No Rules (6 page)

His father had been arrogant, confident that he could outmatch Xander and end his reign of terror for good. “I must do this, for you and for them. Their futures depend on it.”

How right he'd been. After his father's defeat, Xander had taken his mother to his bed, a death sentence in itself. Fenton had huddled with Nella and Gili in their dank cell in the bowels of the palace. His sisters had only been five and seven revolutions old, and they'd cried for their mother the entire night.

His concentration splintered, and he sagged against the door. Pressing the heels of his hands against his stinging eyes, Fenton tried to block out the inhuman sounds of Nella's screams when the guards came for her the next morning. He'd fought, but at only nine revolutions, he hadn't the strength to do more than irritate them. “Your sister's been sold, boy. Settle down or the other one will go on the block next.”

“No,” Xander had called from the shadows, as Nella's cries grew faint. “For three generations, I've had to defeat the males of your family. You, boy, will be mine from the onset, my tool, my weapon.”

“Never!” Del had been coated with blood from his broken nose and split lip, chilled from the hours spent in the damp room. This bastard had killed his father, and his mother too. He would never do anything to help him.

“Oh, I think you will.” Xander had leaned in close and whispered, “If you value your other sister's life, you will do exactly as I say.”

For a third of a generation, Del had been Xander's puppet, until news of the overlord's defeat at the hands of his son spread through the Hosta System like wildfire. Anyone who was perceived to be loyal to the old regime had been tried, most of them executed. By then both the girls were dead and Fenton had his new mission.

Rising to his feet, he moved closer to his precious cargo, felt the steady reassuring thrum of its energy signature pulsing under his hand. Gili had died for this and he would too, if necessary. He would do everything in his power to ensure Alison wouldn't have to pay the same price all of his loved ones did. She would have been better off with Mig, scarred for life, yes, but physical wounds were simpler to heal than the ones on the inside.

He didn't know how to be gentle with her, no matter how much he wished it were so. He'd been born on a violent world, and given into the custody of a madman. Forged in fire and coated in blood, he'd hidden his tender heart away, until even he couldn't find it anymore. Every person he'd ever cared for had met a horrible and untimely end.

With odds like that, Alison didn't stand a chance.

I
n the wake of her panic, Alison admitted she'd handled the news of returning to the Omicron Theta System badly. So badly that she hadn't seen Fenton in almost an entire day, though she knew he had been back while she slept because he'd left a meal comprised of some kind of roasted meat that tasted like chicken and the purple fruit the Hosta natives served with every dish.

He must think I'm crazy.
Was it any wonder? She'd witnessed drug addicts on the subway behaving with more decorum. Beating her hands bloody on the door, for God's sake. What was she thinking?

In short, she hadn't been. She'd reacted to a spike of adrenaline at hearing she was returning to the scene of her crime. Because the one thing she feared more than the assassin tracking her was facing the people she'd helped to enslave.

After she'd eaten, Alison milled about while she waited for Fenton to return. She'd lingered in the tub, but couldn't truly enjoy the indulgence provided by the luxury suite. How could she possibly change his mind? She didn't even know why he wanted to go to the empaths' homeworld. What business could he have there?

From what she'd observed, Fenton clearly battled his own internal demons. Perhaps that had something to do with the trip. She needed more information about him if she had any hope at all of changing his mind.

She combed her hair and stared at her reflection in the mirror. Her hands shook as she worked the wet strands into another braid. With no makeup and wearing a plain dress, she looked so innocent, but appearances could be deceiving. He had no idea of her crimes, and she hoped he never learned. Fenton held all the cards, he was the one with currency, with connections. He was her life pod in the cold depths of space. She couldn't afford to alienate him.

Unable to hold her own gaze, Alison admitted the truth to herself. She didn't want to see the look on his face when he discovered what she'd done. How she'd tricked an entire race of people, covered up the actions of her company, all for profit. Fenton was what her aunt Lola called a “stand-up guy.” He would never look at her the same way again once he knew what she'd done.

A tapping on the outer door alerted her a moment before it slid open. Fenton no longer wore his uniform. Instead he'd pulled on black slacks and a blue, skintight pullover shirt that complemented his intense eye color. Muscles bulged in his arms and chest, gloriously defined beneath his clothing. His hair appeared freshly trimmed, and his jaw was cleanly shaven. His hands were clasped behind his back in what seemed to be universal military parade rest. He was imposing, commanding, and she felt slightly pathetic standing before him in her ill-fitting borrowed garb. If she only had one day back on Earth with access to her closet and the neighborhood rejuvi-spa, she wouldn't feel so inferior.

