Page 4 of Star Crossed Delta
SABA
S even years ago, upon news of the engagement, celebrations sparked across the Akkadian Light Nautilus generation ship, with holo calls and messages flooding their airwaves.
Shiloh’s name became the talk of the clan as her uncle and aunt eagerly planned the wedding, knowing it would change their family’s fortune.
Now the entire Akkadian community ululated for Saba.
Not Shiloh.
Relatives, neighbors, and friends stood behind Don Lisade and his family; their felicitations and congratulations filling the air.
However, her uncle Tewa’s glare and red face told her he was not happy with the turn of events.
Her aunt Sylvana sported her usual permanent scowl, and Saba envisioned her thoughts to be sour, dipped in self-pity at her imagined loss of face.
Their daughter, Zsófia’s lips twisted, eyes raking over Saba in a dark storm of jealousy.
Saba suspected the reason was that she, the most unlikely of the Lisades to get married, had done so before Zsófia.
Not that Saba cared; she had enough troubles of her own.
Her mind spun.
Once more, anxiety flooded her, along with gut-wrenching regret.
She was not meant to be here.
She was not supposed to be his bride.
Her family’s and Shiloh’s lives depended on how she explained her secret.
Worse, a freakin’ sachem assassin had just attempted to murder her and her groom.
As her husband led her away from the altar, dread gripped her.
How in sweet, sullied hell had she fallen into this miasma?
It was then that a scent hit her, emanating from the man prowling by her side, coming from his muscled body.
It was masculine, earthy, spicy, accented with notes of pine, bergamot, clove, and amber.
The raw, rugged, alluring cologne was intoxicating, all-consuming, with a primal allure.
Her veil fluttered around her and snagged on her heels, causing her to totter.
He steadied her with a firm grip, and Saba glanced down at his hand in surprise.
It was calloused, with lean, long fingers, and flesh inked with intricate lines.
Branching off from a spiral at the spine, the elaborate ink ran along the arms and down to the fingertips.
At the end of every finger was a small star, symbolizing that their touch was to bring light to the world, even in the darkest moments.
However, it was the scorching, sinewed hold of that hand that claimed her.
She drew strength from his heated grip, accepting the bows and curtsies from their guests in rows flowing from the bloom-festooned altar.
The Lisades were resplendent in their intricate, tailored gowns and cloaks with gold threads, splendor, and majesty, created to astound without outshining the bride.
On the other side of the aisle stood the ultra-wealthy Sauvage family and its most influential personages, their titles and fortune evident in the bejeweled rapiers and weapons holstered on the men’s waists.
The formidable cartel clan emerged in the last fifty years as one of the preeminent and ruthless on Earth, and now on the flotilla.
Underscoring their potent sway, their women showed off their opulence, their diamonds resplendent on their headdresses, which sat in high-reaching, sparkling designs.
Their necks, too, dripped with gems.
Saba had never seen so many pure jewels in one place. She had also never encountered such blatant signs of wealth before.
Still, she didn’t give a fokk about their influence and affluence; heck, two days ago, she’d never imagined being anyone’s wife, let alone a Sauvage bride.
What she cared about was how this charade was going to play out.
Worry rose once more in her as her guilt weighed on her shoulders. She straightened her spine, hands clutching her bouquet, trying to steady her trembling body.
The truth was about to unravel, and the fear of what was to come made her drag her steps.
They stopped by a formal dais to greet the guests in a ceremonial line.
Mak’s grip on her hand tightened, a silent warning that she wasn’t out of danger yet.
Close by stood her husband’s fellow strong guards, who were legends in their own right, feared and revered across the flotilla for their ruthless efficiency and absolute refusal to tolerate disobedience.
After the chaos between the Lombardis and Bianchis, and the pivotal role they played in restoring order, their reputations had only grown darker, sharper.
Fokk, they were breathtaking men.
Sculpted faces, angular and handsome, eyes burning with violet-gilded focus.
Their physiques appeared built for war, broad-shouldered, muscled, radiating the kind of power that came from years of surviving unimaginable battles.
They shared a kinship in presence, a resonance of otherworldly intensity.
Mak, as demonstrated earlier, was infamous as a lycan venator, a hunter of great spectral potency.
The rest of the pack were no less deadly, each one an aetheric wolf shifter sworn to guard the flotilla from whatever the galaxy threw at them, be it interstellar beasts, cartel warlords, or the political vipers in their ranks.
