Princess of the Void

Five seconds of utter stillness.

Vora’s heel shifts.

Sykora’s tail curls around her calf.

Grant has no frame of reference for how well Sykora spear fights, just as she has none for his guitar playing. As far as she’s concerned, he is a virtuoso. The thought struck him as fond and silly. But now he watches her duel, and he understands. His wife moves like a warrior out of myth.

CRACK. The spears ricochet high into the air, and the Taiikari wielding them are driven close enough to touch.

CRACK. Sykora’s spear drops from her untied hand, rolls along the span of her tail, and jerks back up under Vora’s guard. The majordomo dances backward and misses the whistling tip by inches.

CRACK. Vora lands a solid hit onto Sykora’s side that pushes the breath from Grant’s lungs in a sympathetic gasp. Sykora spins away from the impact, and snarls like an animal as she hefts her spear. She’s bunched up and low, like a winched-in spring. Vora paces, a circling hunter. The diode at the end of her spear trails a comet tail afterimage as she pounces.

Sykora slams her spear hilt into the floor, departing the ground in a dazzling pole-vault. In mid-fucking-air, like a valkyrie, she twists round and overhand hurls her spear. It flies a bare foot before her tail catches it and whirls it with ballistic speed.

A bright white flash rings out as the spear tip connects, and goes spinning away. Sykora drops to the floor, ass-first, and roars her victory over the klaxon call.

“God damn, Sykora.” Vora’s helm light sputters out. She slaps the badge on her chest and her helmet slides down. “You know what that was, Prince Consort? Your wife just swung that spear so hard the system triggered a PD membrane around my skull.”

“I didn’t intend to get so aggressive, Vora. I’ve erred.” Sykora climbs to her feet and opens her one untied arm. “I’ll buy the drinks, yes?”

“A win’s a win, Majesty. And I did hit you with the Chameleon.” Vora steps into Sykora’s embrace. “Just let’s split Grantyde’s tab, please. Can’t imagine how much brew a man his size needs.”

“I’ll stay dry tonight,” Grant says. “Does your Empire have soda water?”

Sykora tsks. “My fuddy-duddy husband. Are you worried I’ll get you drunk and seduce you?”

He shrugs. “Yes, actually.”

“Well, uh.” Her tail droops. “Fair.”

“What did you think, Grantyde?” Sykora rubs her newly unbound wrist as Grant folds the ribbon up. “Did I successfully show off?”

“Absolutely.” Grant drapes the ribbon across the locker room bench and turns back to his wife. Then he keeps turning, quickly, as she climbs naked from her suit.

“Grantyde. Come on.” He hears her click her tongue. “It’s nothing you haven’t seen plenty of times.”

“I appreciate you letting me decide for myself, Majesty.”

That cocksure victor’s certainty has fled her. “Understood. I’ll, uh… I’ll keep doing that, then.” The silky sound of her pants sliding up her hips. “Turn around. Please.”

He glances back. She’s clothed. She’s close.

“Do I get a reward?” she asks.

“What kind of reward?” He surveys the top of her head. The two velvety nubs of her horns are rising from her head.

“A kiss, maybe?”

He chuckles. He hesitates. Then he bends at the waist and plants a kiss on her forehead. Her hand laces into his collar as he starts to straighten up. He clasps it in a gentle squeeze and removes it.

“I meant a kiss like earlier.” Her voice is small and pleading. “A real kiss.”

He sighs and sits on a bench running through the middle of the locker room. “I can’t do that, Sykora.”

A perplexed frown settles across her face. “We did before.”

“We did,” he says. “And you nearly got me. I can’t risk another one.”

“I had thought… I thought we were making progress, Grantyde. Steady progress. Now you turn from my body, you avoid my kiss. I thought I could be patient. I can be patient. But I see us going backwards and I can’t bear it.” She takes a step toward him. Close enough to feel her breath. “I can’t fucking bear it.”

“We aren’t going backwards. You…” He licks his dry lips. “You’re an amazing woman, Sykora. I’ve never met anyone even close. You were incredible out there. You were like a movie.”

“Then touch me.” Her palm lands on his chest. “I’m not a movie. I’m your wife. Touch me.”

“I can’t risk that.” His knuckles are white on the bench. “Until I’m free, we’re opponents, as surely as if it had been me across that board or that arena. And I can’t afford to lose.”

Her touch slides down to his thigh. She’s trembling. “I don’t want to be your opponent any more. I want to be in love with you. I hate this.”

“I do, too.”

“I’ve thought about what you said. The way you want to live.” She closes her eyes and visibly steels herself. “It terrifies me, Grantyde. Those anticomps I’m having made for you. Do you know what would have happened if you’d been wearing them when Inadama called? The material that would have given her on me?”