“I'm so sorry.” Alison rushed forward, but he held up a hand and she froze under his glacial stare.

“It won't happen again.” His tone was definitive.

What
it
was he referring to? Her tantrum? Whatever, she needed to play by his rules for a while, gain his trust back. “Of course.”

“I thought you might like to explore the ship, maybe enjoy a meal in the public dining room.” He was oddly formal, and she desperately missed the heat his every look had branded on her.

“Sounds lovely. Am I dressed appropriately?” She lifted her chin, allowing his cool inspection. Hard to believe this was the same man who'd made such passionate love to her.

His assessment was brief, and he met and held her gaze without a flicker of emotion. “We'll visit the trade shop first, get you whatever you need to be comfortable.”

“Okay.” Really, what else could she say?

Fenton moved to the door and pressed his thumb to the pad. The doors swished open. Alison had tried that numerous times, but nothing happened. Fenton waited calmly by the door and she fought the urge to fidget as she approached.

He didn't touch her, but he didn't need to. His energy was all-encompassing. She felt protected, safe, as they moved out into the dimly lit corridor. The floor was soft under her bare feet, made from some kind of synthetic spongy material. The curved walls were smooth and glowed softly, exuding a feel of expensive quality. “What kind of ship is this?”

“A luxury liner. We were lucky one happened to be docked at Pental when I wanted to leave.”

Though she doubted Fenton left anything to luck, she nodded. He wasn't much of a tour guide, but then again, she didn't require one. Alison hadn't been born to privilege, but she took to it like a duck to water whenever the opportunity arose. She might be barefoot and wearing borrowed clothes, but confidence could pull off any ensemble. Passengers nodded politely as they passed by and she offered the same in return.

Fenton guided her down a long ramp to the level below. The palatial shop that greeted them must have been the trade shop. Colors and fabrics she had no words for bombarded her every which way she turned.

Fenton would have gone in, but Alison gripped his elbow and pulled him to the side. “Do I have a spending limit?”

Something that looked a lot like guilt flashed in his eyes, but he buried it quickly in an icy avalanche. “Get whatever you need.”

“You might regret that.” She warned him once, but the idea of shopping, truly shopping for the first time in over two years, had her bouncing on her toes.

He didn't repeat himself, just stared her down. He insisted and she wasn't about to refuse. Money clearly wasn't a concern for him. He could probably gamble back whatever she spent in under an hour anyway.

“Don't say I didn't warn you.”

 

How much could one woman possibly need?

Fenton's lips parted as he watched Alison swoop through the shops like a cosmic storm. He'd thought her warning over her potential purchases had been unnecessary but as he watched her pick out another pair of ill-advised footwear, he realized he'd underestimated her. She was incredibly fussy, but when she found something she liked, she paid no heed to the price tag. Fenton doubted the overlord himself could have picked out finer items.

After the first few hours, he leaned against a pillar to wait. A harried-looking clerk asked for his genetic scan, probably hesitant to make any of her demanded alterations before he verified they had enough universal credits to cover the purchase. Fenton prepaid for whatever she would need. Money mattered to him very little, and the genuine pleasure she derived from spending it was worth it.

He owed her this at least.

With half the attendants in tow, Alison stood at the eye of a frenetic hurricane. She made a sharp, slashing motion over a purple bolt of cloth indicating a cut, then turned and
winked
at him. His heart rate sped up with that simple connection and he looked away first.

“Excuse me.” The salesgirl moved forward, handheld scanner aimed at him. “Would you mind standing straight so I can verify your measurements?”

“I don't need anything.” Fenton scowled.

“Your wife ordered it.” The girl waited patiently. “She said one of your shirts had been damaged and she wanted to replace it.”

“No need.” He sent the girl off with a wave. His body stirred as he recalled exactly how Alison had damaged his shirt, in a frenzy to get him naked. She pouted prettily at him now, but on this, he would not be moved. With a shake of his head he mouthed the word
wife?

She shrugged and turned back to her minions.

He'd told her she needed to pretend they were involved, but from the little he knew of Earth customs, a wife was a full-fledged life mate. Even pretending that she was his stirred his possessive instincts. He'd never responded to a woman the way he did Alison, not sexually, nor with the unsettling tenderness that softened his actions. He needed to keep his icy reserve in place. Opening up to her was not an option.

She'd already forced him to cross too many lines.