Every one of the Signet Company’s strong guards wore exquisitely tailored black suits, made with meticulous precision and luxurious fabrics.
As Saba flicked her eyes over them, a tremor ran through her.
If the ?ar found her explanation wanting, what would follow might be horrific.
These men, her husband’s brothers in arms, would not hesitate to tear her family apart with the brutal savagery of wolves if he asked them to.
She shook off the shiver that went through her at the thought. Focusing instead on greeting their well-wishers as they congratulated them on their union.
Ushers directed the guests through the line at a rapid pace.
After exchanging their regards, a retinue of staff and strongmen escorted them to the cocktail tables, where they mingled in the grand atrium beside the glass-like lake.
The air was heavy with the scent of exotic perfumes and colognes, mingling with the aromas of lavish foods, sweet pastries, succulent meats, and rich wines that wafted through the wedding reception.
It was a promise of the mouth-watering, sumptuous feast that awaited them.
The well-wishers kept coming, agog with fascination, their probing unrelenting, and the light glinting off the lagoon piercing straight to her brain.
It proved too much, and Saba almost fainted, her empty tummy rumbling.
She realized she’d skipped eating in the last twenty-four hours, too nervous to keep anything down.
She must have swayed on her feet because a hand clapped over hers.
Mak’s.
She flinched, expecting him to clutch at her with vehemence.
Yet the hand cradling her arm was gentle, pulling her close so she wouldn’t fall, and she leaned on him in relief.
She took an inhale, not daring to look up at him but drawing from his strength.
Even though the malice kept coming at her in waves. In the crowds, she caught glimpses of her aunt and cousins’ eyes trained on them with shock and fury.
They were well aware, as she was, of the gravity of the situation, the fragile balance, the edge of a knife they were treading on.
One wrong move, one misstep, and everything would come crashing down.
Her uncle’s stern eyes fixed on her with reproach and disappointment.
He glowered at her, then flicked nervous looks to the man beside her as if terrified of the consequences of upending the delicate agreement years in the making.
He broke away from his disapproving wife and waded in for the customary embrace of his newest nephew.
Mak let go of Saba, and she gazed on as he reached a hand to grip Tewa’s hands in a crushing squeeze.
The older man’s eyes went moist as he suppressed the agony of his knuckles compressed in Mak’s muscled grasp.
Saba wanted to laugh for a second and hid her reaction by ducking her face.
Mak tugged Tewa close. He murmured words, and her kin’s eyes flew to the taller ?ar’s with panic.
She didn’t hear them, but it had the desired effect, and her now terrified uncle scurried away.
Her aunt Sylvana was not as cowed.
Finding a gap in the cordon, she approached Saba from the rear.
The bride wheeled around at the touch of her dress and glanced down to see Sylvana on her knees behind her.
‘Your train needs neatening,’ her aunt muttered as she tied it into a bow to prevent the hordes from stepping on it.
Then she rose, a fake smile on her face as she grabbed Saba’s hand for a second, hissing into her ear.
‘You will pay for today.’
She wheezed the words with such bitter venom that they lifted the hairs at the back of Saba’s neck.
Saba bit off the retort at the tip of her tongue, holding back her wrath and red-hot desire to lash at her.
Fokk off! She and her uncle’s machinations were the reason they were in this hornet’s nest.
‘For the sake of propriety, get Sarita fixing your shit up, she’s your Maid of Honor,’ Sylvana growled, still lurking behind her.
All Lisades brides needed to have a female family member accompany them throughout the wedding. To ensure that no sacred bans got broken, and maintain the newlyweds’ innocence until the nuptial night.
Shiloh’s intended maid of honor, a thin, angry redhead, Sarita, glared at her from the back of the tent, whispering with furious spite to her friends.
Still, there was no way Saba would let her have her six.
She scanned the room till her eyes fell on her best friend, Aveline.
Her closest confidante stood at the pavilion’s edge, her gaze fixed on her with concern and love.
Willowy, fine-boned, and strikingly beautiful, she was all grace when Saba was Miss Clumsy, tripping over her feet.
She was quiet, while Saba was loud and defiant when needed.
Still, she had a core of steel running through her, a fact she’d demonstrated in many instances from their first meeting in high school.
She’d kicked a bully in the balls for Saba, and since then, they’d always remained bosom to each other.
She was a soul sister. One familiar with Saba’s moods, with an uncanny ability to read her thoughts, and who matched her off-the-wall humor in seconds, as Saba did for her.