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  Sohm’lan allowed himself a moment of weakness, raking his gaze over Prince Mestor’s unpolished scales, noticing their dull state. Sohm’lan’s stomach tightened at the realization that Prince Mestor’s drab scales meant he had not experienced the touch of a lover in a long while. If he had, those scales would gleam like the richest onyx from his lover’s attention. His perusal also took in Prince Mestor’s sheathed barbs. The Vondorian royals had red retractable spines, the coloring a clear warning that their barbs were poisonous. Sometimes, when stressed, the spines would unsheathe but lay lax against their back. Even with Sohm’lan’s rough handling of Prince Mestor, his barbs did not flex and unsheathe. The twins were tall for Mar’Sani, not taller than their father, but Sohm’lan towered over them all. He must have been more tired than he thought, imagining how Prince Mestor would fit against him if he but took one step closer. He allowed himself the desperate wish to be younger, or better yet, another person entirely, then he would take Prince Mestor up on his offer of sexual congress.

  Alarmed at the direction of his thoughts, he quickly released the uniform as if it burned him. “Prince…” he stammered as he went to step back.

  Everything about the young bull’s countenance spoke of determination. With a snarl full of frustration, Prince Mestor lunged and Sohm’lan found their positions reversed. His back against the wall, the princeling’s fists curled around handfuls of his uniform, and the corner of his lip lifted in a silent snarl. Sohm’lan kept his hands loose at his sides, not wanting to do anything to exacerbate the situation. Normally, he would never allow another to put their hands on him, in any situation, but this was his prince, his waterson. Sohm’lan had screwed up when he had attacked without verifying who stalked him.

  The air thickened with tension as he stared down into the sunrise-yellow eyes that haunted his dreams, waiting for his prince’s anger, which he rightly deserved. He could not remember the last time Prince Mestor attempted to ambush him. Now, he took in Prince Mestor’s relaxed features, the stubborn set of his jaw, the excited quirk of his lips, and the heat lingering in those beautiful eyes. This was not the visage of irritation but one of seduction.

  “Why do you not touch me?” Prince Mestor finally asked, his gaze searching Sohm’lan’s when he remained silent. “Why will you not engage me? Have I not signaled to you that I am amenable to more than friendship, more than mentorship? Yet you continue to look past me as if you see nothing. Are you otherwise entangled? Do you have an amor no one knows about?”

  Sohm’lan blinked, taken aback by the bold questions. His own brazen thoughts only made it more difficult for him to answer. He wanted to be angry, to demand he be released, but he fought to keep his body from betraying him. He was too old to be turned on by the thought that Prince Mestor was stalking him for an entirely sexual reason. He had hoped that ignoring the advances would be answer enough. The youngest Vondorian twin was many things but he was not thick in the head. So why did he persist?

  “I do not participate in bed play for entertainment,” Sohm’lan replied, spreading his palms flat against the wall, wishing for something to hold onto. He itched to smooth out Prince Mestor’s wrinkled uniform. The dullness of those black scales called to him, inviting him to touch.

  “Neither do I,” Prince Mestor replied quickly.

  Sohm’lan had to drag his gaze away from the collar of Prince Mestor’s uniform, barely refraining from tasting the air with his tongue. The scent of the sea filled his nostrils. Then what Prince Mestor claimed penetrated the sexual fog that clouded his thoughts. When he lifted his brow ridge incredulously, his prince suddenly smiled, and his countenance turned… breathtaking. The sight made him ache in ways he should not.

  “Now, that is. Neither do I now,” the prince amended with a mischievous grin. “I have given up frivolous sex partners. I know who I want in my life permanently, if he would only bend enough to consent to be mine.” That amazing sunrise-yellow gaze roamed over his face, as if Prince Mestor memorized his features. “Are you so blind to your own allure that you have truly not seen my efforts?”

  “Prince M—”

  “Do not call me that.” He leaned in closer, boldly inhaling Sohm’lan’s scent. What else did he smell? Wait. Sohm’lan wanted to shake himself. It did not matter. Prince Mestor’s split tongue peeked through his parted lips, tasting the air. “Say my name. No title. No honorific. Just my name.”

