Chapter 8

EIGHT

“Do you want a setting, or leave it blank?”

“Blank,” Mavrel said. He liked the minimalism of the pure black walls and the black floor. “No light, either.”

“Fine.” Rykal uttered a command, and the training chamber reverted to its default settings.

“Don’t kill me,” Mavrel growled.

“Of course not. I won’t go easy on you, either. See if you can hit me.”

“ Tch. ” Mavrel lunged forward, moving freely now that he’d exchanged his kashkan for a pair of loose trousers. Like Rykal, he wore nothing over his torso.

He wasn’t actually expecting to be able to hurt Rykal, and he didn’t think the First Division warrior would concede cheap points out of some misplaced notion of sympathy. Still, Mavrel was going to do everything in his power to try and score the hit.

Rykal had just created an infuriating challenge.

Very well, then.

Mavrel punched and thrust.

Rykal danced and weaved effortlessly.

The chasm between them was obvious. Rykal was a natural-born fighter, enhanced by the deadly virulent nanites that had been grafted into his system. He was virtually indestructible, able to heal from most wounds in an instant, and capable of forming an impenetrable exo-armor with just his mind.

Well, it was more complicated than that—it was a neurologically modulated response—but to the uninitiated, it probably seemed like magic.

Mavrel only had one advantage—if it could even be called that.

His reach.

He wasn’t faster or stronger, but he was about half a head taller than Rykal. He had longer arms.

What he needed to do was create a distraction.

He increased his speed, targeting Rykal’s head, forcing the warrior to move faster and faster.

His strategy was simple—aim for the point between Rykal’s eyes. Move as fast as possible. Rykal wasn’t going to counterstrike.

So far, Rykal had only dodged, but now, for the first time, he put his arm up, blocking Mavrel’s strike.

Mavrel’s hand connected with Rykal’s forearm, which felt like a hardened block of Calldium, and this was without the nanite exo-armor.

Good.

Mavrel struck again, harder this time.

Rykal blocked.

Encouraged, Mavrel rained down a flurry of blows; his movements made faster and more vicious by the fury of the Mating Fever.

Rykal was right about one thing. The Mating Fever increased aggression, and this little exercise was perfect for releasing his pent-up frustration.

He was faster than ever.

Stronger.

More alert.

His reaction time had increased.

Incredible.

Mavrel was relentless, forcing Rykal backward. The warrior was still able to block him with ease, though, right until…

Thud.

Mavrel dealt two blows in quick succession. One, right at Rykal’s face. The other went low—into his gut.

Rykal twisted his body, but not fast enough.

Mavrel’s hit connected.

“ Oof, ” Rykal hissed. Still with his guard up, he stepped back.

Mavrel stopped, partially shocked.

He’d actually hit him.

A First Division warrior.

“Fair hit,” Rykal said, offering a slight bow. “You got me.”

Chest heaving from exertion, Mavrel shook his head in disbelief. “You sure you didn’t let me have that one?”

“Nope. That was a legitimate hit. I was too distracted by your full-on frontal assault. Good job, brother. It isn’t easy to land a hit on me, but you did it. Feel better now?”

Mavrel blinked. He took a moment to inhale deeply and clear his thoughts. The Mating Fever was still there, a dark undercurrent beneath the surface of his thoughts, but it was more manageable now. His anger had dissipated. All that remained was an insistent feeling, a primal drive, an obsession.

Her.

Her.

Her.

He couldn’t stop thinking about her.

But he could control it now.

“Why is this so much more effective than Zharek’s suppressants?” he growled.

“Nothing tempers aggression better than a fight,” Rykal answered sagely.

Since when had Rykal, of all people, been the fount of wisdom?

“Hm.” Mavrel massaged his smarting knuckles. “Seems you know a thing or two. So, what do I do now?”

