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  More than a day had passed, and he grew aggravated, his mind returning to how he had left—run from—Mestor. He felt the need to smooth things over, not entirely sure where the desire had come from. He had not changed his mind about them. He could not be who Mestor needed, but he still wanted… he did not want to hurt Mestor. The thought that his actions had done just that caused this need to see Mestor, and it grew with every passing hour. How he wished he was someone else without burdens upon his heart. His prince deserved someone unencumbered, someone less scarred.

  Pushing his wayward thoughts aside, he concentrated on his current task. Orders had come from Prince Azaes to arrange a guard rotation for Zeus. Sohm’lan double-checked the list. The youngest princeling did not know it yet, but starting with the expedition to Qestaire, he would have an around-the-clock detail of Monticore. Azaes wanted both Dargon and Alpha to have their own detail of Elite Honor Guards as well, but he requested that the Monticore be discreet these first few weeks. Dargon and Alpha’s final schedules were being worked out. They would treat the Oethra 7 as if it was the palace, allowing the Orion troop to be the primary security, but once Dargon stepped off his ship, the Monticore would shadow him.

  Needless to say, this covert activity thrilled the Monticore. Space travel was boring, and bulls of action sometimes struggled to keep level heads when there were no distractions.

  The Monticore were practically humming with excitement, more than half had once been a part of Zeus’s detail on Atlainticia. They held him in the highest regard and were excited to prove themselves capable of being the guards he needed. When they discovered he had been sneaking out of the palace to meet with Rathmar, many believed they had failed him. Zeus had not trusted them with his secret, and he should have. The Monticore would not have interfered unless there was danger to Zeus or the crown.

  Sohm’lan frowned. If Zeus had had his guard, then Timsah would not have been able to lay hands on him, and if Timsah had tried anyway, he would have been apprehended or killed. Zeus and Rathmar would not have been harmed. Being caught trying to hurt or abduct a member of the Royal Family would have given the Crown a reason to delve deeper into House Cordyl and uncover enough evidence to put Timsah and his co-conspirators away. But perhaps not. The one thing about spending so many summers with Valdor and dealing with the various avenues of farsight, was knowing there was always more than one possible tragic outcome to an event.

  Just as he finished handing out assignments, the door to his office was filled by one of his lieutenants. The bull looked as if he was on the edge of hysteria, making Sohm’lan immediately dismiss the Monticore. Lieutenant Galan barely waited for the room to empty before revealing in quick, succinct words what the emergency was.

  Shocked and disbelieving, he stared hard at the lieutenant. He had to give the bull credit. He did not flinch or shuffle nervously under Sohm’lan’s steady gaze.

  “Please, sir. I beg of you. He needs help. If you but go to the training room, you can see for yourself. Prince Mestor... he needs…” Lieutenant Galan hissed, gnashing his teeth in worry and agitation.

  Sohm’lan considered dismissing the warning that the prince was out of control. Mestor’s fiery temper was legendary among the troops. None dared displease him for fear of garnering his blistering anger. But soldiers would never complain about a simple angry outburst. No, Lieutenant Galan worried about something else altogether. Something he was hesitant to name.

  Schooling his expression to keep from showing his own concern, Sohm’lan bid Lieutenant Galan to escort him to the training room. If the officer was overreacting, Sohm’lan wanted him close for an immediate dressing down and punishment.

  No one noticed when he entered the training room. All eyes were glued to the combat taking place on the mats. Prince Mestor was circled by eight Monticore, breathing hard and swaying on his feet.

  “I gave you an order, warriors! Attack me again!” he yelled.

  The eight were obviously reluctant, which seemed to feed Mestor’s rage. “Do not dare hold back!” he snarled. “Now, begin!”

  Sohm’lan frowned, taking in how his prince favored his right side and limped. He could not guess how many rounds Mestor had gone through. Of course, the prince was skilled enough to battle multiple opponents at once, but, like anyone else, he would eventually run out of energy. Glancing over the audience, Sohm’lan noted some of the soldiers looked a bit battered and he guessed they’d already had their turn on the mats.

