Page 91 of I Punched an Alien and Now We’re in Couples Therapy

Osid did not bother to look at the guards. His eyes, cold and precise, fixed on Jivorn. “How unfortunate for me, then, to return at the exact moment you’ve made yourself comfortable in my seat.”

Jivorn spread a smile across his face—full, too many teeth, a snake inviting you to admire its skin. “All I’ve done is what’s best for Dulba. Even now, we are beset on all sides—starved for good hands, for direction. The people needed a voice in your absence. I, of course, only sat where I thought you would want.”

“You’ve protected Dulba by flying an invader’s banners?”

Sweat pooled along Jivorn’s brow. “You see—”

“Don’t pander.” Osid took the dais one measured step at a time. “You always were a poor liar, Jivorn.”

The usurper’s tongue flicked quick over his teeth. A glance at the guards, a twitch of a finger. “I don’t know what you’re—”

“Enough,” Osid snapped. “I know you intercepted the missive about the female enclosure.”

The guards’ expressions shifted; their focus, a coin flipped edgewise, now balanced between the king on the throne and the one on the steps.

Osid cast a quick glance at their faces. “What’s this? Jivorn, you never told them?”

Osid turned, sweeping a hand to me. “It turns out my Blair isn’t native to this planet at all, but an alien from another world. The Biwban have released a group of females on this planet for us to reproduce with. And instead of giving us time to prepare for their arrival, Jivorn would rather sell our secrets to King Iltith.”

The hall was quiet but for the wheeze of the man on the floor and the wet scrape of Nokitali’s tear-choked breathing. Jivorn’s own breath now came sharp and thin, his face a marbled mask of pride and panic.

“What do you mean, secrets to King Iltith?” Nokitali spat, her rage suddenly crystalline.

“My only aim is our survival,” Jivorn said, faltering. “I would do anything—sacrifice anything—to see Dulba thrive. Even if that meant consorting with King Iltith.”

“Or selling our own,” Osid intoned, voice low as a storm about to break. “So tell me, what did he promise you?”

He was silent for a moment, then his eyes flicked to the crying woman shielding her man.

“Oh, you can’t be serious,” I asked. “You sold your people out for a married woman?”

Jivorn’s mouth twisted into a sneer, and with the careful mask of civility shattered, his whole bearing shifted, his voice oiled now with something raw and petulant. “She is Sankado! Possibly the last female we have, and you!” he roared, pointing at Osid. “You would let her waste her womb on this—this bleeder from the fields!” he barked, gesturing at the man on the ground. He whirled on Nokitali, voice rising to a fever. “You have a duty, Nokitali. Your blood was bred for the throne—for me!”

“I would rather die.” Nokitali’s reply came out so quick and so disgusted that I couldn’t help but laugh.

Jivorn’s head snapped to me. “You!” he snarled.

I waved.

“I should have killed you when I had the chance.”

“And I should have gone for the headshot,” I said, lamenting my earlier mercy. “Would have saved all of us a mess of trouble.”

Jivorn did not lunge so much as erupt, a wave of motion that blurred the air between us. I braced for the impact, but Osid was the one who moved. He used a motion so fast and so brutal I almost missed it: the blade at his hip flashed, and Jivorn’s head peeled away with a sickening thwick.

For a moment the body stood, headless but defiant. Then it crashed to the mosaic floor, splashing blood across the tiles.

Osid slumped into the throne with an audible sigh.

Nokitali spat on the corpse. The man at her side shuddered in relief and held her tight.

Osid looked at the mess with a vague irritation. He snapped his fingers; the nearest guard hesitated, then slung the ruined shell up over his shoulder as if it were laundry, a string of drool or blood or both trailing behind. He ordered the other guard, the one with less stomach, to help Nokitali bring her lover to the healer.

When the last of them had cleared out, Osid gestured to me with a lazy crook of the finger, as if we weren’t standing in a puddle of what used to be his top advisor. I crossed the mosaics, feeling the stick of warm blood on the soles of my boots.

Osid’s eyes tracked me all the way, pupils dilated so they were more moss green than teal. Blood still gleamed in a bright crescent along his jaw. He patted a thigh, and I perched on the arm of the throne, but he twined arms around my waist and pulled until I was seated squarely across his lap. The stone was cold, but his body was not.

He held my face between his hands, smearing a bit of someone else’s blood across my cheek as if marking me. “Thank you for coming to my rescue once again.”