The Empress' New Clothes Page 5

  Sighing, Kyra picked up her golden crystal goblet and drank from the sweet, glowing turquoise wine it contained. The drink was exceptionally tasty. Later, she would inquire as to what kind of fruit could possibly exist as to make a glowing wine from its berries.

  For the present, however, all she wanted to do was go back to her room and think. Kyra was more overwhelmed with emotions than she had ever been, even in the grueling first days right after her sister Kara had disappeared.

  So many questions needed to be answered, but confiding in Zor wasn’t something she felt up to doing at the moment. She needed rest. She needed to meditate. And more than anything else, she needed to find a way to remove the bridal necklace and go home.

  She just wished that leaving Zor behind felt as good as it sounded.

  Chapter 7

  “What is the matter, my hearts?”

  Kyra took the time to pinch her lips into a frown and glower at Zor before she pulled the soft pelt of vesha hide up to her chin and flopped over onto her side. The big dumb oaf had lived up to his word, making her remove her already scant clothing the moment they were ensconced behind closed doors.

  She’d show him. She would never get out of bed again if that’s what it took. She’d stay under the vesha pelt forever.

  And damn it—what was it with this hearts business? Why the plural? Kyra was afraid she knew the answer to that, which only brought more questions to mind. How many of Zor’s organs, for instance, came in pairs?

  Good grief. As long and wide as his erection had felt at her backside earlier today, she could only pray that a certain male organ was too unique to be replicated. She’d never survive this joining business otherwise. “I’m tired. I’ve had a long, difficult day and I need to rest.”

  Kyra closed her eyes and sighed as Zor began stroking her hair. She hated how nice his fingers felt against her scalp. The lecher was simply too easy to grow attached to and comfortable with.

  Zor softly ran a finger across her cheek. “You are angry with me.”

  It was a statement, not a question, but Kyra treated it as such. She opened her eyes and glared at him from over her shoulder. “You kidnapped me! Of course I’m angry with you!”

  “Why?”

  Kyra blinked. She blinked again. “Why? Why do you think?” she wailed.

  “If I knew this, would I ask?” Zor bellowed. He tersely ran his hands through his hair and grunted. “Sacred Mates are a trying lot!”

  “T-Trying?” Kyra sputtered. “Trying?” She held the vesha hide securely over her breasts as she swung around on the bed and sat up on her knees. “You don’t know what trying is! So let me tell you something about that state of being, oh exalted High King! Trying is being kidnapped by a man who heralds from a planet you didn’t even know existed!”

  When Zor opened up his mouth to retaliate, Kyra forestalled him with an upraised palm. “Trying is being told you’ve been wedded without remembering the wedding! Trying is being told you have to prance around in see-through clothing everywhere you go and when you’re not wearing that you have to be butt-naked!”

  She ground her teeth together and narrowed her eyes. “Trying is being told you have to make love with the very man who did all of these things to you or else you’ll die a violent death of strangulation from some godforsaken necklace!”

  Kyra flopped back over onto her side. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “Trying is being told that you will never see your home again,” she dejectedly whispered, “and that you will never laugh with your friends again. That,” she shakily concluded, “is trying.”

  Zor drew in a steadying breath. Her words had stirred him mightily, yet did he know he would never let her go. He couldn’t. She was his Sacred Mate. If there was no Kyra, there could never be any other nee’ka for him either. He had waited forty-two Yessat years for his wee one, four-hundred and twenty years in terms of the primitive time-keeping dimension from which she heralded. Nay, he would never give her up.

  Leastways, a High King needs an heir. A High King therefore needs his High Queen. “I am humbled by your sorrow, my hearts. Truly, I do not wish to be the cause of your pain.”

  “Then let me go home.”

  “I cannot. It is done. You wear the unbreakable symbol of my troth.”

