Shielded Heart Page 4

  “You don’t need to apologize, Samantha,” he said, raising a hand to brush stray strands of hair out of her face. He glanced at the alien thugs; the conscious pair were struggling to their feet. Alkorin moved to stand beside Sam and placed a hand on her lower back. “Come. We should be on our way before they feel well enough to call their friends. I would feel bad if I had to rough up an entire street gang tonight. I can only imagine what it’d do to their reputation.”

  Samantha nodded and began walking at his gentle guidance. Sniffling again, she peeked up at him; his center eye was staring down at her. She quickly averted her gaze.

  It was so…weird.

  He chuckled and shifted his hand to her hip, drawing her against him.

  She should’ve resisted, should’ve pushed away and put distance between them, but at that moment, she didn’t want to move away. After all he’d done for her, after the way he’d fought, she felt like the safest place in the universe was here at his side.

  “One of them called you sedhi. Is…that what you are?” she asked.

  “Yes. That is what my people are called.”

  Taking a deep breath, she blurted, “What’s it like seeing out of three eyes?”

  His laugh was full and genuine. “You’re the second terran to ask me that, and I’ve only met two of you.”

  Her cheeks heated even as his laughter coaxed a little smile onto her lips. “I’m sorry. That was rude, wasn’t it?”

  “It doesn’t bother me. I’m just as curious about what it’s like for you to see out of two eyes. Do you have a blind spot between them?”

  “No, there’s no blind spot.”

  “Hmm. I wonder, then, what’s the point of my third eye?” He turned it toward her again and smirked. “Apart from being hypnotic and intriguing, anyway.”

  Her blush deepened.

  Intriguing is putting it mildly.

  “Alkorin…are you a professional fighter or something?”

  “No, I’m not. I was, some years ago, but I’ve left that behind me. I’m in…document verification these days. It’s a relatively safer line of work.”

  Samantha shifted her eyes to his legs, which were encased in those tall armored boots. “But not so safe that you don’t have to wear armor?”

  He glanced down, and his hold on her tightened for an instant. “I’m afraid that’s not armor, Samantha.”

  She looked up to find his eyes on her. “It’s not?”

  “These”—he lifted his free hand and turned it slowly—“are the result of an unfortunate accident.”

  “Oh. Oh!” Way to go, Sam. “They’re…prosthetics?”

  “They are. But the accident was a long time ago, and they’ve served me well enough.”

  His tone, paired with the vagueness of his answer, suggested he didn’t want to speak on it any further. Samantha understood his reluctance; she could only imagine how traumatic it must’ve been to have lost all his limbs in an accident. Besides, she was a stranger. He had no obligation to share anything with her, especially something that must’ve been so devastating.

  He lapsed into silence for a few seconds before asking, “What were you doing out in the city today?”

  Sam frowned; his question reminded her how much of a failure she was. “I was looking for work.”

  “Looking for a particular type of work or just work in general?”

  “Something, anything—wait, no, not anything. Almost anything.” She was not going to sell her body. “I don’t mind labor. I just… The Consortium gives new immigrants housing for a year, and my homeworld is paying me a monthly wage for the same amount of time. I just wanted to…to get ahead for a change, I guess. I figured if I worked during this first year, I could save the extra because my necessities would be covered, and that would leave me in a better position to move somewhere nicer, someplace safer.”

  Samantha pressed her lips together. She’d been rambling like a fool. Fortunately, when she looked ahead, her apartment complex was in sight, offering her a means of escape before she embarrassed herself any further.

  She slipped out of his hold and stepped away. “Um…this is me. My building, I mean.”

  Alkorin looked at the building and furrowed his brow before returning his glowing yellow gaze to her. “I would be more than happy to pay for a hotel room in a nicer sector of the city, Samantha. It would be safer for you, and likely more comfortable.”

  His offer floored her. Her lips parted, the word yes perched on the tip of her tongue, but she snapped her mouth shut and shook her head.

  Sam and Alkorin were complete strangers!

