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I was mated. It would not change.
Hybrids mated for life.
My mate was General Cyderial.
Submitting to his attentions was required for my physical health, an addiction already formed. One that hundreds of hybrid women already lived with.
Miranda suffered for one hundred years.
I refused to suffer for any.
Straightening my shoulders, I walked to my fate and braved a dimly lit bedroom, glad the soft light was not red but golden.
Dinner was served at the same table where I had eaten breakfast. Water and wine waiting so I might choose what I wished.
Cyderial didn’t comment on my lack of proper clothing. I did not comment on the fact that he removed his coat.
The food was actually very good. Grated cabbage wilted in oil, salty with bacon, and softened by cream. I even went so far as to compliment his efforts, which set him purring.
One might even say he wasswellingwith pride.
Water was my drink of choice.
When I was finished eating, he ate his portion, watching me pretend I was not sending nervous glances toward the bed.
When he was done, he set down his fork and rose to his feet without pretense. Circling the table, he stood before me, hand going to my hair to let it down. Careful, he unwound my tresses, taking his time to enjoy the feel of his fingers in the mass.
I sensed he wanted to speak, compliment me or offer assurances, but he chose silence for my benefit. If my suspicion was true, he was right to do it. Talking was more than I could handle.
So I let him touch my hair, noting the growing bulge in his trousers and how being near him left me burning with fire.
When he drew me from the chair, I didn’t fight him. Walking toward the bed, as if waking to the hangman’s scaffold, I moved with the slow acceptance of one condemned.
He peeled the towel from sweltering flesh, revealing my nude body as if he unwrapped a long-desired present. Leaning forward, he urged me back until the mattress hit my thighs. I sat, braced on my arms, and watched him begin to undress.
Nervous but intrigued, I forced myself to look. First, at the broad expanse of his chest, which I remembered moving over me when he’d had me pinned to the floor. His musculature was perfectly defined, strong, and had been wielded to maim his own kind to earn the rank of General.
With strength like that, he could have done a great deal of harm to me. Yet all I had known was his hands on my wrists and his demanding kiss on my mouth.
He wasn’t kissing me now.
Instead, he watched me, taking his time to unbutton the remainder of his shirt, pulling the sleeves down powerful arms, as if to not frighten me should he move too fast.
Or perhaps to preen.
It didn’t matter if I disliked him; Cyderial had every right to be proud of his appearance. From his coloring to his form, he was beautiful to look at.
I might have even found him handsome were my thoughts not clouded with fear.
Shirt cast aside, glowing in the low light, his hands moved to his belt.
Trousers undone, the remainder of his clothing lowered to the floor.
I didn’t need to consult the diagrams in his filthy book to know he was fully aroused. Proud, his cock, his dick, histhing, jutted toward me. It looked as alien as I remembered, segmented and straining. A pointed purple tip and flared flange.
He moved it just enough that I might see what it could do, an undulating wave of male flesh beckoning me nearer.
Voice low and tempted, he urged, “Touch me. You don’t need to be afraid of my body.”