  The soldiers warily circled but Mestor only stood his ground, head tilted back, looking out of narrowed eyelids, his expression haughty. The inexperienced would assume he was easy pickings, not ready to defend himself, but Sohm’lan recognized the tactic. This was something Prince Zeus had taught his brothers, how to use more than sight when fighting.

  At Mestor’s back, two warriors struck and missed, hitting nothing but empty air. Mestor pushed to the side using his tail and maneuvered around one of the attackers, kicking him in the back of the knee before jumping and spinning, using his tail to slam the warrior to the ground. While he was distracted, three others quickly moved in, working perfectly together. In a well-coordinated attack, Mestor received a tail to the ribcage and a fist to the back of the head. Then the third and largest warrior jumped on his back, taking Mestor to the ground. Hard. When the soldier rolled off, their prince did not move for several long seconds. They shuffled around; their concern palpable.

  Prince Mestor pulled his knees under him, ignoring the offers of help. Sohm’lan was crossing the mats when Mestor demanded, “Again!”

  “Enough!” he countered, a zip of energy running up his spine. The soldiers warily surrounding Mestor as well as the audience took several steps away. “Everyone is dismissed.”

  He did not need to raise his voice to make the soldiers scatter like rats before the tide. Many shot Sohm’lan expressions of gratitude. Both the soldiers and Monticore believed there was no higher honor than protecting the royal family, and it was obvious how much they detested being ordered to beat the tail off Mestor. Yes, they sparred with the princes on a regular basis, even with Emperor Valdor on occasion, but this was not sparring.

  Mestor glared at him and his blood inappropriately stirred at the insolent expression. If he had not been in distress, Sohm’lan would have gladly taught him a lesson. The thought of wrestling with his prince on the mat caused him to halt, his scales suddenly tight and uncomfortable. Prince Mestor needed him and not some perverted, randy waterfather.

  “How long has this been going on?” he asked Lieutenant Galan.

  “This bout? Three hours.”

  “This bout?” Sohm’lan snapped, glaring at Mestor who glanced away, shame flickering across his expression before his face smoothed out into a blank mask.

  “Do not talk about me like I am not here,” Mestor snapped.

  “I will stop talking over you when you quit acting like a misbehaving youngling who destroys things instead of finding words to express himself.” Sohm’lan snarled before glancing back to the lieutenant. “Answer my question.”

  “Yesterday they were at it for six hours.” Lieutenant Galan gulped audibly when Prince Mestor turned his frosty glare on him.

  “Dismissed.” He did not need to know more. The lieutenant did not exactly run to the door, but he did not dawdle either.

  “You have no right—” Mestor yelped then groaned in pain when Sohm’lan grabbed his arm and slung Mestor over his shoulder. He would get to the bottom of this nonsense, but not here where anyone could listen in.

  He strode the corridors grappling with a mixture of fury and concern. Those who spied them did not question why Prince Mestor was being carried. Instead, people took one look at Sohm’lan’s expression and turned aside, pretending to see nothing. He had no doubts that many would take a moment to contact Azaes.

  “Put me down! You are making a spectacle of us!” Mestor thumped his fist at the base of Sohm’lan’s tail.

  “Who is making a spectacle?”
Sohm’lan seethed, smacking Mestor’s rump hard. In his anger, he did not care who saw. “You should have thought about that when you forced the soldiers to beat you until you could not stand.” He wanted to rage, to shake answers out of him.

  “I can walk.”

  The prince’s voice held an edge of warning which Sohm’lan ignored, smacking him on the rear again like he was a misbehaving youngling. He barely refrained from rubbing a palm over the spot to soothe away the sting of his strike. This was not the time for his thoughts to wander in such an inappropriate direction.

  “You will hold your tongue, or I will remind you what a true beating feels like.” He waited for Mestor to argue, something he did well when upset. To Sohm’lan’s surprise, he could almost swear Mestor nuzzled the small of his back. The scales across his groin tensed in an agonizing way that put naughty thoughts in his head.

  When the lift opened to the hallway outside the royal suites, his saw his assumption had been correct. Azaes waited outside the cabin with their personal physician, Dr. Solon Durant. Azaes opened the door and bid Sohm’lan to enter first.

