Page 8 of The Dreamer and the Deep Space Warrior (Xaal Alien Romance #1)

Isobel

With her basket full of peace offerings in hand, Isobel made it to the clearing with only an hour to spare before sunset.

There was, in fact, evidence of the crash, with broken branches and debris lying strewn about. When she finally spotted the wrecked craft, she stopped in the tree line, uncertain if she should go onward. Dark Armor may have saved her last night, but he was obviously dangerous.

Curiosity and caution tangled together until her skin itched with it.

A clanging from somewhere inside the edifice she assumed was Dark Armor’s didn’t have her retreating, though; instead, she stepped forward as if in a trance.

She needed to know, for her own sanity, exactly what had occurred last night.

Perhaps everything would make more sense now, in the light of day.

Or perhaps she was mad for doing something so completely reckless. Again.

“Hello,” Isobel called when she was steps from the structure’s entryway.

The clanking noise stopped, but there was no answer. She knocked on the metal siding and called out again. Heavy footsteps sounded in response, and she had the sudden image of a prowling predator closing in on her. Her heart picked up an anxious patter punctuated by the footfall.

Dark Armor’s shadow preceded him, looming and inky, until there he was.

Just as large and intimidating as she remembered him being, if not more so.

He still bore armor, but it seemed different than what he’d worn the night before, as though there were less of it, somehow—but she couldn’t pinpoint exactly why she felt that way.

He rumbled with something Isobel could only describe as a gravelly growl.

She took a step back out of instinct, and he took a step forward.

She could retreat, but she still had a thousand questions she wanted answers to.

Not to mention she’d tried running from him before, and that hadn’t gone well.

Taking a deep breath, she approached again until she was only four paces away from him.

He stared at her for a long time, chin tilted down.

It was unsettling, not seeing his facial expressions.

She often relied on seeing people’s faces to read them better, as their words often contradicted their body language.

Did he disapprove of her? Was he upset? Was he contemplating the best way to kill her?

When he shifted, she thought it might be the latter. But then he moved aside as if inviting her in.

The moment she stepped inside the craft, she felt validated. It all really had happened.

He’d somehow corrected the lighting so that it was a solid, low blue glow that revealed a much cleaner interior than that of the silver one. However, she still couldn’t find the source of the light. Flames that sat in the ceiling? A strange chandelier of some sort? Magic?

Remembering where she was and who she was with, she pulled her gaze from the ceiling and back to Dark Armor. “Uhm, good afternoon,” Isobel said, a bit hoarse. “I brought you some goods.” She held the basket up between them as if it were her shield.

He lifted a gloved hand and pressed something on his forearm. She heard a clicking sound and then… “Where am I?” he asked.

The words ran together in a rather gruff tone, but Isobel's eyes widened when she deciphered it. “Sir, you are … well, you’re in Cinder.”

“Cinder,” he repeated. His eye shields flashed a dim red.

“Yes,” she said, unable to determine if he was confused by that information. Anyone who knew anything about Dorsent would know its capital. Though, they were on the outskirts of the city, where many of the gentlemen’s manor houses sat.

Dark Armor merely made that same thunder-like sound that seemed to come from his entire chest.

Blinking twice, Isobel relied on the manners hammered into her from girlhood to avoid blurting out the questions she wanted to ask all at once. Instead, she led with, “By what title and name should I call you?”

“Call me?” he rumbled after a brief pause.

“Yes,” she said, smoothing down her dress as she adjusted the basket into her other hand.

“Obviously, one should be introduced first but seeing as how we are in such a unique situation, I think we can ignore that rule.” She knew she was rambling, but she was starting to think there wasn’t a simple explanation for this.

Isobel liked to think she was well-cultured, even having traveled out of Dorsent several times with her father and Henry.

Yet, she had never read about or seen anyone who dressed or talked like him.

Not to mention the fact they currently stood in something that had been flying just yesterday .

His visor flashed a deep orange this time, illuminating for longer before shifting to black. Again, she was struck with the feeling that he’d been assessing her in some way, and she felt her face heat.

What was it he could see?

Finally, he spoke, but his words were unintelligible. It didn’t sound like any language she’d ever heard, and in addition to being well-cultured, she considered herself well-educated, too.

She shook her head. “I’m sorry, I couldn’t understand. Are you a duke?” It was always better to start off higher and be completely wrong if they were going to play a guessing game.

“I am called Ved.”

