Claimed by the Zandian (Zandian Brides 6)

I take a deep breath. Tap the screen gingerly. “I did it.” I smile. “Look, it’s starting. See?”

He sighs. “Yes.”

“I mean, I know you can’t see, see. But you can tell, with your sensor things, right?” I sense things myself. Right now, I’m intuiting that it’s all right to tease him a little bit about his vision.

I might not be an expert at much, but Mother Earth, living as a slave has led me to develop my intuition about beings’ motivations and feelings—it keeps me safe. And I’m not usually wrong.

“Yes. Please direct your eyes back to the screen. The sim has started.”

“So it has.”

On the screen, information flashes. It’s telling me to push certain buttons when various lights flash.

Oops, missed one. An, there’s another. Another miss. Hmm.

I get a few, then sneak a glance at Tarek.

His lips are pursed.

“How am I doing?” I twist in my chair to look at him.

He checks his comm. “Well, according to the adaptive results, the program wants to know if you’re sentient, or if a child or small animal, perhaps a pet bird, is pushing random buttons.”

“I’m doing better than that.” I scowl and turn back to the screen. “Could a Kantu bird do this?” I raise my hand with a flourish and tap.

Then I focus, trying to accustom myself to the strange novelty of this device. Of working with a screen. My heart pounds and my stomach pulses with each beat, and I think I might need to vomit.

All joking aside, I’m no good at this, and I know it. Why, oh why, did I say this was a passion?

Behind me, Tarek makes a noise, and I remember: This is why. I’m here because even though I know it’s a bad idea and it’s not going to work out, being near Tarek is exciting. Fun. And frankly, I don’t have anything else. And even more importantly, it takes my mind away from the pain and uncertainty of being separated from Enya.

Tarek

Good stars. In all my solar cycles I’ve never seen a being do this magnificently badly on the test. But veck, this little human looks adorable, leaning forward, lips pursed, eyes narrowed in concentration. She’s giving it her all, I have to admit.

Based on the sensor map I’ve created of her body, I notice that her Zandian gown clings to her curves in all the right places. Her breasts swell, perky and round, and I think about how her nipples might feel in my mouth. Under my tongue.

I growl and turn aside to discreetly adjust my cock. I need to stop thinking about her this way; it was a mistake on the ship, and it absolutely cannot happen again. For one thing, I don’t want to give her any ideas. I can’t have her long-term, so it’s not a good idea to torture myself.

I should just tell her she’s not a fit, and send her away. Be done with it.

Instead, for some reason, leaning in, I tell her, “You’re done.” Her hair smells like that fruit humans like, strawberries. I inhale for just a second.

“How did I do?” She sounds anxious, like she really cares.

“Well.” I attempt to hide the score on the screen, where it says: Negative 50%. Assessment: Failure. Reject applicant. Recommend hand-eye coordination training and med assessment of balance and tracking motions. Check with med for brain tumor or other occlusions that may prohibit baseline.

Too late—she sees it. Her face falls. “Brain tumor?”

“Oh, you don’t have one,” I assure her. “You passed the med clearance.”

She makes a noise. “How could I get negative?” She blinks three times and her eyes get glossy, because the refractive index of her corneas goes from 1.5 to 3.7.

“It’s not easy.” I consider. “It’s because you actively did the opposite of what the program wanted.” It suddenly dawns on me. Maybe she’s not here for the training. Maybe she’s here for… something else entirely.

Something I gave her on the ship.

“I really did my best,” she insists.