“I don’t know what would have happened,” he says. “I don’t know a thing about this world you’ve put me in. I’m terrified, too. But that’s where we’re gonna have to start. Equally terrified. Outside your comfort zone, outside mine. Outside the Empire.”

“Outside the—” Her eyes flick open, wide. “Grantyde, I am the Empire.”

“Not all of you,” he says. “Not the part of you I want to fall in love with.”

“You don’t want to stop at the anticomps. You said that. The first rule we break. You want to drag me into iconoclasm.” Her hands rest on the sides of his jaw, by his ears. “Why can’t you be happy with a normal love? With a safe love?”

He needs to look away. But he doesn’t want to deprive himself a second of her face. His wife’s face. She wants him more than anyone has ever wanted him. “Because there’s nothing normal about it. Not to me.” He reminds himself as much as he reminds her.

She huffs a frustrated sigh. “Why did it have to be you? Why couldn’t it have been a nice Kovikan or an Amadari? Why didn’t I just take Kabira’s wort and burn this feeling away? Why am I even considering this? Why do I want it?”

His breath holds. “Want what?”

“This—this perversion. This thing you’ve asked me to do.” She can’t even bring herself to say it. Her hands slip downward until they’re wrapped around his shoulders. “I am a Princess of the Taiikari. I’ve bent worlds to their knees. I’ve survived scandals and assassination attempts and pirate attacks and being marooned on Maekyon. I conquer. I take.”

She’s climbing into his lap. Why isn’t he stopping her? He feels drunk. Like he’s in a dream, watching himself. Her eyes haven’t even flashed, and he feels compelled.

“And now,” she whispers, “my downfall is here, wearing this alluring disguise, freely admitting how it will destroy me. Destroy both of us. And still…”

His hand is on her back, right where her spine begins its graceful outward curve. When did that happen?

“Still…” she murmurs. Her eyelids lower. The graceful line of her body flows as she lays it flush against his. Her hips. Her stomach. Her chest.

“Just say it,” he whispers. “Just say: you’re free. And you’ll have me.”

She doesn’t shake her head. She doesn’t say no. She just stares, like a deer in the headlights. Like there’s a tidal wave crashing toward her. The gleam of her fangs as her pouty little lips part.

His wife, the warrior. The killer. Visions of her victims flash through his mind. The blooms of blood on the walls. Drake’s gurgling last breath. Drake, who would have killed him. He was the only Maekyonite in that building who left it alive. Even when she thought she hated him, even when he was just a tool stolen from a hostile empire. She spared him.

If he gives himself to her, nobody like Drake will ever hurt him again.

Her thighs, where they wrap around him, are an intoxicating combination of soft, giving flesh and steel-cord muscle. Her body is so touchable. Every inch of her is some new sensation—firm, pillowy, toned, plush. And hot. Fever-hot. Maybe this one time doesn’t need to count. Maybe he gives in once, just once. So he knows what he’s saying no to. Maybe it’ll be easier to resist her once he knows. He can always find his way to freedom later. He’s been married to this woman for a week, and he’s had forty seconds of intimacy. The most beautiful forty seconds of his life. He’s sitting before a banquet, and he’s had nothing but a crust of bread, and he’s starving.

“You,” she whispers. Just that one syllable. His fingers twitch against her skin. “You’re—”

Their noses touch. Grantyde feels her breath, warm and damp on his face.

A knock on the door.

They jerk away from one another near-simultaneously. As if an invisible electric fence divided them. He nearly broke.

She nearly broke.

“Majesty? Prince Consort?” That’s Vora, muffled by the door. “Do I still owe you drinks?”

“A moment, please, majordomo.” The commanding steel is back undergirding Sykora’s shaky voice. She clambers off of Grant's lap. “I think it would be best if we both took some time to ourselves for the rest of the day, Grantyde. To…settle down. And think.” Her eyes tilt downward. “Perhaps you and Vora could get drinks by yourselves.”

“You should go with her,” he says. “I’m not thirsty. I’ll go with Ajax and log some more flying time.”

“Very well. Good idea.” Her fists ball the linen of her shirt’s hem. “I’ll see you later, then.”

He’s starving. The air is so light and insubstantial after the solidity of his wife’s body. “Yep,” he says. “See you soon.”

She slips out of the locker room.

She slips back in and skitters over to him. She kisses him on the forehead.

“No matter what,” she whispers. “No matter who wins. I will never regret you, Grant Hyde.”

Then she’s gone.

He sits on the bench and tries to get his heartbeat under control. What would have happened if that knock hadn’t stopped them? Who was about to win?

Next time, he’ll know. Next time, one of them will give in. Next time, he’ll spend the night in his wife’s arms, and he’ll awaken either free or doomed.