  When Kyra didn’t respond, Zor stood up to take his leave. ‘Twas probably best did he leave her to her thoughts that she might adjust to the changes in her life in her own fashion. “We can talk later, nee’ka, for I understand your need for time. But ‘tis best do you understand this…”

  Zor walked over to the side of the raised bed and sat down next to his Sacred Mate. She was curled up in an unconscious attempt to comfort herself. He gently drew her chin up and peered into her scared silver eyes. “’Tis for the better do you accept your fate, pani, for I will never let you leave me.” He sighed. “I say this not to frighten you, but because I would have truth between us always.”

  Zor leaned down and brushed his lips against Kyra’s. And then because he couldn’t resist one last glimpse, he lowered the vesha pelt to her belly and gazed at her breasts with longing. Slowly and reverently, he reached out and brushed each nipple with the pads of his thumbs.

  Glowing blue eyes and wide silver ones connected. “You belong to me. Now and forever.” After one last kiss to her lips, he stood up and strode toward the doors.

  Kyra watched him walk away, staring at the doors even after Zor had disappeared through them. She clutched the vesha hide and shivered.

  Moaning like a mortally wounded animal, she fell back on the bed and cried for the first time since the entire ordeal had begun. She cried for the loss of Geris, for her sister Kara who might come back home only to find her gone, now missing without a trace.

  Deep inside, Kyra realized that Zor wasn’t lying. He had only stated the reality of her future. There was no more Geris. There was no more Kara.

  Kyra would never see earth again.

  * * * * *

  “For the love of the goddess, I cannot fathom why the High Queen would desire to return to so primitive a land.” Dak frowned thoughtfully as he watched his brother drink his fifth share of matpow. “’Tis nigh unto disgusting, that place called earth.”

  Zor grunted. He slammed the goblet of spirits down upon the table, then summoned it from his sight. “I am in agreement, yet is it my nee’ka’s place of birth. She carries many a fond memory of her life there.”

  Dak’s eyebrows rose. If any of her memories were of the fair onyx wench, he could understand why Kyra missed the dreadful place. Still, ‘twas not the time to consider his own lusty appetites. His brother needed support. “She will come around once she realizes she cannot return to this land of primitives, brother. Do not dwell upon it until your head gets the ache.”

  “Who said my head had the ache?”

  Dak rubbed his temples and closed his eyes. “’Twas merely a guess. My brain is already feeling it from all of this talk.”

  Zor frowned. He crossed his massive arms over his equally massive chest and scowled at his brother. “You get the ache from no more than breathing.”

  Dak’s eyes flew open. He pounded one large fist insolently on the tabletop. “Do not condescend to me! I am trying to be of help to you!”

  “I know.” Zor’s eyes flickered shut briefly, mentally reining in his tongue in the process. “You are a good man, a good king, and a good brother, Dak. I had not the right of it to take out my troubles on you with cruel untruths.”

  Dak nodded, appeased. Actually, he was more than appeased; he was also surprised. Never before had Zor apologized to him thusly. “I thank you for that, brother.” Uncomfortable with such a show of affection from a warrior so normally unemotional, he waggled his eyebrows and grinned. “Now, what do you say to a game of tipo?”

  Zor snorted confidently. He was as content with the turn in topic as was his brother. “As father once said, a king and his credits shall soon part.”

  “When did he say that?
”

  “I believe after our mother once departed the palace for the shopping stalls.”

  * * * * *

  Kyra rifled through the vast supply of qi’kas that Zor had brought with him from Tryston as bridal gifts to her. If it wasn’t for the fact that the attire left her all but naked, she would have been able to better appreciate the exquisitely soft, satiny bolts of garments that came in so many precious colors—colors no human eyes save her own had probably ever seen. The hues were shimmery, translucent, and utterly indescribable in any tongue known to her except Trystonni.

  Kyra held up the qi’ka Zor had asked her to don and studied it. The closest color she could phonetically come up with from her own dimension to describe it with was black. And yet it wasn’t. She smiled to herself. If she ever had the good fortune to send a message of some sort back home, she wouldn’t have the first clue as to how she would go about expressing the things she saw in this world.