“Ved,” she repeated, tasting the name on her tongue. Short and blunt like the strike of a hammer. It somehow seemed to fit him perfectly. The name was not one she’d ever heard, though. Perhaps he was from Ruson? Somewhere beyond Ruson? “You have no title, Ved?”

“None that need stated here,” he said after a long pause.

“Oh.” Well, that settled that.

“What call do you go by?” he rumbled, stepping close. Before she could think to protest, he wrapped his gloved fingers around her chin—a gentle grip, but firm enough that he could turn her face aside and inspect her miraculously healed wound.

A shiver went through her. Blazes, had this man never been taught proper protocol?

Or was he from somewhere where they didn’t care?

She cleared her throat, but he didn’t remove his hand.

“I’m Isobel Nott,” she squeaked out. She supposed there was no need to give her title, since he hadn’t given his.

His grasp didn’t falter even as she spoke. “Isobelnott,” he repeated, crushing her two names together.

“Isobel.” She paused. “Nott. ”

“Isobel,” he purred roughly as he turned her face back toward him. “Nott.”

“Yes,” she whispered.

They stood there for a moment with his huge hand cupping her jaw.

Now that she had all her wits about her, she noticed his presence anew.

Her face came to his sternum. Both the armor and the material beneath it were intricate and unfamiliar.

The breastplate with which she was currently face to face bore scratches and a symbol she didn’t understand over his right breast. Heat radiated from him—through the well-worn glove on her face, from his body so close to hers—but she couldn’t move away.

Seemingly satisfied with his inspection, he released her and stepped away.

Isobel was breathless. People didn’t touch her. Men didn’t touch women . Not like that. Had a man ever touched her face before, and so boldly? It was something that happened in dark and bawdy taverns, in marital chambers, and in her books, but that was it.

Pushing those thoughts away, she focused instead on what he’d been looking at. “Last night, you treated my wound? And took me home?” The questions tumbled out of her as if she had no control of her tongue.

He inclined his head and raised it slowly but said nothing. Was it a nod?

“Yes? But how did you get the wound to close in a matter of hours? How were you not seen? How did you know where I slept?” Heat traveled up her neck and to her cheeks with the swiftness of a match set to dry wood.

It was embarrassment from asking such absurd questions, and even more for having been in such a dangerous predicament.

If anyone had seen him carrying her back or entering their home, it would be a scandal that spread like wildfire. Or worse.

But the image of him cradling her limp form in his arms and carrying her to her bedroom would not leave her head. Lord Richard Seymour would soon be her husband, and he hadn’t seen her bed chamber. And probably never would. The fact that Ved had made her feel strangely vulnerable.

Silence settled between them for a long moment before he spoke again. “Your room has you in it,” he said, only making her feel more exposed and confused. “As for your head and ankle, they were simple to fix.”

Simple? No wound was simple to heal. Even the smallest scrapes could give way to infection. And judging by the way the wound had bled, it had probably required stitches. At the very least, it should still be raw and require constant monitoring.

Isobel let out a long breath. She didn’t necessarily want to bring up the fact that she had witnessed him murdering someone, but it seemed wholly pertinent to ask now that they had established he wasn’t the Devil entirely. “The other men, they—”

He made a sound that could only be described as disgust. “Were dishonorable opponents.”

She blinked. Duels were outlawed in Dorsent, but they did happen.

However, other countries had their own laws.

For instance, she had heard that in Ruson, dueling culture was very much alive and well.

To act ignobly during one, to deny the challenge, or even to flee were all ways one could be dishonored.

Dueling didn’t make what she’d witnessed any less harrowing, but at least there was an explanation for his behavior besides cold-blooded murder.

Except, duels typically only involved two people and their seconds. Isobel cleared her throat. “It is legal to duel in your country, then?”

He tilted his head. “Legal. ”

She wasn’t entirely sure if he was agreeing with her, but she nodded all the same. “I see. And just where are you from? And for that matter, where are we right now?” she added, gesturing to the interior. This was what she really wanted to know.

He looked around the hallway and then back to her. Ignoring her first question, he answered, “This is my ship. Shadowdrifter.”

“Your ship?” She’d been correct to assume the manor-sized objects were vessels of some sort. “So, you sail through water?” But she knew that wasn’t right—and that, as much as she’d tried to apply logic to the events of last night, the answer wasn’t logical at all.

An anticipatory shiver went through her, and the world around her disappeared as her focus narrowed in on the man before her. It was as if she knew what he would say before he said it.

“No, Isobel Nott, I sail the stars.”