  And one night wouldn’t make a difference, anyway. She’d still have to come back here tomorrow. “I-I can’t ask that of you or accept it. But thank you—for the offer, and for all your help today.”

  He frowned, but he didn’t argue. Stepping closer, he reached out and gently took her left wrist, laying his warm metal fingers along its underside and guiding her arm up. His touch sent soft electric currents through her; she gasped at the pleasantness of the sensation.

  His thumb curled around her wrist, brushing lightly over her skin, until it touched the activation button on her holocom. When the holographic projection screen appeared, Alkorin dipped his chin. “Unlock it.”

  Samantha raised her free hand and did as he’d commanded.

  The fingers of his left hand flicked through the menus rapidly—almost too fast for her to see what he was doing—as he went into her contacts and added new information. There were only a few entries there, none of which were personal.

  Except for the new one listed as Alk.

  He dismissed the screen and took her hand between both of his. “If you need anything, Samantha, do not hesitate to contact me.” His fingertips trailed lightly over the underside of her wrist; it seemed innocent on the surface, but it sent a thrill straight to her core. “Anything.”

  Samantha shifted on her feet, squeezing her thighs together as an entirely new sensation flooded her.

  “Why?” she asked breathlessly. “Why are you doing this for me?”

  “Because I know what it’s like to go through difficult times,” he said, his gaze slowly running up her arm until his eyes met hers. The yellow markings on his face pulsed and his voice grew huskier when he continued. “But don’t mistake me for a hero; I’ve not acted selflessly tonight.” He raised his other hand and ran the back of his fingers down her cheek. “You’re beautiful, Samantha, and I find myself eager to be in your company.”

  * * *

  Arcanthus watched Samantha walk away, unable to remove his eyes from her until she disappeared inside the housing complex. Part of him longed to continue following her even knowing he’d already pushed too far. His little terran was a delicate flower in an unforgiving city—at least outwardly. Somewhere inside her was a tristeel core that would bend but not break. She was awash in discouragement and despair, alone and lost, but she wasn’t yet defeated.

  Her vulnerability, though distressing, could be made to work to Arc’s advantage. As much as he hated that fact, he knew it would not stop him. The time he’d spent with her this evening had only confirmed what he’d known the moment he’d first seen her face—Samantha Dawn Wilder was his.

  He adjusted his robe as he turned away from the building, clenching his jaw against the ache in his groin. His cock had throbbed almost nonstop since he’d seen her emerge from her apartment earlier today; at one point as he’d followed her through the Undercity streets, he’d been forced to duck into an alleyway and tighten his under wrapping over his pelvis to ensure his shaft didn’t extrude. The delay had become doubly frustrating when he’d stepped out of the alley and was unable, for several harrowing seconds, to locate her in the crowd. To his relief, she’d walked out of a nearby shop shortly after, and he’d resumed shadowing her.

  His heart had pounded at the thought of losing track of her, and panic had briefly set in, heating his skin. That panic—as silly as it seemed—had been nothing compared to what struck him when the tralix knocked her down. His flare of rage at seeing her harmed had only been overpowered by his fear for her safety. Arcanthus had never forced his way through a crowd so quickly.

  As Arc walked away from her building, he glanced down at his metal hands. As sophisticated as they were—they relayed information on pressure, texture, temperature, and moisture to his brain with immense accuracy—they would never replace the experience of touching anything with his own flesh-and-blood fingertips. He’d yearned to touch her with his own hands as he’d helped her out of the crowd, but even the contact between her skin and his cybernetic limbs had amplified the electric hum she produced in his qal.

  Though he’d not even seen her body—her oversized clothing obfuscated her shape—everything about her called to him. It had taken one glimpse into her dark, expressive eyes for him to know what she was to him.

  After a few minutes, he arrived at his hovercar. It unlocked at his touch. He climbed inside, closing the door behind him.

  “Damn it,” he muttered, releasing a shaky breath. “She’s my mate.”