  The cabin was a disaster. Furniture was overturned, devices scattered across the floor with some broken. The fit of temper seemed to have started here.

  “Stars above,” Azaes whispered when he entered behind Sohm’lan. “Here let me…”

  He waited as Azaes hurried to the fainting couch and righted it. Gently, Sohm’lan laid Mestor on the stained material and stepped back. Dr. Solon knelt next to Mestor.

  Their scales protected their bodies, but blunt force trauma could cause more damage than a slice from an edged weapon. As the doctor undressed Mestor, the proof was plain to see with swollen tissue and damaged muscle bulging from between the scales on his torso. When Mestor hissed and jerked with pain as the physician palpitated his abdomen, Sohm’lan forced himself to walk away before he did bodily harm to every person who went along with Mestor’s orders.

  To distract himself from his rising ire that spiked with every sound of agony Mestor made, he searched the room for clues to what upset his prince. He had his own suspicions and now he looked for the evidence. The main receiving room seemed to have borne the brunt of the destructive fit. The lavatory did not escape unscathed, the looking glass was even cracked.

  The antechamber to the sleeping chamber was also a mess, but when he stepped into the sleeping chamber the scene that met his gaze did not match the rest of the cabin. The room was pristine. The sleeping platform neatly made and across the foot lay several items, confirming his suspicions.

  He approached, cautious even as he realized nothing here could physically harm him. A tunic was folded neatly, but the impression of fingers could be seen where someone had pressed their palm into the fabric. Next to the shirt was a belt. He frowned, recognizing it. He had sent the leather to be recycled a couple of weeks ago when it broke in half. Here it lay curled with the two pieces tied together. The third and final item on the platform was a mechanic’s cargos, also neatly folded.

  His unease deepened. The other day he had told Mestor that they needed to help Zeus with his task to gain the Feteine’s help. The twins questioned why Canry chose Zeus for this diplomatic mission when there were others more qualified. Sohm’lan wanted to examine the clothing but knew he did not dare. He bent and inhaled, drawing in the signature odors on both items of clothing, confirming his suspicions. The cargos belonged to Zeus and the tunic to his future lifemate, Captain Dargon Kal-Turak. That they would arrive at Qestaire in a couple of days, and the fact these items had seemingly caused Mestor’s fit, did not sit well with him. Mestor had been utilizing his touch clairvoyance to farsee.

  “What is it?” Azaes asked from the doorway.

  Sohm’lan stepped aside so he could see and was not surprised when Azaes cussed. Staring with disgust at the three items, Azaes approached the sleeping platform. He knew not to touch them, doing so would send his brother into another rage.

  “Mestor should move into my cabin until his suite can be set to rights.” He gave Azaes an implacable look, silently willing his waterson to give in.

  Azaes narrowed his eyes, as if attempting to pick apart Sohm’lan’s demand. “He can stay with me,” he finally replied.

  Sohm’lan frowned, perturbed. Yes, it was more practical for Mestor’s twin to take care of him. He turned away, knowing it was not proper to scowl at the heir apparent, reluctantly acknowledging his demand had been unintentionally surly. What had gotten into him?

  “As you wish,” he forced out between clenched teeth.

  “Neither one of you get to tell me what to do,” Mestor murmured petulantly from the doorway. Dr. Solon hovered behind, poised to catch him when he swayed on his feet. Sohm’lan was amazed he was even standing, despite his stubbornness.

  Just two days ago, Azaes had scolded him for using titles to hold them at arm’s length. It should have been harder to rearrange his thought process, but it had taken less than a day to fall back into his younger summers, as if the last seventeen summers of using ‘prince’ every time he spoke or thought of Mestor had never happened. Since then he had struggled with amorous thoughts, his dreams filled with all the ‘what ifs’ that made him yearn for things he should not. With the sharp words from not only Azaes but Mestor, he felt chastised again, this time for acting too familiar, and perhaps he had overstepped. Had he not smacked Mestor on the rump twice in public, something he had never done when Mestor was a youngling? Now he realized how wholly inappropriate his action was, even if for a short while he thought he had the right to touch Mestor in such a way.

