Except I barely remember a word any of them said—or what I said, for that matter.
Fuck.
Andromeda sees me struggling and swoops to my side, casually joining me at the table. “So… what do you think so far?”
“I, um… Do I have to decide today?”
“No, of course not. We’re still figuring it out, so we’ll take our cues from you. If you need more time, you need more time.”
“Yeah, I…” I look out over the private room, taking stock of the Arachnoids present. They mill around and chat with each other and Sylvus. I think they’re all friends. Maybe I just… roll the dice and hope for the best?
Something I didn’t notice before catches my eye: a flash of metallic green from a beetle’s shell.
Wait, how did I not see this guy before?
I’m dazzled by his insectoid half alone: he has the body of a scarab beetle, and the iridescent blues and greens of his shellplay in the light, shifting in mesmerizing patterns as he moves on six jointed limbs.
And his humanoid half…
Dear god.
Like an Adonis cast in bronze. Insane abs, gorgeous face, aquiline nose, pointed ears. Dark stubble clings to his sharp jaw, framing lips whose angles activate some primal part of my brain.
He runs a hand through shoulder-length black hair, revealing shimmering green scales, which span his forehead and temples like facets of a compound eye. A crown of short black horns rings his brow.
His eyes are dark and brooding in a way that cuts straight to my soul.
I suddenly realize I haven’t been breathing.
“Andromeda… who’she?”
CHAPTER 3
RAZUL
One hour earlier
Zairion Prime is,overall, a very wet planet. Much of its expanse is covered in forest, both temperate and flooded, and the rich plant life casts humidity and all the scents of life into the air.
I hate it.
I’m a desert creature.
Fortunately, the planet isn’t all wet. Not far from its richest rainforests, a jagged mountain range casts a rain shadow over a valley basin that rolls with golden sands. There, the planet’s species that don’t like being damp all the time find refuge.
I mostly keep to the sprawling ranch of sandy soil and scrub brush where I tend a herd of caimites: six-legged reptilians that slither along the sand, burrow to hide from the day’s sun, and produce eggs that are a coveted delicacy across the galaxies.
I live on an estate of tunnels and low, mud-brick buildings, which I dug and stacked with my own tarsi near a reliable spring and a cactus grove.
It’s a gorgeous, harsh land.
My work is lucrative and rewarding. Caimites are notoriously difficult to work with, but my herd meets the vibrations of my steps with sneezes and tail-thumps, the same gestures that greet their own kind.
There’s just one problem.
Milk doesn’t keep so well in the desert. It’s prone to spoiling from heat or evaporating from dryness, and I always lose a portion before it makes it down into the bedrock of my cool storage.
I could install a refrigeration system, of course. But the caimites would never forgive me; the rumbling vibrations of that tech carry for miles.