  But he could not. Not now. Not ever. For decades, Sohm’lan had been good friends with Emperor Valdor but, outside of certain situations, he refused to be informal with the Vondorian family. His respect for them kept him from addressing any of them with such close familiarity. It felt dangerous in a way he could not explain, especially when dealing with the youngest twin. Such informality would only spur on the princeling, encouraging whatever mad idea was brewing behind that arresting gaze.

  He glanced away, unable to witness Prince Mestor’s disappointment.

  “I am ready to settle.” Prince Mestor’s confession was soft and coaxing, for Sohm’lan’s ears only. “I want to build a nest. I want to be able to give my free time to someone I adore above all else.” He met the prince’s probing stare again, those golden orbs full of untold secrets. How long had Prince Mestor looked at him so, as if Sohm’lan held the key to a great treasure?

  He realized the prince was waiting for his response and he racked his brain for something appropriate to say. “I am happy for you.”

  The fierce scowl returned to those handsome features. “What is that supposed to mean? Happy for me?” He gave an indignant hiss and Sohm’lan almost smiled. Almost.

  “The court nobles have been clamoring for summers, waiting for the day you would choose someone to stand by your side.” The thought of his prince claiming one of those toads as a mate made him both happy and sad... and perhaps jealous.

  He held his breath when Prince Mestor snarled and pressed that hard body firmly against his own, grabbing onto the belt wound snugly around Sohm’lan’s hips as if he suspected Sohm’lan wanted to escape. He stared, mesmerized, as the prince’s lips pulled back to reveal needle-sharp teeth and black gums. If he wanted to leave, he might have to tumble his waterson to the floor, and he was definitely feeling the urge to flee. Usually, he ran from nothing but, apparently, he might run from a persistent prince who he should keep his hands off of.

  “There are none among their number who I would tie myself to.” The hiss of displeasure only made Sohm’lan’s scales tighten with unwanted need. “You, on the other hand…” The statement was full of naked desire.

  He closed his eyes, tamping down on the shiver that started in his hands. Prince Mestor made him want things he should not, could not have for many reasons. If he was someone else, perhaps younger and without the sorrow wrapped around his heart, he would take Prince Mestor to his sleeping platform and show him exactly what his other lovers lacked. Unbidden, his sex slipped free of his body, his uniform suddenly constricting and uncomfortable. For the first time in decades, Sohm’lan panicked and shoved Prince Mestor with enough force that he stumbled back several steps but did not fall.

  “Do not bring me into your games!” Sohm’lan snarled, more terrified than angry. He needed to get away, now. “I want no part of them. If you want to bed someone older then go elsewhere for your fun.”

  “Is it Zeus, then?” Prince Mestor asked, his voice full of longing before his lips turned down, his eyes narrowing. Sohm’lan stepped out of the alcove and brushed by him. “Is he the one who holds your heart?” he persisted. “Even I can see he has chosen the Dar Massaga and the Alpha-Zetamite.”

  Sohm’lan paused. A swell of pride filled him at the thought of little Prince Zeus. “Do not be ridiculous,” he snapped, annoyed that such a conclusion had been drawn. “Prince Zeus is like a son to me.”

  Prince Mestor’s thunder-filled expression brightened. “Then your heart is unencumbered?”

  This time Sohm’lan snarled because the question unearthed painful memorie
s. He had not worn the black veil for a long time, but the memories of his past always tore him asunder. He hiss-clicked a warning, signaling the peril Prince Mestor had unwittingly uncovered. Without replying, he spun on his heel, leaving his prince standing in the middle of the corridor. He did not look back, only prayed to Poseidon or whoever was listening that the princeling would have the good sense not to follow.

  Once behind a locked cabin door, he sagged against the wall, his legs unable to bear his weight. The memories of his beloved took him away to a time when he had been the happiest. When life was filled with innumerable, wonderful possibilities. Then he recalled how it had been taken away the day his beloved and unborn youngling passed into the fade.

  He spent the rest of the agonizing night sifting through his recollections, unable to sleep. His life had changed irrevocably when his mate, Niobe, died during birthing. He had allowed himself the allotted time to publicly mourn their passing, then he packed away his heart. For another two summers, he continued to wear the black veil, until the day Empress Ashari gave birth to twins and he was summoned by his friend and emperor.