  Feeling exceedingly flustered, Sohm’lan bowed to both princes, hiding his mortification. Mestor was not his. Would never be his. He had to squash those rising fantasies right now before he did or said something that could not be rectified. “My humble apologies, Prince Mestor. Prince Azaes.”

  He hurried passed Mestor without brushing against him. He needed to leave before he said something ill-advised, like begging Mestor to come and stay in the safety of his rooms. What a stupid idea. Had not he already told Mestor he could not offer more than friendship? Taking the prince to his rooms would send the wrong message. Yes, leaving was the best course of action. Too bad they were trapped on the ship. He would have immediately headed into town to get laid. He was sure that if he released some of this pent-up tension then the inappropriate thoughts would stop.

  “Wait, where are you going?” The genuine confusion in Mestor’s tone stopped him at the main cabin door.

  “Now that your injuries have been seen to and you are on your feet again, I will return to my duties. Good day.” Ignoring the protests from both brothers, he left and was down the corridor and on the lift as fast as his long legs could carry him.

  As the lift doors were closing, Mestor’s cabin door slid open, and Mestor slipped out, his expression full of thunderclouds. “Warlord Sohm’lan!”

  Sohm’lan would have returned, too, if the doors had not closed before he stepped forward. When he did not receive a summons on the comm-link, he went about his day, calling himself ten types of fool as he threw himself into his work. He had security for the landing party to organize and a list of upgrades he needed to speak to Zeus about. But even as he busied himself, his mind kept wandering back to the training room, recalling the sound of Mestor’s broken voice when he had yelled, “Again!” What had Mestor’s farsight shown him that would drive Mestor to abuse himself?

  Since that fateful day when he had learned the healing properties of saliva was not some plot twist in an ancient story, he had been hard-pressed to keep his thoughts on his duties. In the dead of night, he dreamed of Mestor writhing beneath him, calling his name in that breathy, wrung out voice. By day, the remembrance of those dreams haunted him, mocking his efforts to stay true to the path he had devised after Niobe and their unborn youngling had died.

  He tried to distract himself by investigating the mysterious surge of energy that had accompanied the healing. In the private space
of his office, he determinedly occupied his time with comparing notes with the Monticore who’d assisted Azaes’ healing. They described their experience, and it had lacked the—for the want of a better word—fireworks of his own. There was no logical explanation. After he dismissed the guards, he searched the ship’s data library, finding it sorely lacking in old transcripts. He was resigned to waiting until they reached Valespia to continue his research. His parents had traveled with the emperor to Valespia to perform and tour the planet’s many cultural centers. Perhaps his father would know more. He was one of the better-versed bards on ancient Mar’Sani lore. Perhaps he could explain what had happened.

  In truth, his heart was not interested in the mystery. Instead he was plagued with a longing to see Mestor again and the desire to whisper hopeful suggestions that he had no business indulging in. His every thought returned to the sensation of Mestor’s scales scraping against his own. Of looking up Mestor’s body to see unadulterated adoration directed at him, of how Mestor’s scales burned with a black fire that called to Sohm’lan, beckoning him to take what was freely offered. He thumped his head on his desk surface, snarling at the unwanted lust he felt for his waterson. He mulled over the sexual scenarios enough that the usual guilt did not rear up and bite him like it normally did. That was not a good sign.

  After waking from such intense dreams, he burned at least a dozen incense sticks in his mate’s name, trying to dredge up self-recriminations. He was ashamed at how quickly he’d come to be of two minds on the matter. One part of him was dedicated to the memory of his Niobe and their unborn youngling, clinging to the bittersweet memories as if they were shields that would keep all else at bay. The other half was restless, wondering if he had cut himself off from everything that life had to offer. Had he used the death of his family as a crutch, as a camouflage to hide his fear? He did not think so. For a long time, he believed his Niobe had taken a part of his soul with her. He could not imagine loving anyone like he loved her. Then his prince made him question what he thought he knew about himself, disrupting the comfortable cocoon he had been living in all these summers. Now, a part of him wanted more, demanded more, but he refused to give in. He would not allow another to take Niobe’s place, no matter who they were, and that resolve left him at an impasse. Daily, he fought a war within himself. He did not know which side would win… nor was he sure which side he wanted to lose.