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She grunts and shakes her head.
“On the contrary. He talked about his mentor all the time. He just never said it was you. And he didn’t steal omma from you. She—”
I shove a large piece of flatbread into her mouth. Whatever she plans to say will only anger me, and with her slick coating my lap and her curves pressed against mine, I don’t trust my tenuous control.
After a few rushed bites, her shoulders slump in defeat and she stops trying to speak. I slow and study her response to each new flavor and brush a finger over her swollen lips. Lust pools between my legs and my shaft pounds against her back.
The intimate act of feeding her from my hand endears me to her. Old yearnings spring to life.
This is what I wanted when I first found her mother. Someone to share quiet moments with. To build an unbreakable bond and have unending support out of view of the cruel world.
The horrendous acts I’ve committed to keep a modicum of peace for my ship’s population would curdle the most fearsome alpha’s stomach. I don’t regret doing them, but they haunt me in my quiet moments.
I shove my musings aside and growl when she turns her face away.
“My stomach hurts,” she says.
I slide my hand from her hip to her belly and eye the tray. Deciding she’s had enough food for now, I pour water from the pitcher into a tin cup and press it to her lips.
She takes a sip and moans in surprise.
“Why is it sweet?”
“Honey,” I say.
“How?”
With wonder and curiosity in her voice, she glances over her shoulder at me.
“Let me guess, your alliances run deep,” she says.
I chuckle and respond, “And my power runs deeper.”
I tilt the cup and let her drink half the water before making her take a break. As I eat the remaining food, she fights her exhaustion, relaxing to the edge of sleep only to jerk awake. I jostle her as I reach for the water. She accepts a few sips and remains tense for another moment, but as the silence stretches, her lids droop.
I pour another glass, mindful of the amount of slick dripping from her, and silently demand she drink it.
She will be fully hydrated and well rested before I knot her. I dip my head and check her scent. She’s close to estrous, but a sliver of incompleteness plagues her otherwise robust bouquet.
I open the first aid kit and rifle through for the disinfectant and a bandage.
Shock spears through me when my tiny scorpion leans forward and takes the items from my hand. She tries to stand, but I tighten my arm around her and growl.
“Let me do it,” she demands.
After a moment of thought, I flex my fingers into her hip before releasing her. She stands and turns to face me.
With a flush on her cheeks and breasts and her hips brushing against my inner thighs, she glances at the items in her hand before meeting my gaze.
“I’m not sorry for stabbing you.”
The spark in her eyes lights an inferno in my veins. She antagonizes my alpha instincts, but the promise of having her hands on me silences my fury.
I quirk a brow. Her flush deepens even as she flattens her lips and steps out from between my legs. My cock bobs and a pearly drop trails from my tip, over my flange, and down my shaft to join the sheen of slick she left behind.
She takes a sterilized cloth from the first aid kit and sets the bandage on the counter before kneeling beside my hip. With a steely glance up at my face, she presses the cloth under my wound and pours the disinfectant. I flinch as pain sears through me, but exhale through my teeth as the agony fades into a dull throbbing.
She sets down the disinfectant and runs the cloth gently over the area. Her wet locks cling to her temples and breasts, and when she leans forward to check her work, a few strands transfer to my outer thigh.
