I didn’t realize I was so starved for it.
The bedroom leaves me rattled so I head into a sunny section of the house, curl up in an oversized chair, and bring up my files on my datapad. It’s no use, though. I’ll write a sentence, and then pause, looking around the room. Write a sentence, then listen to Nassakth grunting as he lifts weights. Write a sentence, let my mind drift. Eventually Nassakth heads into the kitchen and I hear the clang of pots and pans as he gets to work.
By dinnertime, I have all of a pathetic paragraph written.
I send a note out to the others, feigning pollen-induced migraines (sounds likely) and that I’ll post a new chapter soon. My inbox immediately floods with notes from my friends, telling me to feel better, and that makes me feel even guiltier. I should tell them I got married and it’s messing up my mojo. I imagine they’ll understand—several have made marriages of convenience over the last few months as threats against humans have escalated. No one would judge me.
And yet, I can’t bring myself to type the words.
Dinner feels strained. At least, it does to me. Nassakth is courteous, asking me gentle questions about my farm, and the weather, and what I’ve seen of Risda. Safe topics. He talks about his meat-stock and how he learned to become a farmer, and it feels like we’re two guests trapped at an awkward house party, being forced to converse with one another.
Nassakth drinks water.
I have wine, because he knows I like it, but the fact that he’s not drinking with me just reinforces the stiff awkwardness that’s fallen between us. I sip mine, and when he offers to refill it, I shake my head. I want to chug the entire bottle. I want to get drunker than hell and drag him back into the bed with me so I can cuddle him and feel warm and safe again…but that’s not fair, is it? Because I told him I wanted to just be his friend, and friends don’t cuddle. Especially not if one of them wants to be more than friends.
We pile the dishes into the sonic cleanser companionably, and then stand in the kitchen, waiting for each other to speak. To figure out what to do with one another. It’s too early for bed, and I’m far too sober to invite him to join me. But parting again after all afternoon at opposite ends of the house feels…wrong.
I tilt my head and look up at him. “Slapjack?”
For the first time all day, a smile curves his feline mouth. “I would like that.”
A rush of warmth unfurls through me at his smile, and I realize that’s what’s been missing all day. He’s been utterly polite and kind, but he hasn’t been warm. He’s holding back, and…I don’t like it.
“I’ll get the cards,” I tell him, smiling back.
“Shall I get—”
Before he can finish the sentence, there’s a gentle ping that chimes through the house. “Perimeter alarm,” the computer says sweetly. “Local authorities incoming.”
Nassakth stiffens.
“That’s weird,” I whisper (and then I wonder why I’m whispering). “Why would the local authorities come here?”
“No clue.” Nassakth’s voice is utterly flat. I watch as he doesn’t head for the door, but goes to his war room instead. He returns a moment later with two blasters holstered to his belt and a wicked-looking knife strapped to his hip. He glances over at me and hesitates. “Perhaps you should hide.”
Hide…?
26
NASSAKTH
I am suspicious the moment the perimeter alarm goes off.
I have bribed the local authorities many times to ensure my (relative) obscurity. That is how things are done on Risda III. The locals make a show of spouting the laws and then hold their hands out for the appropriate bribe. Luckily for me, I have credits. Credits soothe away all problems. Everyone has their price.
So it’s very surprising to me to see Sivorrin, one of the port authorities, in his uniform, heading to my door. Even more surprising is the unknown figure at his side. A tall, mean-looking mesakkah with dingy, capped horns and a scarred face that tells me he served in the war.
I shoot Sivorrin an irritated look, and he deliberately avoids eye contact. “Greetings to you this fine day, Nass. My friend here has a few questions.” He tilts his head at the silent messakah.
Ah. Someone else has bribed Sivorrin more than I have.
I fight back a swell of irritation and step outside, closing the door behind me so they cannot look upon Kim. That is my mate. “You both dare greatly to approach a newly-mated praxiian at his home,” I say in greeting.
Sivorrin looks uncomfortable. The mesakkah just lifts his arm and begins to type into a wristpad. “We will not be here long,” the hard-faced man says. “The Homeworld bounty hunters guild is looking for this man in connection with multiple crimes. We’re paying well for any information that can be provided in regards to his location. I have been told he was last seen on this planet.”