  Saying it out loud only gave the word new weight; it hung around him, thickening the air, and settled heavily upon his chest.

  Mate.

  There was no other explanation for the way she made his qal react, no other explanation for why he’d just spent half his day following a stranger through an entire Undercity sector as she, with steadily increasing desperation, searched for employment.

  Obsessed, Drakkal grumbled in the back of Arcanthus’s mind.

  “Yes, because she’s my mate, you ornery fur ball. That’s how it works.”

  He powered on the hovercar’s engines but didn’t take hold of the controls.

  His interest in terrans had begun recently, when he’d met one for the first time—Abella. He’d made no effort to disguise his want of her; some of his forwardness had been to provoke her mate, a foul-tempered zenturi, but the terran female’s looks had been tempting. Even more appealing had been something less tangible; something about her personality, her spirit, had drawn him in, something he couldn’t describe apart from it being terran. He’d thought about Abella often and had even come to envy her mate for having her.

  And yet Abella hadn’t triggered a fraction of the response in Arcanthus that Samantha did. No female had.

  “Don’t be stupid, Arc,” he said in an exaggeratedly guttural voice as he accessed the plexus through the hovercar’s onboard computer system.

  After double checking that his safeguards were in place to make his source untraceable, he called one of his guards—a cren named Kiloq.

  “Yeah, boss?” asked Kiloq when the audio connected.

  Arcanthus flipped through several files on the hovercar’s holographic display. “Sending you some information. I need you to come to this address and keep an eye on this female. Discreetly—she can’t know you’re around.”

  “Sounds good. Is she trouble?”

  “No, she’s in trouble. She caught the attention of some thugs from the Blue Threshers. Do what you must to ensure they don’t touch her again.” Sweeping his fingers closed, Arc compiled the files and sent them to Kiloq.

  “Got them, boss.”

  “Bring your brother with you. I want you to keep track of her whereabouts at all times, and make sure she’s safe while she’s out.” Arcanthus turned his head, glancing in the direction of Samantha’s building, which was out of sight a few streets away. There was little to distinguish it from the surrounding complexes—they were all big, bland, dirty buildings with hundreds of windows that looked out on the windows of neighboring units. This place was meant as a start, but these sectors were often rife with criminals targeting the unfortunate and desperate. “Should anything happen, make her safe and report directly to me.”

  “We’ll keep her safe, boss.”

  “I know. That’s why I’m putting you on this. Check in later.”

  “Right. We’ll be on our way in five.”

  Arc cut off the call. As he grasped the controls, he paused; part of him wanted to stay and watch out for trouble until the two cren arrived, just to be sure.

  Part of him wanted to go into that building, walk up to Samantha’s door, kick it down, and sweep her into his arms. That would be the quickest way to have her, after all. The most direct route to getting what he wanted. He’d sacrificed so much over the years just to survive; wasn’t he entitled to taking the easy way every now and again? With so much having been taken from him, wasn’t it all right to take a little for himself?

  “Stupid,” he muttered. He piloted the hovercar up and began his journey home.

  He’d always enjoyed the game, had always enjoyed maneuvering boldly and brashly, throwing his opponents off guard with his audacity. He was a champion, not a conqueror; he would win his mate, not steal her. She’d already shown some interest in him. Even though she’d openly fought that interest, it was a start. It was enough for him to work with.

  Drakkal was waiting, his large arms crossed over his chest and his taupe-and-copper fur bristling, when Arcanthus drove the hovercar into the garage. Despite the heavy tinting of the hovercar’s windows and windshield, the azhera seemed to meet Arcanthus’s gaze instantly with a heavy, angry glare.

  “So it begins,” Arcanthus said. He opened the door and exited the vehicle.

  He approached Drakkal at a leisurely pace, tilting one corner of his mouth up in a smirk. “It looks like something has your fur rumpled. Did Razi annihilate you in Conquerors again?”

  “Six hours and twenty-two minutes,” the azhera growled.

  Arcanthus stopped in front of Drakkal. “Well, you kept at the game for a long time. I admire your persistence, but sometimes you just have to know when to surrender.”

