The water met her skin in a perfect embrace—not too hot, not too cool, just a deep, even warmth that sank immediately into her muscles. She exhaled on a soft, involuntary sound, tension loosening from her shoulders as the water rose to her collarbones.
I should fight this,she thought, closing her eyes.I should be angry, screaming, demanding lawyers and diplomats and formal charges.
The absurdity of that made her want to laugh. There was no human embassy here. No one to file a complaint with.
There was only this fortress. This world. This future… unfolding whether she consented or not.
She sank deeper, letting the water lap against her neck. For a moment, disbelief washed through her again.This cannot be real. You should be home. You should be in your apartment. You should be arguing with your father, dodging his calls, fending off Daniel Li’s perfectly polite attention.
Would she really trade this—this terrifying, overwhelming unknown—for a life of walking pre-scripted paths laid out by someone else?
Her chest tightened.
On Earth, her fate had been appointed without her consent, too. She had simply understood the rules better. Here, at least, they were honest about it: she had been claimed, and those who claimed her would provide for her and expect something in return. There was a twisted clarity in that.
She floated on her back, the water cradling her.It still isn’t right,she told herself.But maybe… it is different.
Her heart beat a little faster at the thought. Not from fear. From something sharper. A treacherous curl of anticipation slid through her, unwelcome and undeniable.What if this leads somewhere you could never have imagined on Earth? What if you can shape it, even a little?
“Morgan?” Raeska’s voice carried gently across the room.
Morgan rolled upright, water rippling around her. “You can… help with my hair now.”
The alien approached with a basin and a shallow dish of something that looked like oil but smelled faintly of citrus and something deeper, like warm resin. She moved with careful economy, kneeling at the edge of the pool as Morgan turned her back toward her. Cool fingers gathered Morgan’s wet hair, smoothing it with the fragrant liquid before working it gently through the strands.
There was no roughness, no possessiveness in the touch. Raeska handled her hair as if it were delicate silk, her motions precise, almost reverent. Morgan’s eyes closed again, not in trust exactly, but in a grudging acceptance that, for the first time since everything began, she could take a breath without it catching halfway.
“You do this often?” Morgan asked, her voice quiet.
I have prepared others for audiences with the Vykan,the translator relayed.But never one from your world.
“How many others?” Morgan asked.
Raeska’s fingers paused for a heartbeat, then resumed their smooth movements.
Not many,she answered.The Vykan do not claim lightly.
Morgan hesitated—then Raeska added, with a respectful lowering of her head:
This Vykan—Lord Kyrax—has not claimed one as his own.
The name struck Morgan like a physical note.
Kyrax.
It coursed through her—alien, powerful, heavy.
Has not claimed one as his own.
Her pulse stuttered.
She did not ask more. She wasn’t sure she wanted the answers.
When the bathing was finished, Raeska stepped back and turned away again while Morgan climbed out of the pool. A soft cloth—thicker than any towel she’d owned—waited on a nearby ledge. Morgan wrapped it around herself, the fabric drinking up water from her skin with unnerving speed.
Raeska approached the folded bundle she had set aside earlier and unfolded it with a care that made Morgan’s stomach knot.
These garments were prepared for you,the translator said.The Marak provided guidance regarding human requirements. The Vykan selected fabrics that would not harm you.