  On that very day, his life had once again been altered, but for the better, when he had stepped through the nursery doors. Upon spying him, Empress Ashari had crossed the space and placed the two bundled young into his arms. His protest stuck in his throat when he looked at two sets of beautiful sunrise-yellow eyes, the same color as their father’s. He did not know how long he stood there, enthralled with the twins.

  “As I have seen.” Emperor Valdor had grinned with a smug pride, either by the boon of two healthy sons or… Earlier, they had argued over Sohm’lan’s lack of purpose. Valdor worried that his refusal to remove his veil meant he had given up on life. To keep from worrying his one true friend, Sohm’lan did not admit that he had ceased finding reasons to rise every morning. Only his job as Chief Warlord spurred him from his sleeping platform. But holding the young had awakened something that had been dormant. A fierce and instant love for the newborns had risen within him. How could he not adore them? They were perfect in every way.

  Empress Ashari had led him to a chair, taking one of the young and sitting next to him. “You are holding our second born, Mestor Lethe,” she said as she helped the other youngling to suckle. “I have Azaes Masaru.”

  He had grunted in acknowledgement, cuddling little Prince Mestor, rubbing his chin along the soft scales of the princeling’s brow. Tears pricked the corners of his eyes. He had not cried since Niobe’s death, but these were not tears of sorrow. He had not known he could cry from overflowing love.

  “I will announce to the court that you have accepted our request to be our sons’ waterfather.” Emperor Valdor’s voice was filled with warm satisfaction.

  Waterfather. What a huge responsibility his emperor had given him. Sohm’lan would be considered a part of the Vondorian family. If something were to happen to the emperor and empress, the care of the young would fall to him. Not only that, he would be responsible for helping to guide these two through life and love. Though he did not feel he was worthy of such esteem, he was not foolish enough to tell his ruler, friend or not, ‘no’. That night he finally removed the black veil of mourning, putting it aside so he could, in turn, be absolutely everything the young needed. Over the summers he had acted as their father, brother, friend, mentor, and when needed, disciplinarian, first for the twins and then for Shaneva, Canry, and Zeus.

  He shook himself out of his memories and checked the time. He had spent what little time he had for sleep lost in the past. He was tired but filled with new purpose. Ignoring Prince Mestor’s advances had not dissuaded his prince. Sohm’lan would speak with him and explain why he could never be what Mestor wanted or needed. Then his princeling would understand and turn his attention to another. Sohm’lan’s heart twisted at the thought, but he ignored the ache. There could be no other outcome.

  With a course of action decided upon, he approached his cabin door.

  The comm-link attached to his uniform collar beeped, notifying him that he had an incoming message. He took the ear-pad out of his pocket. Unlike species who had ear-ridges that comm devices could be hung from, Mar’Sani did not have such surrounding their ear canal. Instead, they used a specially-made attachment that adhered to the scales around the opening.

  Once the clear device was in place over his earhole, he activated it, speaking normally so the microphone bead attached to his uniform collar could pick up his voice. “Warlord Sohm’lan.”

  “Switching over to Prince Zeus,” the bridge’s communications officer announced.

  When he heard the transfer click, he said, “Prince Zeus, how may I help you?”

  “Could you please come to Dargon’s quarters? An incident has occurred. Azaes, Mestor, and I have returned from the Waters of Poseidon injured. The medic is on her way here, but there are Monticore outside. If they smell the blood, they will react without question. I do not have the strength—”

  Sohm’lan started running the moment Prince Zeus said Mestor’s name, his pounding heart matching the hurried rhythm of his feet. “I am on my way.”

  How could the princes find trouble in the middle of space? He sent up a hurried prayer, begging that the three—that Mestor—were not mortally wounded. He could not endure the loss of someone else he cared for.

