The paneling was some kind of dark wood, deep reddish-brown, with a grain that moved like flame patterns when the light hit it, like fire frozen mid-flicker. The overhead lights were low, recessed, and warm… the whole corridor had a softness that said this ship had been designed by someone with money and taste. Lots of both.
It looked like the Nova Star, the hotel from XXX… her absolute favorite trashy holo-soap, the one her coworker Dani had got her hooked on three years ago, and she'd never recovered. She'd looked it up once. The Nova Star used in the series was a proper hotel. It cost four thousand credits a night and, she hoped, did not have a murder in the penthouse every other week.
"Are you coming?"
She was apparently standing still again. She started walking.
The ship didn't look like anything she'd seen on a news feed, and she'd watched enough of those. The Lathar PR campaign had been running for years now. It was all carefully edited footage of friendly warriors on colonies helping with construction, Lathar medics in human hospitals, and there was that one clip of the handsome warrior doing keepie-uppies with some kids on Taurus-17-B that had gone viral on the feeds. The subtext was all… We're not that scary.
She'd snorted at it then, and she snorted at it now, quietly, arms wrapped around her chest to hold in the little warmth she had. Their own historians had published the basics of Latharian history, or what they were willing to let humanity see of it, and all she'd seen was war. Back-to-back wars, species after species, spanning thousands of years. Yeah, you didn't build the biggest military empire in the known galaxy by being cute and cuddly.
And then there was Emily. Emily, who'd gone to the Mate Program weeks ago and not come home. Emily, whose mother had canceled the lease and had the apartment stripped down to nothing as if her daughter was already dead.
Amelia’s gaze landed on Thyaar's broad back as he turned the corner ahead of her.
She glared at it. Cute and cuddly, her ass. The Lathar had a habit of taking women who didn't belong to them and a very flexible definition of what counted as asking first. Case in point. Her, Barnaby, and the total absence of her consent to being here.
Although…
She tilted her head slightly, watching the way he moved. He walked like someone who'd always been the biggest thing in every room he'd ever entered… unhurried and absolutely certain of the space he occupied. He was kind of cute, in a ruggedly handsome, bad-boy kind of way. Or was that because of the leather?
Yeah, that was it. It was definitely the leather. It might happen with holonovels, but no sensible woman actually fell for her kidnapper. That was a trope that worked only because the reader could close the book and go back to their actual life, where being slung over a warrior’s shoulder and carried out of their building was actually a crime.
She was a sensible woman. She was going to keep that thought at the front of her mind.
He pushed open a door and stood aside for her. When she walked through it, all her thoughts scattered completely.
The bed was obscene, taking up the entire center of the room. It was wide enough for six, easily. Maybe eight. She did the math and gave up. The coverings were dark and thick, looking like they’d been designed specifically to disappear into. Pillows, stacked at the head, were more than any reasonable person needed.
Her entire apartment could fit in this room. Probably with the bathroom attached.
Thyaar crossed to the bed and set Barnaby down in the middle of it.
Barnaby looked at the bed and the coverings. Then, with the air of someone who has finally been given what they deserved all along, stretched and began to knead. Slow and deliberate, claws pressing in and pulling back, in and back, his eyes half-closed with satisfaction.
She sighed. She’d known him for three years. Three years of warm laps offered and often refused. Three years of the fleece-lined carrier blanket she'd saved four weeks' lunch money for, even though he wasn’t her cat, and which he'd ignored entirely in favor of sleeping directly on her face. He had never once—not one single time?—
"Barnaby," she said.
He ignored her. With his whole body.
"Barns. Come here."
He completed another circuit of the bed, chose his spot with the care of someone selecting real estate, and lay down. He curled up, paws tucked in, and his tail curled over his nose. Right. Fine. Great. They’d both been kidnapped—catnapped in his case—and he was having a nap on an alien's fancy duvet.
"Traitor," she told him.
There was a scrape behind her. She turned to find Thyaar crouched by the side of the bed, hauling something out from underneath it. The trunk that landed on the carpet with a thud was battered, all scuffed metal and dents. The coating on the latches had worn through from years of handling.
She looked at the trunk, and then around the room. It didn't match anything. In the room… on the Emperor's yacht. Right. Yeah, she'd nearly forgotten he’d told her that.
Sorting through the trunk, he pulled something free and held it out to her. It looked like a bundle of dark fabric.
She took it. Heavy knit, dense enough to hold warmth… some kind of under layer, and a longer piece on top. She shook the longer one out and held it up. On him it was probably a sleep shirt. On her it was going to be a dress, and not a short one.
"You'll need to roll them up or something," he said, his deep voice little more than a rumble. "It's all I've got."
"Thank you." She folded them back up. "They'll be fine."
