Page 11 of The Dreamer and the Deep Space Warrior (Xaal Alien Romance #1)

Isobel

Isobel tucked her hair into the cloak’s hood and slipped out the back door like a silent thief in the night.

The moon was full and high, its silver light drenching the landscape in an ethereal hue. It left her feeling like she was in a novel. Like she’d stepped through a portal into another world.

Unintentionally, she’d picked the best evening for such an excursion.

The last time she was out late enough to witness the unique ambiance night created in the gardens was when she was a little girl.

Her father had woken her up and lifted her from the sheets with rare enthusiasm.

She’d been surprised to see Henry waiting in the hall, all gangly limbs, sleepily rubbing at his eyes.

They tugged on their shoes, giggling at their secret adventure.

Then, with mussed hair and all, they went outside.

Spreading out the quilt their father brought, they laid out to watch the stars.

She fell asleep to her father weaving a spell with his voice as he told stories she’d since forgotten, and though she’d woken up in bed, the magic of that night had stayed with her long after .

Now, she would be promenading beneath those same stars with someone from the other side of the cosmos.

Ved didn’t meet her on the forest’s perimeter.

Instead, he stood at the edge of the gardens.

She thought she had more time to prepare herself.

But there he was, his silhouette cutting a striking image.

Moonlight gleaned off his dark armor, and the high bushes framed his form, making him appear as an ancient statue.

His head moved the moment she drew closer, the only indication that he’d seen her.

“Good evening,” she whispered, excitement and nerves making her voice shake slightly.

“High moons, Isobel Nott,” he replied. And then he offered her his arm as if he were a gentleman of Dorsent.

When she could do nothing but stare, he asked, “Is this not how it is done?”

“Oh, well, yes.” She didn’t mention, however, that a gentleman would never do such a thing when walking with a woman he wasn’t married to, unchaperoned.

He was so tall that she had to reach up. Their height difference just wouldn’t do, but he seemed to realize it simultaneously because he straightened his arm so she could hold his forearm instead.

Where had he acquired such knowledge? Had he learned it from SV’s pirate book? The mere thought of him having read it still made her stomach twist in curious ways. She’d reread it just yesterday, imagining how he’d held the same book in his hands, consumed the same words.

It was a shared intimacy—like a stolen touch or lingering glance. She’d scarcely been able to finish it.

They didn’t speak as they stepped off. He only needed the slightest press of her fingertips to correct their course before they were standing in front of the rows and rows of lavender.

“This is it,” she said, letting go of his arm and sprawling her hands out in front of her. “I make the cookies I gave you out of the extract and decorate the top with some of its flowers. The plant itself is very versatile. It can be used as an oil and in tinctures as well.”

“You make the cookies with your own hands?” he asked.

“Yes. Cook makes just about everything else, but those are mine,” she said with quiet pride.

He didn’t respond, and a companionable silence fell over them as they surveyed the bushy purple rows. Even bathed in moonlight, the color of the lavender plants was breathtaking. The flowers glowed brilliantly beneath the silver rays.

“It is part of your scent,” Ved rumbled beside her after some time.

Isobel looked up in surprise. “What do you mean?”

“Your scent,” he said again, slower, as if she were having trouble understanding his pronunciation. “Part of it is this flower.”

“You can smell me?” Isobel asked, aghast. They hadn’t been that close. She sniffed surreptitiously at herself.

“Xaal have heightened senses. It makes us better hunters and warriors. Perhaps that is different than humans,” he said, tilting his head down to meet her gaze.

“Definitely,” she breathed. She couldn’t smell him after all.

Ved made a guttural noise, and Isobel pressed her lips together to stop herself from asking what it meant.

Instead, she said, “We can continue our stroll through if you like.”

He made a gesture as if he would follow her, and she stepped off.

They wandered through the lavender. Sometimes, he would take her arm in his, resting her hand on his forearm, and other times, he would watch as she gesticulated and breathlessly told him facts about the plant.

Though she eventually apologized for her babbling and excitement, he continued to press her for more.

“I mustn’t go on. I know it must be boring to you, and I have just about reached my depth of knowledge anyway.” That wasn’t necessarily true, but he needn’t know that.

“It pleases me when you speak, Isobel Nott.”

She refused to blush but dipped her chin down and looked away.

Not a single soul had ever said such a thing to her.

She was used to receiving side glances full of warning and agitation for either speaking at length or not enough.

“Tell me more about you instead,” she requested.

“I fear I have spoken so much, I’ll soon lose my voice. ” Another small lie.

“What would you like to know?”

Everything. “The other evening, you mentioned something called a neurolink. What is it?”

“He is called Exxo. He is my artificial intelligence system. With his aid, I can speak to you in your language. He also helps with repairs and diagnostics on the ship and can access depths of knowledge I wouldn’t be able to on my own.”

“But where is he?” she asked.

“He has no body. He’s a system that works internally with my helmet and ship. We are connected.”