  Chapter Three

  Sohm’lan

  * * *

  The Oethra 7 was a Tradeline 3.2 modified long-range scout ship. Captain Dargon Kal-Turak had been passing it off as a merchant vessel in the Terren quadrant of the Milky Way. The starship was streamlined, a wingless body equipped with vectored thrust and, if lightly loaded, able to take off and land vertically. Underneath the body, a turret bay was cleverly concealed. But compared to The Gorgon, the Oethra 7 was miniscule sitting in the dock of The Gorgon’s largest shuttle bay.

  Sohm’lan’s cabin was located near the lift connected to the docks. Considering he was running as fast as he could, it took no time for him to make his way to the Oethra 7. Gaining access to Captain Dargon Kal-Turak’s ship was simple since the ramp was down. Two Orion stood guard, their bright blue and yellow carapaces a splash of color against the dock’s grays and browns. They stood as tall as Sohm’lan but did not look imposing with eight of their nine tentacles tucked under their mantles. Neither stopped him, but their row of eyes circling the crown of their torsos rolled, following his progress as he hurriedly climbed the ramp. Clearly, they expected him since a third Orion held the lift open. Perhaps they had been. Orion were telepaths and unless other species took steps to guard their thoughts, Orion overheard much if they paid attention. Since the troop was responsible for protecting their precious passengers, the Fal’Amoric, Sohm’lan imagined there was never a time when they were not listening.

  By the time he stepped onto the Oethra 7’s lift, he was vibrating with impatience. He had calmed enough to remember that no Mar’Sani had ever been injured in the Dream. Everyone considered it an impossibility since only the soul traveled to the Waters of Poseidon while sleeping. They were incorporeal, even though it felt as if they were flesh. But Prince Zeus had been emphatic that they were injured. Sohm’lan was struggling to imagine what that meant. Injured, as in bruises and scrapes? He had convinced himself of exactly that… until the lift doors opened, and he caught his first whiff of blood.

  The corridor outside of Captain Dargon Kal-Turak’s cabin was heavy with the bitter scent of the twins’ anger layered over the unmistakable copper scent of Prince Zeus’s blood. Sohm’lan steeled himself against the sudden alarm and fear that gripped his heart. Prince Zeus barred the door to the captain’s cabin, not wearing a stitch of clothing. The security detail of Elite Honor Guard paced, agitated, as they stared at him. The Monticore were the regiment who protected the members of Atlainticia’s Imperial House when they left palace grounds. They were the deadliest of all the battalions, their loyalty above question. But before them stood the youngest prince, who barely topped two meters tall, n
aked and sleep-tussled, yet stubbornly blocking the doorway. Prince Zeus swayed on his feet and Sohm’lan worried he would faint.

  Upon seeing Sohm’lan charge from the lift, the Monticore parted for him with obvious relief. He had spent much of his life putting the royal family before all else. The practice was in place even before Niobe passed into the fade. So, when he pushed the civilians, the diminutive Gaziniti medic, Mayra, and the two Fal’Amoric, Altan and Princess Athena, out of the way to catch Prince Zeus as he collapsed, he was not worried about offending them. Surely, they would understand that one simply did not allow a person of the royal house to hit the floor.

  Slowly rising and cradling the youngest Vondorian prince, who was surprisingly heavy for his size, Sohm’lan catalogued the injuries even as he attempted to shield his waterson’s nudity from onlookers. There was a stab wound in Prince Zeus’s leg that was bleeding, not so quickly that he worried an artery had been nicked, but enough for a small puddle to have formed on the floor, outlining Prince Zeus’s footprint. Bruising around his neck and chest marred his smooth alabaster skin, changing it to a mottled black.

  Not for the first time, he was aware of how delicate the youngest Vondorian was when compared to other Mar’Sani with their thick protective scales or tough shark-like hides. The princeling had no such natural defense and that had been a point of concern among his family. The ease with which the princeling could be injured had caused the emperor and empress to find subtle ways to protect him, such as having his clothing made from materials that were normally used for light-weight armor. Even though Prince Zeus came to them blind, they had indulged him, allowing him to begin his combat training at the age of ten instead of requiring him to wait until he was fifteen, like his brothers. He easily bested seasoned warriors, despite the disadvantages he faced and even without a deadly tail. Time and again, Sohm’lan had been surprised by his enthusiasm and resilience.