“Right,” Sandra giggles softly. “That was a silly question. I bet you’re not afraid of anything,” she adds.
Images flash. The white room. The sad female, the red titan looming over us both. A chill runs down my spine, causing me to shudder, unexpected, uninvited. Abhorrent.This feeling, buried deep in my core, it sickens me.
She pries too close, as usual. Her questions—so delicate, so innocent like this female. Yet each question burrows deep like a vipertail’s barb. Even her naked form stokes this rank, stomach-churning uncertainty, equally alluring and disturbing in its intensity.
“I don’t know how you do it. Before I had to... leave, I saw you two fighting.” Sandra’s voice wavers as she takes a deep breath. “The way you both moved and swung at each other. Full of... hatred. I would be terrified,” she mutters, her voice lowering.
Does she seek reassurance? Protection? It’s only natural she feels this way. The weak are drawn to the strong, to bask in their radiance. She has nothing to fear in that regard. Yet... perhapsthe females doubt me after what happened with Carmen and Kazumi. It makes sense. That failure still gnaws at me.
“I won’t let anything happen to you,” I growl, the memory of that defeat hardening my resolve.
“Really?” Sandra’s voice is soft, and I feel the water ripple as her arm brushes against mine. “That makes me feel better.” Her tone is eager.
My eyes snap open, catching the soft curve of her body as she leans closer. Her arm presses lightly against mine, and I feel a loathsome flutter in my chest. Is this manipulation? It must be. But for what purpose?
“Dracoth?” Sandra asks, her gaze drifting down as she takes a deep breath. I brace myself for the inevitable question that sits at the tip of her little pink tongue, struggling to be unleashed. Her sapphire gaze snaps to mine with sudden intensity. “Do... do you know who you’re going to pick for the Mortar-akin-Tick?”
Her question strikes like an illuminating bolt of lightning. Of course. It makes sense now. The females seek to influence my decision. They think I can sway the Gods. Amusing. Naïve.
“Mortakin-Tok,” I correct, a sense of relief washing over me.
“Sorry. Yeah, the Mortakin-Tok.” Her eyes don’t waver; they remain fixed on me, searching.
“The Gods choose,” I reply simply, waiting for the disappointment to cross her face and for her imminent retreat.
“Oh...” Sandra almost whispers, her focused gaze dropping to the simmering water. “So, who you like doesn’t even matter?” Her words trail off, barely audible.
I shake my head, and she offers a weak, forlorn smile. “That seems cruel.” She takes another deep breath as I notice her distorted fingers fiddling beneath the pool’s surface. “When will you find out... when the...godstell you?” Her hesitation on the word “gods” betrays her discomfort.
A nonbeliever, like many alien species. Like I once was. It makes no difference. The Gods will reveal themselves, regardless. Her question, however, lingers—a valid one. One Ignixis swore on his life he could answer. Yet the old gas-cloud has vanished. He wouldn’t dare have fled my wrath knowing he spoke lies. Not impossible, given his propensity for cowardice. The thought clenches my jaw with frustration.
“Soon,” I reply, prompted more by a feeling in my gut than actual knowledge.
“Really?” Sandra’s voice perks up with a sudden eagerness. “Do they... the gods, I mean, give you a vision or something?”
Questions. Endless and unanswerable.She burrows like a wyrm, undeterred by even the hardest of rock. Impressive, if not irksome.
“I don’t know,” I admit. It’s infuriating not knowing, this waiting around.
Silence lingers.
I feel Sandra’s eyes studying me, feel her breath brushing my crimson skin, feel her heartbeat hammering in her chest as if she’s preparing to charge a retinue of battlesuits.
“I want to try something,” she murmurs, her voice low.
The water stirs as she shifts, straddling me.
I jolt upright at the sudden intrusion, unprepared for her incredibly soft, delicate form pressing against my bruised skin. My heart races, my hand raising to stop her, but then falters, hanging in the air, unsure.
“Let me take care of you, Dracoth,” she purrs up at me through long eyelashes in a surprisingly fascinating way.
Her hands, so small, so fragile, slide across my chest, and she releases soft, breathy noises that seem out of place here—in the realm of stone and fire. She sways her hips, brushing against my loincloth, slow, deliberate. Heat builds within me, the Rushsurging through my veins as though preparing me for a fierce battle.
But this is different. My Rush, instead of powering my muscles, flows downward, filling my male-hood. A strange desire rages inside of me like the need to kill, but different and dangerous—dangerous for the female. This need to dominate, to claim her body and soul, burns deep, raging like an uncontrollable fire, stoked with every touch, every subtle movement of hers.
“Stop,” I command, peeling the flushed female from me as Rush leaks from my eyes. “This will change nothing.” My voice is hard, unyielding.
“No, Dracoth!” Sandra’s wide eyes lift to mine, her face awash with hurt. “Don’t do this; don’t push me away,” she pleads, desperation tinging her voice as she clings to my arm, refusing to let go.