“I see,” she murmured, then looked up at him hopefully. “Can I speak to him?”

“No,” Ved bit out.

Oh. But she wouldn’t be deterred by one rejection. “What about your family? Tell me of them, if you will.”

He was silent for a long time, but she found herself becoming more patient as he formulated his responses.

Finally, he said, “Our parents are part of the clan, but not the whole of it. In truth, we belong to each other. The clan is our mother, combat our father. We are taken from our birth Xaal at a young age to begin our training. When deemed ready, we are sent out on the Great Hunt to earn our place in the clan. Our world is built by those who not only survive but thrive despite whatever conditions they’re in and the challenges they face.

If we can’t defend ourselves, can’t bring honor to ourselves and the clan, then we are unworthy to return to it anyway. ”

Isobel wanted to say how strange his world was but tucked her lips between her teeth instead. She imagined that her life seemed just as bizarre to him. After all, here, a woman couldn’t even read romance books without being deemed a harlot. “You have no siblings?”

She could have sworn he tensed at the question. “There were those who shared the same birth Xaal as me, yes. But they were never brothers of mine.”

Isobel couldn’t imagine disliking Henry so much that she no longer referred to him as her brother. They had their differences, but at the end of the day, she loved him fiercely. “I’m sorry. That must have been difficult. Are they in your same clan?”

“No. They are all dead.” Even though he wasn’t speaking in his native tongue, Isobel could feel the intricacy of emotions in those four words. Though sadness was not one of them.

Her intuition stopped her from prying further. So, instead, she changed the subject altogether. “What about your women? I know you said they can captain ships, but what else can they do?”

Ved tilted his head, perhaps in bemusement. “They are Xaal. They do as we all do—there is no difference.”

“They’re warriors? Hunters? Can they read whatever they want? Do they have to marry by a certain age or otherwise be looked at as a scourge on society? ”

Was that a chuckle that came from him? “If they want a partner, they can approach one. There is no timeframe. Though it is seen as honorable to bolster the clan’s strength, it isn’t forced.

We must do many things, but that isn’t one of them.

As for stories, if they enjoy reading, they read.

If they enjoy mining, they mine. But first and foremost, we are warriors. ”

“So, if I were a Xaal woman, I’d get to”—she gestured to his person—“fly to planets far away, and I wouldn’t have to do anything I didn’t want to? I’d get to wear armor instead of dresses if I wanted?”

It sounded like a dream. It sounded like freedom .

“You would. Your armor would be specifically tailored to you,” he explained as they trailed to a stop in the part of the grove where willow trees had been planted long before her birth.

“You get your armor in layers, earning each piece through your triumphs in combat and hunts. The loresmith creates them as you feed him your story. The heart of that story is embedded into the metal—making no two suits alike. Usually, a Xaal earns armor that covers their arms or shins first.” He ran gloved fingertips over the fabric of her cloak.

“When all appendages are covered, they earn the back and breastplates.” He moved his hand to her shoulder and looped across her collarbone to the other side.

Catching an errant curl, he followed it up, gently pushing her hood back.

“Ved,” she muttered, cheeks heating. Her lips felt dry, and her tongue darted out to wet them. Intuitively, she knew his eyes were drawn to the movement like a moth to a flame.

He moved slowly and carefully, as if he were afraid of hurting her or scaring her off. He ran a hand over her hair, his fingers trailing down until his palm covered the nape of her neck. “You earn your helmet last. And that is when the clan decides if you are worthy to remain.”

Isobel blinked, her mouth working silently for a moment. “I see,” she rasped at last.

“Except,” he rumbled, “I would not like to see such a face covered.” He moved the heat of his hand from the back of her neck to gently close around her throat.

She gasped which only invited him to sear a path across her bottom lip with his large thumb.

“Ved.” But this time, it was a plea. Whether for him to stop or continue, she wasn’t certain.

She swallowed hard, but then he was parting her lips. The tip of his gloved thumb dipped just inside her mouth before he ran it over her top lip, coating it in her own saliva. The taste of leather and metal lingered on her tongue.

A fissure of heat she wasn’t acquainted with cracked open inside her. She searched his visor, hoping to glimpse what lay beneath it. But only a cool, depthless black reflecting her visage was there. She looked wild. On the verge of being undone.

“I can’t,” she whispered. “A proper woman shouldn’t. What I mean to say is, we shouldn’t—”

She had that feeling again, like she’d been thrust into a book. She wanted to stay in the moment forever—suspend all else and let him touch her beneath the moon and the gently bending boughs of the willows.

Propriety be damned.

It would be so easy to fall into the moment. But she’d learned long ago that such passion was nothing like in novels. At least, not for her. Especially not for her.

“I enjoyed this lavender,” he said, stepping away and taking all his heat with him .

“I’m very glad,” she said breathlessly. Chaos stirred within her as he escorted her back home. And when she climbed into her bed, she could still feel his hand wrapped around her throat, his thumb pressed to her tongue.