His tone made Rosamma feel small and unworldly, the usual effect he had on her. She hoped her face didn’t show it.

“Who did you fight?”

Phex didn’t outwardly glance at her, but she felt like he was looking. “Esseh.”

Until he said that, she hadn’t realized she’d been holding her breath, waiting.

It had only been Esseh.

Relief, sharp and tumultuous, swept through her, making her feel guilty.

“Was Esseh upset because of your new piloting duties?”

she asked Phex.

“I live and breathe, and it’s enough of a reason for him. He doesn’t trust me. I’m a threat.”

Rosamma sat up and began braiding her hair, giving in to her nervous habit.

“Well, you are.”

Phex flexed his fist. Something dark and cold emanated from him, something she struggled to name. Hatred? Yes, that too, but not as simple as that. It was mixed with desperation and resentment, making him volatile.

She quickly finished the braid and tied it off, but kept holding it in both hands.

“I have a shift coming up,”

he said suddenly.

“I need a boost.”

He extended his arm toward her.

Rosamma frowned.

Compared to what he had endured at the beginning, he was in a perfectly working condition.

“Is your shift with Esseh?”

she asked, stalling for time.

“With Nud. You know he’s unpredictable.”

Nud was actually very predictable, but Rosamma got what he meant.

“We are going to work on the navigation system,”

Phex added.

It boggled Rosamma’s mind a little to think of Nud as any kind of team player and problem-solver.

“What’s wrong with it?”

she asked.

“It’s unreliable.”

“Are we flying somewhere we shouldn’t be?”

She wasn’t sure what she meant by “shouldn’t.”

Where should they be flying?

“I don’t know,”

Phex said.

The sound of whirring casters preceded the blinking light that entered the Cargo Hold.

Phex’s extended arm flexed in frustration.

“It follows me now. Give me a boost, Rosamma.”

Tentatively, she placed her fingers on the inside of his wrist as Tutti came in and scanned the room. She sent a small, measured surge of energy into Phex under the robot’s watchful blinking.

“Give me another one,”

he ordered.

She caught Gro’s ominous frown, but neither she nor Eze said anything to Phex.

They are afraid of him, she thought with sudden clarity.

She sent another burst, not because she was afraid of Phex, but because she still clung to the image she once had of him as her shiny, fearless defender and savior.

Phex rose.

“I’d better go.”

“Wait!”

Rosamma ran after him out the door, down the passageway. She squeezed by Tutti to catch up to Phex.

“Doesn’t Tutti have an autopilot function?”

she stage-whispered, trailing his long strides.

“It does, and it’s part of the problem. Tutti is as old as this station. It was programmed by the station’s old owner about a hundred years ago.”

“That long! Can you reprogram her? It?”

He gave a single shake of his head.

“The Striker tried, and even he had little success.”

“Even he?”

“He’s their engineer.”

“No, that’s Thilza,”

she corrected him.

“Him, too. But Tutti only listens to the Striker.”

Phex stopped abruptly.

“That’s partly why they’re afraid to kill him. He keeps this rust heap afloat.”

Phex resumed walking, and she trotted after him, stumbling. Picturing Fincros dead caused her visceral pain.

“Who pilots this station?”

she asked, panting.

“Keerym was their lead pilot, and Ucai filled in sometimes. Massar had navigation training.”

“All gone,”

Rosamma whispered.

“Now Esseh sees himself as one,”

Phex said.

“Is he good?”

“He’s terrible.”

They stopped at the entrance to the Command Center.

Nud was already inside, watching them and smirking.

Phex went in, followed closely by Tutti, leaving Rosamma by the door.

She loitered there for some time, her thoughts in disarray. Things were changing, and everything felt weird. Rather, weird-er. Who was who, what was going on, where it would all end—she was less certain than ever. The dynamics were shifting.

Eventually, she walked back.

The Habitat was silent today.

She wondered if Anske was there with Galan. Their fallout didn’t sit well with Rosamma, even if she found Anske annoying. The poor woman had even stopped coming to the Cargo Hold for food, and they all knew meals and their rituals were important to Anske.

Rosamma poked her head inside the Habitat, looking to make amends.

Anske wasn’t there.

But Fawn was.

She was straddling Thilza’s lap, her back to his chest, grinding and moaning.

