The Morcai Battalion: Invictus

Her lips parted. She searched his eyes. “I don’t have the words,” she faltered. She touched his face and all the intensity of her feelings for him made her radiant, as if she were glowing inside with some secret heat. “You’ll have to find them, in my mind.”

Her awe and delight were there, along with her feelings for him, so intense that he almost felt the impact physically.

He seemed fascinated with her. And not just with her. His gaze dropped to her stomach. He reached down and touched it with just his fingertips, and caught his breath.

She frowned. He looked shocked.

As he was. The Dacerian woman had told him, decades past, that she carried his child. And now he knew that it was a lie. He knew it, because he felt his child, communicated with his child at some molecular level, sensed the child in every cell of his body. His teeth clenched as he relived the anguish just after her death. He had blamed his father. Now, horribly, he was forced to face his own error. If she had lied about one thing, it was certain that she had lied about others.

He recalled the Dacerian’s easy acceptance of him when they mated, her bland submission. It was different with Madeline. Madeline had fought him. But then, she had become as fiercely responsive as she had been fiercely resistant. Madeline loved him. The Dacerian woman...never had. And he only now realized it.

She felt the indecision and sorrow. She smoothed her hand gently over his black hair. “You can feel the child,” she whispered, surprised that she knew that so certainly.

He opened his eyes and looked into hers. Sensation overwhelmed him. He felt comfort, sympathy, joy in her touch. “Yes,” he said after a minute, and he smiled gently. “I can feel our child.”

She leaned forward and touched her forehead to his. It was a moment out of time, when she wished the clock would never move again. She wanted it to last forever.

There was a faint noise at the door, like scratching. He lifted his head and stared into Madeline’s soft eyes for another few seconds. His were still that incredible shade of gold. She didn’t know what it meant. But before she could ask him, he stood up, suddenly remote and stoic, as if they were in his office together discussing strategy. The intimacy fell away at once.

He turned. The door opened and a tall, somber woman with her black hair in a bun approached them. She bowed.

Madeline looked at her with curiosity. She smiled shyly. The smile was returned.

“Sfilla,” the woman told her. She pointed to herself. “Sfilla.”

“Madeline,” came the gentle reply.

Dtimun turned to her. “Sfilla will be your companion on our journey. She will act as cook and personal aide, as well. She has been with my family for many years, and is one of its most trusted members. You will go with her now to your own quarters.”

“Yes, sir,” Madeline acknowledged.

Sfilla looked at her with astonishment. “You call him ‘sir’?” she exclaimed, and worked hard at pronouncing the unfamiliar Standard. Still, there was hardly a trace of an accent.

Madeline blinked. “I’ve been calling him ‘sir’ for almost three years,” she explained and smiled as she looked at him. “Habits are hard to break, even under the circumstances.” She shrugged. “Hey, at least I’m not saluting you,” she said in her defense.

His eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “Do that at Benaski Port and I will lock you in a bath cubicle and lose the key,” he threatened.

In defiance, she stood at attention. “Notice I’m not saluting,” she said with irrepressible humor.

Sfilla giggled. Dtimun sighed. “It is a complicated situation,” he told the woman, with a wry smile.

“As you say,” Sfilla replied.

“Are all those people still out there?” Madeline asked suddenly, bringing Dtimun’s amused eyes back to her.

She was tugging at the flimsy fabric and looking decidedly uncomfortable.

“They have been told that the mating was productive,” he told her. “They have retired to the great room, where they will consume beverages and food for another little space of time, and then they will go home.”

“They won’t... I mean, they can be trusted?” she worried.

“Even if they could not, Caneese can be quite intimidating,” he chuckled. “I assure you, no word of this will reach the Dectat, if that is what concerns you.”

She nodded.

His eyes swept over her and narrowed with pure possession. She was more beautiful now than he had ever seen her. And she was his now. She belonged to him. She would never be able to mate with a human. It gave him a sense of utter delight to know that.

She didn’t understand the look in his eyes, one she’d never seen in them, and he didn’t answer her curiosity. He turned away and abruptly left the room.

Chuckling, Sfilla went to fetch a robe out of what passed for a closet and helped drape her in it.

“You must not be embarrassed,” Sfilla said softly when she noted the discomfort in Madeline’s expression. “It is part of life. And you have a child from it. A noble result. A son!”

Madeline hadn’t thought to use her wrist scanner. She touched the slight, hard mound with wonder. “A son.” The word sounded as if it held magic.

Sfilla laughed. “You have been a soldier for many years. Now you must become a Cehn-Tahr aristocrat’s consort, so that you are not identified at Benaski Port as the soldier that you are. That will be my chore, to tutor you.”

Madeline raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

Sfilla pursed her lips. “And perhaps you can teach me the art of hand-to-hand combat,” she said, smiling at some private joke.

Madeline grinned. “Deal!”

* * *

LATER, AFTER SHE had bathed and a small meal had been brought to her, she sat in the sunlight filtering through her window and tried to make sense of what had happened. Everyone said that the mating was brutal and barbaric, that Cehn-Tahr women sometimes would forsake bonding because they were so frightened of it. Madeline had not found it barbaric at all, except just at first. She wondered what other females had found so terrifying.

“Passion,” Dtimun replied to her silent question.

Her head turned, her expression questioning. He was dressed in robes, as he had been when they attended the Altair reception. He looked elegant.

She smiled. “You said once that I would have nightmares.”

He chuckled. “I underestimated you. In many ways.”

“Sir?”

He groaned. “Madeline, you must stop referring to me as ‘sir.’ It will arouse suspicion.”

“Sorry.” She peered up at him. “I really have to stop saluting you, too?”

He glared at her.

“Okay, I’ll try. I promise.” She cocked her head. “I thought I might have sprains or broken limbs from the way everybody talked about it,” she said. “It wasn’t brutal. Not as I define brutality.”

He moved closer. “Cehn-Tahr women dislike physical boldness. A predator attacks weakness.”

She began to understand. His aggression had diminished when she fought him.