“You don’t get to judge me. You’re a warlord. You’ve killed millions. I’ve killed only dozens. Almost certainly less than a hundred. Or hardly more than that. And I’ve made far less of a mess than you. I’ve seen the videos and the pictures. I’ve read all the stories. I’ve done nothing compared to you.”
“I was made to be terrible. You were made to be beautiful.”
“I am beautiful,” I say. “And terrible besides.”
My response earns me a chuckle from the very large alien lord. “That may be true, but I intend to remove these explosive burdens from you. I assume you know how to take them off without detonating them?”
“You assume incorrectly.”
“You must have thought of some way to take them off if you needed to. Did you not imagine a day you might be married?”
“I put these on in anticipation of that day.”
He sucks in a breath. His expression has performed so many contortions since he first found me in the kitchen. This is a new expression; one I like least of all because it seems to represent pity.
“You never imagined you might be mated with someone you wanted to share your body with?”
“It has been made very clear to me that my worth is contained entirely in my flesh. The moment I give it, I will become worthless. I will keep my fortifications at the cost of all else.”
Blackmane
She is terrified. It would be easy to miss that fact. She still has a poised smile and an impassive expression. Everything in her demeanor suggests that she has no concern whatsoever. But her words and a slight flicker in her eyes speak to something laying deep in her young psyche, a fear that has made her something to be feared.
“What if I was to promise that I will not touch you against your will?”
“I wouldn’t believe you. Your career is entirely comprised of taking what isn't yours, destroying the lives of those who will not submit to you, and breaking the spirits of millions.”
Finally, she acknowledges my might, but only for my reputation to ruin me.
“You cannot go through life wrapped in explosives, Astaria. We need to take them off. Today. Here. Now.”
“No!” She wraps her arms around herself and gives me a glare. “We’ll all explode if you try.”
“We have technicians capable of removing such things. Nobody needs to explode.”
“No. They are my explosives and nobody else can have them.”
“They must be heavy.”
“I’m used to the weight.”
“Imagine how much lighter you will feel when they’re gone.”
“When they’re gone and you’re doing terrible alien things to me, I’m sure I will feel nothing but regret.”
I release her and step back. There is only one way out of the scanner room and I am in front of it so there is no danger besides the small cache of weaponry and dangerous items already removed from her person, and they are mostly tripping hazards now.
Pressing the intercom. “This is Blackmane. I’m in the medical scanner bay. I need a carafe of hot chocolate and a cake of some kind delivered. Yes. Human food. Yes. No, the human herself has been removed from the kitchen. Yes. Please. Thank you.”
“You’re so polite,” she says, astounded.
“I will tell you this much, princess. If you learn nothing from being here with me, you will learn this: always be polite to those who serve your food. Those who serve in general, in fact. It takes but one disgruntled undercook to destroy an empire.”
Astaria smiles for the first time. Her lips have curled up before now, she has bared her teeth in grimaces of pretend goodwill. This is something different. There is a warming to her eyes and a softness around her jaw. She’s not putting this on. She finds it truly amusing. For the first time, I see Astaria as she might be in her natural state, as a young woman with her entire life ahead of her, still innocent in many ways.
“That’s true. My father has nearly been assassinated on nine separate occasions by various chefs and undercooks. He makes all his own food now. Lives on cheese and ham sandwiches. He makes the cheese himself and butchers the swine too. And he has a garden of wheat he tends himself. You’ve no idea how much time it takes to make a sandwich when you have to do it all yourself.”
“Is that why he hasn’t responded to our ransom?”
“Oh. No.” She’s back to those stiff smiles now. “He won’t respond to that. He’ll wait.”
“For what?”
She looks at me with that eerie gaze, the one that speaks to some disconnect or schism deep in her little soul.
“For me to destroy you, of course.”
I put my hands on her shoulders, feeling the relative frailty of her feminine frame. She is still encased in more danger than anybody should be. Even I court less disaster than this unhappy princess.