Her face and upper body were blocked from Rosamma’s view by Xorris, who stood with his crotch pressed against Fawn’s face.

His back was turned to the door, so Rosamma couldn’t see what exactly was going on there—thankfully.

But visible in between Xorris’ widely planted legs was Fawn’s blond bush as she worked her hips against Thilza’s.

And if Rosamma looked really closely, she could catch a glimpse of Thilza’s member when the bush slid up with Fawn’s enthusiastic pumping.

Thilza smiled at Rosamma, unrepentant.

She stumbled backward into the passageway. Pressing her palms to her flaming face, she edged clumsily away from the Habitat.

That place was wicked.

Her heartbeat was awkward, unsettled. The sucking sound of the wet glide stayed with her. In and out.

She ran smack into the Striker.

“Fincros!”

she squeaked.

The sound was so out of character for her that he arched his scarred brow.

“What are you doing here?”

“I was looking for Anske,”

she said, breathless.

He made a low noise deep in his throat.

“Why is your face pink?”

“Um… I don’t know.”

He cocked his head.

“Your neck’s pink, too.”

She cursed her fair skin, flaming hotter under his gaze.

“It’s deepening,”

he observed.

“Why are you changing colors?”

He sounded genuinely curious.

“It’s a human thing. It’ll pass in a moment,”

she said in a rush, but couldn’t stop herself from glancing toward the Habitat.

He took a step in that direction.

She grabbed a handful of his defender shirt.

“No, let’s just talk here.”

“What’s going on?”

Now he sounded suspicious.

Fawn supplied an answer with a deep, satisfied moan, an unmistakable sign of female completion.

Fincros relaxed and smirked.

“It’s indecent,”

Rosamma muttered.

“Fucking is.”

“All of them together!”

The shock at catching a close-up of the orgy still made heat crawl up her neck, and she wouldn’t pretend she wasn’t scandalized by it.

He stood too close, crowding her, and she was fascinated anew by the play of light and shadow across his ruined face. Unbidden, thoughts about sitting on his lap invaded her head. Skin to skin, sliding…

Mortification and acute craving warred inside her chest.

But she wasn’t as worldly or as carefree as Fawn. She had no business desiring a male of his caliber. It was for the best that there was no hint of affection in his voice now, and no sign of desire when he looked at her. She was lucky to have endured a coupling with him the first time.

Only it didn’t feel like enduring.

“Don’t worry,”

he said suddenly.

“I won’t touch you again.”

She started. “No?”

The relief she should have experienced didn’t come. Instead, disappointment prickled her, laced with a sweet, wistful yearning.

“Our coupling hurt you,” he said.

“It was my first time,”

she mumbled, biting her lip.

“You’re too small. You bled.”

“But I wasn’t… unwilling.”

Her hand let go of his shirt and gripped the ends of her hair.

She’d known it. Not a real woman.

“I don’t know how to… do it right,”

she said very quietly.

“With a man, I mean.”

His finely arched brows rose.

“What’s there to know?”

She glanced again toward the Habitat.

“The… mechanics. Of the… body parts.”

A slight twitch of his lips betrayed faint amusement.

“Were you watching your friend to learn?”

“No!”

She was sure her face was not just pink but crimson.

“And I wasn’t watching.”

An awkward silence hung between them. Awkward on her part, at least.

“What do you want, Rosamma?”

he murmured.

The air thickened.

A pivotal moment.

He was letting her go free, if she so chose. Go back to her uncomplicated, solitary existence.

Free…

A mercy.

She frowned, looking at the floor.

Free and alone.

Her entire being rebelled at the thought.

She took a deep breath and let go of her braid.

One small step. Then another.

He didn’t say anything; he hadn’t moved a muscle.

She took yet another step and found herself nearly flush with his body. The tips of her small breasts touched his chest.

Closing her eyes, she allowed herself to tip forward, falling into him like a scared diver finally taking the plunge.

She hid her face in his chest, inhaling his muskiness.

His powerful arms came around and pulled her closer, enveloping her completely in the safety of his strength.

Whether or not it was right, it was home.

“You’re so fragile. I’ll break you,”

he mouthed into her hair.

“You won’t,”

she said and looked up at him.

“I trust you not to.”

He leaned down, pressed his mouth to hers, and drove his tongue past her lips, claiming her with fierce intent.

She welcomed the intrusion, the force, and the dominance. As much as he took, he gave back.

