KAZAN
I now understoodhow a woman could drive a bull mad.
The worst part was that Maisie had no idea she was doing it.
I had done everything I could to give her space. To remember that she might still leave. That this might not be permanent. That she had come here under circumstances I did not fully understand and could not ignore.
Nezara’s courier arrived after Maisie fell asleep with an addendum to our contract.
The agreement was mostly standard. I had seen enough bride contracts to know the shape of them, even if I’d never expected to sign one myself.
There was only one change that mattered.
I was not to touch her.
Not to take her to bed or to claim her. Not to do anything that could make the arrangement harder to reverse.
The words were neat. Legal. Bloodless.
They did not mention what Maisie wanted. Not once.
That told me everything I needed to know.
The Alien Matchmaking Agency didn’t care if she was safe. They did not care if she was happy. They cared about the markon her file, and whether some official on Earth might start asking questions.
They cared about liability. About reversals.
About keeping the merchandise unaltered until they decided what to do with it.
Merchandise.
My hand closed around the paper before I thought better of it. It crumpled in my fist, and I had to force myself to smooth it out again.
I might need it later.
That didn’t make me want to tear it in half any less.
I had heard men in the arena speak about fighters that way. Assets. Bodies. Muscle and bone with a price attached. I had killed men for using those words while looking at me.
Now someone had written them around Maisie without ever saying them outright.
It made something old and ugly stir in my chest.
I pushed the paper away before I did something useless with it.
Then my mind betrayed me.
It went exactly where the contract forbade it to go. To Maisie’s mouth. Her hands. The soft shape of her body under the shirt she had stolen from my room. To the idea of lifting her onto my counter and stepping between her thighs.
Need hit hard enough that my fingers curled against the table.
I stopped the thought there.
Barely.
She was in the next room. In my kitchen. In my shirt.
That was dangerous enough.