  Kyra briefly debated with herself over whether or not it was worth it to defy Zor and wear a qi’ka of another color. In the end, she decided against it, thinking it was best to pick and choose her battles with care. It wasn’t as if any of the other qi’kas offered more protection against roving male eyes. Every last one of these outfits was as obscene as she didn’t know what.

  Kyra took a deep breath, then mentally resigned herself to the fact that she might as well get over her reticence because her shyness was having no effect whatsoever upon Zor. He hadn’t been moved in the least by her proclamation that she wished to wear clothing from her own home, in her own style. “Nay,” he had declared, “I would not be embarrassed in front of my people by such loathsome, peasant attire.”

  “But why this qi’ka in particular?” she had asked. “Why not the silvery-blue one from yesterday, then?”

  “Because of your valuable skin.”

  Kyra had shook her head slightly, not comprehending. “My skin is valuable?”

  “Aye.”

  “How so?”

  “’Tis a rarity in Trek Mi Q’an to possess a female with skin like a sekta pearl. The dark qi’ka goes well against so distinctive a skin, my hearts.”

  Ah. So this was the Trystonni version of showing off one’s mate. Odd that skin color would be a point of praise. “Forget it!” she had argued with a fluttering of her hand, “I’m not going to wear it!”

  Zor had looked hurt, but he had relented with an incline of his head. “Wear whatever your hearts desire, nee’ka.” And with that, he had left her alone. Again.

  So now Kyra stood before the holographic mirror, trying to tell herself that she didn’t look one hundred percent scandalous in the black-like qi’ka, and that she absolutely was not blushing from the roots of her “fire-berry” hair—whatever in the world that was—to the tips of her toes.

  Kyra needed to get over her embarrassment, wanted to get over it even. She had spent the majority of the last three days moping about the bedroom and feeling generally put upon. It was growing dull. She wanted to get out of this godforsaken room.

  However true it might be that she was indeed put upon, it was against Kyra’s nature not to at least try to make the best of a difficult situation. That was why she had gone to that meditation retreat in the first place. Funny, but her time with Geris now seemed like a lifetime ago, when in fact she had left her side barely three days past.

  She blinked her eyes several times in rapid succession to ward off the tears that threatened to spill whenever the image of her best friend’s face popped into her mind. It was time to regain control of herself.

  Kyra did a quick study of her attire in the holographic mirror. Her eyes widened when she noticed that the shimmering stones in her bridal necklace looked…sad? She shook her head to clear it. How could a necklace have emotions? How could it look so dismal?

  Ah well, she could figure that piece of the puzzle out later. She was hungry and wanted to eat before they landed in Tryston, which Zor had assured her would be within three earth hours. Slipping into a matching pair of shimmering sandals, Kyra headed for the doors.

  Chapter 8

  “Will not the High Queen be dining with us this moon-rising, brother?” Dak put the question to Zor as he picked up his crystal fork-spoon to eat with. He noted the tension, the almost depressed manner of the High King, but said nothing of it. He knew his brother would be naught but embarrassed were he to remark upon the state the Empress had driven him to.

  And why would Kyra wish for such a thing in the first? Did she not realize the honor that had been bestowed upon her? Did she not understand how many droves of females of varying species had trekked to the galaxy of warriors to see if they would be fortunate enough to have the fates proclaim them High Queen, the Sacred Mate to the Emperor and High King Zor? Dak harrumphed. ‘Twas obvious the wee wench was daft.

  “I do not think she cares to partake of the evening fare with me, brother.” Zor stood up to fetch a bottle of matpow from the raised table across the room, then strode back and fell into his seat.

  It was telling to Dak that Zor hadn’t used his powers, but had seen to the task physically. Only a warrior whose spirits were unduly depressed would deign to do such a trivial task as that.

  “By the goddess,” Zor confided to his brother with a shake of his head, “’tis safe to say that my nee’ka loathes me.”

  “I wouldn’t go that far. I’m very mad at you, yes, but loathe you, no.”