She breathed his air, dizzy with a new, electric kind of buzz.

She whimpered when he abruptly broke contact, but he shushed her, a promise that made her weak in the knees.

The passageway was a blur as he took her to the Dome. The shutters were down, hiding the breathtaking view of the cold world outside the station.

Ripping his shirt over his head, he pulled her back into his embrace, and she touched his bare skin, exactly what she craved.

They kissed until she had no breath left. Her hands explored his shoulders, his back, his sides—lean, tight muscle beneath a velvety fuzz. So different from her, yet so intoxicatingly alive.

She kneaded his shoulders, urging him closer. Her gaze snagged briefly on dark-blue tattoos at the base of his throat.

“Will you ever tell me what those mean?”

The tiny blue hieroglyphs fascinated her. They were beautifully drawn and deeply symbolic. She imagined they were imbued with some mythical meaning.

She pressed her lips to them, tasting his hammering pulses.

“Most Rix have them,”

he replied, his voice strained.

“But what do they mean?”

“They show lineage.”

“Like a family?”

She kissed each one.

“Yes. And status, achievements, and rank. They tell how I fit in my world.”

He captured her hand and sucked her fingers, one by one.

“Here, my marks mean nothing,”

he murmured into her palm.

They still mattered, she was sure of it. But she let it go, too absorbed by tracing the raised designs with the tip of her tongue.

She heard him mutter a vile curse in that hoarse, deep voice of his. His hands slid under the hem of her shirt, then moved down to splay over her bare bottom.

The need had come over Rosamma like a tide. Nothing else mattered except them, skin to skin, mouth on mouth, deeper, hotter, forever.

They both tore at her clothes, baring her completely.

“You’re so soft.”

He pushed her breasts together and dragged his tongue through the tight hollow he created.

“And pink.”

He sucked one nipple into his mouth. Hard.

She cried out, pressing her hips against him.

His fingers dipped inside her, finding her ready.

“Say my name,”

he breathed.

“Fincros.”

“No, the other way you call me.”

“Finn.”

“Yes.”

As a reward, he caressed her heat until she pulsed with need.

“Finn, Finn, Finn…”

Every nerve in her body lit up at his touch.

She gave a soft squeak when he backed her against the quilted wall. Dropping to one knee, he kicked her legs apart with his hands. His breath fanned her spread folds, building anticipation before he gave it one long, teasing lick with his tongue.

The world fell away, leaving her alone with the stars, floating as his tongue drove her higher with every relentless stroke.

Her hips jerked against him as the spasm of release took over, leaving her weak, shaking. Her legs buckled, and Fincros let her fall, pushing her beneath him.

He said something she didn’t catch. Raw hunger deepened his eyes until every pupil stood out in sharp, brilliant relief.

He mounted her where she fell, the mesh floor rough under her back, sending a sharp, delicious shiver up her spine as he drove into her.

He gripped her bottom. Then readjusted, thrust deeper.

“I like pink,”

he growled before setting his mouth over hers.

Despite the hard floor beneath her, Rosamma felt weightless. The world narrowed to the thick, insistent fullness of him inside her.

He took her hard, almost punishing, a strong male with a hard drive.

An alien.

His shape and size should have made their ultimate bonding difficult, but they didn't.

Somehow, they fit.

*****

Afterward, she sat against the wall with her legs drawn up, observing him pull on Phex’s shimmering defender shirt. It was wrong of him to wear it, which was probably his point.

“Why do you insist on wearing this shirt?”

she asked.

“It’s a reminder of what I can do,”

he said, confirming her guess.

“A reminder to Phex?”

“Him, too.”

“Are you jealous of him?”

she murmured softly.

Fincros paused, and she was blasted by a cold draft of his displeasure. Without so much as a twitch of an eyebrow, he broadcast loud and clear that a boundary had been crossed.

Rosamma’s stomach did a small flip. She shouldn’t poke him.

She shouldn’t sleep with him, either, but Seven Oars was a warped world. It had absorbed her, and she didn’t recognize herself anymore.

“Jealous?”

Fincros repeated the word, his voice tuning silken.

“Tell me, what does Phex have that I don’t?”

He pointedly tucked in his shirt in efficient motions.

“He is a defender,”

she pointed out, unreasonably stubborn.

“Not anymore,”

he said.