“Ready?” Alison's soft voice broke him from his reverie. He blinked, startled at the transformation. She'd donned a bright blue dress, much more ornate than the simple sheath garment she'd been wearing. It caught the light and shimmered with her every move, sluicing over her formidable curves to just below her knees. Her hair was still tied back in a braid, but a length of fabric that matched the dress had been woven into it, creating a more polished and modern look. Her shoes were silver, with high wedge heels, revealing freshly painted toenails and a small silver bracelet around one ankle.

“This isn't going to work.” The words escaped before he could call them back, and her face fell.

“You don't like it?”

He took his time, considering her from head to toe. How could he explain that he liked it too much? That she drew too much attention? Notice he was desperate to avoid?

Perhaps saying something callous, hurting her feelings, would be the smartest move. Yet one glance at her exquisite face and, for the first time in his memory, Fenton didn't want to take the smartest course. Not if the toll was injuring her in any way.

“You look lovely, a beautiful shine on a rare gem.”

His reward was her radiant smile. “Thank you. For everything. No one has ever given me so much for so little. I wish you'd let me repay you in some way.”

To the curious ears of the post workers, she could have been referring to the shirt he refused, but Fenton was nothing if not cautious. Taking her hand in his, he lifted her knuckles to his lips, in a gesture he remembered his father using on his mother. As the only role models for a genuinely affectionate couple he had to go by, he hoped it was sufficient. “The pleasure of your company is the only payment I crave.”

Alison blinked, as though genuinely startled, and he turned to instruct her purchases be delivered to their rooms. Placing a hand on the small of her back, he escorted her from the store to the grandeur of the promenade deck.

He'd been a little worried about Alison's deportment. Needlessly so, because she fell right into the role of a prestigious lady. He'd had his suspicions about her from the beginning, but her ease at transitioning from
demjong
whore to his doting wife, at least publicly, was without reproach.

He requested a private table, and since the hour was early for the last meal, they were seated on the much-coveted balcony overlooking the central view port. Below them the starscape spread out in an endless blanket of glittering possibilities. Two months ago, Fenton had never been off the central planet of Hosta, had never seen anything but oceans of ice or sand. Now he was speeding away from his home via the space lanes, never to see Hosta again. The change unsettled him.

“Are you all right?” Alison asked, staring at his ruined face instead of the view.

He was about to wave off her concern, but hesitated. Maybe it would be better for the two of them to get to know one another, instead of hiding everything. It could only help with the ruse to understand a few basics at least. “This is only my second time with space travel. First leaving the Hosta System.”

Her eyebrows drew down. “Really? That's surprising, considering you were part of the military.”

“Ground force only.” The overlord wanted to keep him close to home. He'd been forced to stage an unspeakable betrayal to be granted his post on Pental. One he hoped to make amends for at some point. “How about you? You seem to have . . . adapted well.”

The corner of her bow-shaped mouth kicked up. “Adaptation has always been my specialty.”

He wanted to ask more, to know what put that sparkle in her eyes, but the server came over to recite the specials.

Alison listened, then looked to him expectantly. Fenton had no idea what anything was, since he'd grown used to surviving on military rations. If it was edible and would keep him alive, it was fair game. Gourmet dining wasn't part of his training. “Go ahead and order for both of us.”

Her shoulders straightened and her chin went up. She rattled off pronunciations for his native dishes he had trouble with, along with two servings of Risgale.

“One. Just water for me,” Fenton corrected and dismissed the server with a wave.

“I'm sorry, you don't drink alcohol?”

He shook his head. “Believe me, I'd like nothing better than to load up on mind-numbing substances, but it isn't an option.”

She licked her lips, clearly intent on asking another question, but stifled it and turned to face the window. Her delicate profile was beyond compare as she studied the stars.

He cleared his throat. “I've been thinking about our
arranged
marriage.”

“Oh?” She looked back at him, tilted her head to the side. He stared at her forehead so he didn't get lost in her eyes, flecked with green and brown and gold, swirling into infinity.

“We've undergone a serious commitment. It would be a good idea for us to get to know one another a little bit.”

“You mean, other than in the biblical sense?”

His translator chip didn't pick up her meaning, but her wicked expression conveyed her message. His cock twitched with interest but he shifted, his course set.

“Yes. Tell me about you.”

“What do you want to know?”

Everything,
Fenton thought. “About your life on Earth. Your family. You mentioned some female relatives. Do you keep in touch?”

She shook her head and waited for the server to drop off their drinks. “No. Even before I left Earth, Sally and I hadn't spoken in some years.”

“Sally's your sister, right?” He recalled the name from before.