  Zor and Dak turned their heads in unison at the sound of that smoky voice. Zor’s eyes lit up, glowing with approval and an emotion he chose not to dwell upon o’er much. He was, after all, a warrior. Not the type to have his hearts swoon at the mere sight of a wench, Sacred Mate or no.

  As Kyra sauntered more and more into Zor’s line of vision, he gave up and admitted to himself that his hearts were nigh unto bursting with joy. His woman had donned the dark qi’ka embedded of expensive, shimmering stones. She had bracelets clasped about either of her upper arms. Not only did she look more beautiful than he could say, but Kyra was honoring him by wearing it.

  Zor knew she didn’t realize it, but the hue of the qi’ka not only complimented her rare skin, it also proclaimed her to one and all as Q’ana Tal, a woman of the immediate line of the Emperor and High King. It was no matter that she sported it unawares of its deeper meaning; the fact was that she was indeed wearing it.

  “Welcome, nee’ka. I would be honored do you join us.” Zor stood up quickly, motioning for her to be seated in the chair next to him.

  Kyra’s step faltered for a disbelieving moment when Zor telekinetically pulled the chair out for her to sit down in, then pushed her in toward the table with an absent flick of his wrist. She had all but forgotten that he could do things like that. The reason for that neglect didn’t escape her notice—she most likely hadn’t wanted to remember. It made Zor too different from her. Not that there was anything familiar about the entire situation. “Thank you.”

  “You are welcome.”

  Kyra smiled shyly up to her husband when she realized how truly content she’d made him by coming into the dining chamber to eat with him and Dak. His eyes were glowing a brilliant, happy blue.

  A brilliant, happy blue?

  Understanding soon dawned. Kyra quickly glanced down to her bridal necklace to confirm her suspicions. Sure enough, the macabre piece of jewelry looked happy now. Somehow, some way, the necklace was able to convey Zor’s emotions to her. A frightening, but nevertheless interesting discovery.

  “So,” Kyra asked, smiling hesitantly, “are we having any of that glowing turquoise drink tonight?”

  Dak’s eyes shot up from their lazy perusal of her breasts. “Turquoise drink?”

  She nodded, pretending not to have noticed the direction in which her brother-in-law’s eyes had been glued. “That drink that was brought into me at dinner last night.”

  Zor chuckled. “’Tis called turquoise in your dimension?”

  Kyra met Zor’s eyes and gave him a tentative smil
e. “We don’t have drinks like that on earth. What is it called on Tryston?”

  “Matpow.”

  She nodded. “May I please have some?”

  Zor never let his eyes stray from his nee’ka’s face as he flicked his wrist and summoned the bottle of matpow to pour some of its contents into Kyra’s goblet. “You may have all that is your desire, my hearts.” He cleared his throat, realizing at once that his whispered words had tumbled out sounding like a man besotted. “There is matpow aplenty,” he amended in a darker, manlier rumble.

  Dak, however, wasn’t fooled. He beamed a smile in his brother’s direction, winking knowingly at him when he caught his eye.

  Zor grunted. “We will arrive in Tryston the soonest,” he muttered. “We best eat.”

  Kyra nodded her approval, then spent the next two hours thoroughly enjoying the delicious meal that had been prepared by a gadget of some sort that cooked meals just like the machine had on The Jetsons.

  Kyra tried not to blush when Zor’s fingers brushed over her nipple. She reminded herself that this was the way of things on Tryston, so it was therefore nothing to feel self-conscious about. Zor’s fondling was done without thought, after all, as if it was merely a gesture of affection that all warriors did to their Sacred Mates when near them, much like stroking one’s cheek or holding their hand.

  Kyra managed to convince herself of that fact clear up until the point when her husband’s arm left the back of her chair and settled onto her leg. Soon, his fingers made a trail up and down her thigh, then into and under the sheer skirt of the qi’ka. Kyra began to understand why the left side of every qi’ka skirt was slit up to the knot. It was called easy access.

  “Do you really think the Tron insurrectionists will be daft enough to attempt to overthrow the warriors I have placed within their colony?”