“Lost his status, just like his shirt.”

He carefully closed every fastening on the shirt’s neck.

Rosamma couldn’t shake the vague similarity between his tattoos and Phex’s, and the care he took to keep them covered.

She frowned.

“You can lose the defender status?”

“You can, if you violate the defender tenets,”

he said.

“He violated a number of them.”

“Like what?”

“Like allowing himself to be captured by pirates. A stupid mistake. It was laughably easy to capture you.”

“We had no ammo!”

she cried out, not a little incensed.

“That’s what’s laughable,”

he countered.

“He chose to fly a mission with no defense. No, scratch that—it’s not laughable, it's dumb.”

“He was ordered to! By his commander.”

Only now Rosamma was beginning to understand why Phex had been all out of sorts to fly them in the cruiser. He had understood the fallacy when the women had had no clue.

“That’s what he got for blindly following orders,”

Fincros said, unsympathetic.

“Killed his men, too.”

It was a brutal logic, one that Rosamma’s brain failed to grasp.

“He tried to defend us against all of you,”

she grumbled.

Fincros only shook his head.

“More like he acted out against us. And let’s not forget how, when he got himself trounced senseless, you, a female under his protection, came to his defense. Very much against the code. Did he not tell you to fuck off and stay put?”

“Sort of,”

Rosamma admitted.

“But I wouldn’t have listened. He had no one else at his back.”

Fincros made that deep throaty noise that left Rosamma weak in the knees.

“You almost lost your life with that bag on your head because of him,”

he said with force.

“Even with your energy, it took him too long to recover in time. Stupid, both of you.”

Rosamma cringed.

“I agree, it wasn’t one of my most intelligent moments. Luckily, he recovered in time.”

“He didn’t, Rosamma,”

Fincros said succinctly.

“He was still out cold when I came back.”

She gaped at him.

“You took the bag off me?”

He made a move with one shoulder as if pushing the issue aside.

“Then, Phex forced himself on a female who didn’t consent.”

Rosamma’s mouth fell open.

“Now, that was on you! And your vile people.”

“Details don’t matter,”

he said, unfazed.

“Still lost.”

“You’re… You’re…”

Words failed her.

“Callous?”

he supplied.

Eyes wide, she nodded.

“I am. But here’s the truth.”

He took a step toward her.

“There was nothing I could’ve done to stop my vile people. The game was on, and if I tried, it would’ve been me with a face full of spice charm, grinding against Sassa.”

He straightened away from her.

“Knowing when to disengage is a skill I had to learn the hard way. Phex will, too.”

Rosamma was flabbergasted.

“Are you teaching him some kind of lesson by torturing him?”

“I’ve never tortured him,”

he countered, and, before she had a chance to object, added, “Beatings aren’t torture.”

Her shoulders slumped.

Foolishly, she’d created an illusion of Fincros the Good Pirate. Which, in all fairness, he had warned her not to do.

“You are not seeing what I see,”

he said, suddenly gentle.

“Phex’s biggest failure as a defender was allowing you to be captured. He knows it. That’s why he’d much rather I killed him.”

“Why didn’t you?”

she whispered.

He hesitated, as if weighing the wisdom of telling her.

“He’s a trained, ranking space pilot of the most powerful fleet in the Universe. As a resource, he’s invaluable. He just needed to be broken in first.”

His face was inscrutable, and it felt like the before. Like she’d never felt his body move inside of hers. Like she’d never known him to be anything but a violent, scarred pirate.

He is a violent, scarred pirate.

She rose to her feet, agitated. The cursed headache began ringing a tinny warning bell inside her head.

“Why does it have to be this way? Why are you living this life?”

He stood before her with shoulders straight and legs slightly apart. A warrior—but of the worst kind.

“That’s the only life I have.”

Abruptly, it hit her—she was still naked.

Before she had a chance to snatch up her clothes, Fincros grasped her wrists and pulled her arms apart like wings. She felt his gaze scrutinizing every small, intimate detail of her.

She had a smattering of pale brown freckles underneath her right breast, the only spot of color.

She wished he’d say something.

Instead, he sank to his knees and rested his forehead against her abdomen, his nose dipping into the wet patch of hair at the apex of her thighs. He rolled his head back and forth, breathing her in.

“I’m tired, Rosamma,”

he whispered.

“Just let me be…”