  “This isn’t a game, Arcanthus. How am I supposed to keep you safe when you disappear for six and a half hours without a word? When you turn off all communication? Are you—”

  “Stupid? Yes, I suppose I’m quite stupid sometimes.” Arc waved a hand and walked past the azhera into the hallway. “I’m fine, Drakkal. It’s been ten years, and as far as they’re concerned, I’m dead. My real name isn’t out there anywhere. There’s nothing wrong with me going out for some air every now and then.”

  Drakkal’s footsteps sounded behind Arc as the azhera followed him down the hallway. “If you believed that, you wouldn’t live inside a small fortress and constantly cycle through twenty different aliases.”

  Frowning, Arcanthus stopped and turned to face Drakkal. “That’s just…habit by now. They aren’t looking for me because I no longer exist. Simple.”

  Drakkal sighed—though it came out as something closer to a snort. “All for a terran?”

  Arc narrowed his center eye. “The terran has nothing to do with this. I was feeling trapped. Does it truly come as a surprise that sometimes I just need to get outside these walls?”

  “I know you sent Kiloq and Koroq to watch out for her.”

  Arcanthus’s brows fell. “Then I suppose I will have to have a conversation with them regarding discretion, won’t I?”

  “You wanted me to head up your security. That’s what I’m doing. If you want me to be effective, you keep me in the know.”

  “I can take care of myself.”

  Drakkal’s expression spoke clearly—really?

  “Sometimes I can take care of myself, then. Does that make you happy? Does it satisfy your craving to be needed?”

  “I don’t want to walk into a scene like I did back on Caldorius, Arc.”

  A pang struck Arcanthus’s chest; he wasn’t sure if it was guilt, sorrow, pain, or something else. “Well, the good news is that there’s not too much left to be chopped off, if you think about it.”

  Shaking his head, Drakkal dropped his arms to his sides. “Just be careful. You’re too soft for this city.”

  “Surely you jest. I’ve often some trouble telling, as you seem unable to modulate the volume and tone of your voice.”

  “You’re offended. Just proves my point.”

  Arcanthus lifted both his arms, curled one hand into a fist, and knocked on his opposite forearm, producing a dull, metallic clang. “If you’d like to discuss soft, we can compare. Your fur is looking particularly fluffy today, so I’d advise you avoid this conversation if you don’t want to be embarrassed.”

  “Come here,” Drakkal said, spreading his arms wide. “I’ll hug your pain and bitterness away.”

  “You are not my mother, azhera.”

  Drakkal’s mouth curled into a smirk. “Stop acting like a child and you won’t trigger my maternal instincts.”

  Though he struggled to keep a straight face—there was too much going on in his head for him to be standing here quipping back and forth with Drakkal, too many emotions he didn’t understand enough to sort out—Arcanthus couldn’t help but laugh. “You’re lucky I like you so much, Drakkal. Any sensible employer would’ve fired you ages ago.”

  “You can’t fire me, Arcanthus.”

  “And it irks me to no end that you’re aware of it.”

  Smirk fading, Drakkal lowered his arms. “Keep me in the know, all right? That’s all I’m asking. It’s not safe for you to go wandering the streets like that.”

  “All right, Mother. I will endeavor to make better decisions in the future.”

  “One day you’ll give me a serious answer, and I’ll drop dead in shock.”

  Arcanthus and Drakkal walked deeper into the compound—Arc’s holdings spanned several blocks and buildings, all interconnected by various tunnels and passages—and eventually parted ways.

  As he entered the workshop, Arcanthus removed his robe and tossed it aside. He glanced down at his body before he sat; the scars around the edges of his surgically implanted cybernetic sleeves were as prominent as ever, the result of the hasty patch job that had saved his life ten years ago. Even with all that time to adjust, it still felt strange when he stopped and looked, when he let himself think about how his body just…ended at those points. That what existed past those scars—though connected to him in every way that mattered—wasn’t really him at all.