Rykal grinned. “This is the fun part. You’re at her mercy now, aren’t you? The slightest invitation from her and you’ll fall to pieces. She’s obviously interested, or she wouldn’t be here at all. The trick is not to let her know how deeply affected you are. At the same time, you want to make her understand that you’re not a bad guy. That you won’t make her yield to you against her will or force her into our way of being.”

“I wasn’t planning on that, anyway.”

“Well, you’re Kordolian, and humans are understandably wary. You must make an attempt to understand her. Then, you show her your worth as a male. Both intellectually and physically. Giving her pleasure will work in your favor.”

“You make it sound so simple.” Trepidation coursed through him. “What if, after all that, she just isn’t interested?”

“What if, what if…” Rykal snorted. “You don’t even think what if. In the early times, when we were just learning about this phenomenon, there was no time to think about what if. You just go get what you want. The rest will fall into place. It’s a catalyst with a chain reaction. Trust me, if she isn’t already feeling it, she will be soon. There’s a sort of reciprocal Mating Fever. It’s not as obvious, but it still exists. Use it to your advantage.”

Rykal’s words were intriguing, but Mavrel was firmly of the opinion that he would believe it when he saw it.

Still, the First Division warrior’s confidence was contagious.

Surely, he could do this.

Even if it wasn’t planned or tightly controlled.

Even if the future was unpredictable.

Sooner or later, he would have had to step outside of his familiar laboratory anyway.

“Think of it this way,” Rykal said, turning and motioning for Mavrel to follow. “She holds all the power. One command from her, and you will do anything to be able to Claim her. On the other hand, we truly do hold all the power. If we wanted to, we could take any of these humans at any time. Things could be very different. But we won’t do that. If the downfall of the empire has taught us anything, it’s not to do that.”

“Of course,” Mavrel growled. Just like every other member of the Darkstar Mercenaries Group, he’d been given a choice: stick with the empire or follow Tarak’s way of doing things. He’d made his choice. He knew what he’d signed up for and what he believed in.

The Mating Fever had dealt him a very inconvenient paradox.

Make her come to him willingly or face madness and, at worst, death.

The former was the only option.

“I’ll let you in on a secret,” Rykal came closer as they exited the training room. “There’s a book. A manual for understanding human females. What makes them tick. What they like. What will turn them off faster than water freezing on Kythia. We’ve encoded the book and downloaded that information to the Sylth. I know you process information fast, but even you won’t have time to read the whole thing before the Cultural Event. So let me tell you this. If there’s one part you should internalize before then, it’s Chapter Nine.”

“And how exactly do I find this information?”

“Just search for The Manual.”

“That’s all?”

“Yeah. That’s what it’s called.” Rykal led them into the antechamber, where he’d left his kashkan and boots. He started to dress.

He didn’t even have a hair out of place. Mavrel had been going all out, but Rykal wasn’t even slightly flustered.

The warrior donned his fine robes and tied the belt in a ceremonial knot. Suddenly, he looked polished and elegant.

He sat on a bench and put on his boots.

“ The Manual, ” Mavrel muttered under his breath as he digested what Rykal had told him.

The synthesis machine would have completed the construction of Bea’s shoe by now. He didn’t have much time.

All he could do was go back to his labs, retrieve the shoe, quickly memorize Chapter Nine, and return to Zharek’s med-bay to offer to escort her to the Central Chamber, where the event was being held.

He couldn’t believe things had escalated this fast, but what choice did he have?

He had to go all in.

“One last piece of advice,” Rykal offered as they walked out of the antechamber. He looked Mavrel up and down, frowning. “Human women go to a lot of effort to dress for these sorts of things. It’s a big deal for them. You can’t turn up looking like you’ve just completed a five-rotation shift in the middle of a war. My man, it’s time for you to get some drip , as the humans say.”

“Drip?”

“Attire. Finery. Something that makes you look good and attractive to your future mate. Like what I’m wearing.” Rykal gestured to himself, grinning. “It’s been a while since I’ve had a reason to wear anything fancy. Arin won’t be able to resist me. I can’t wait to see her reaction.”

Mavrel snorted. How ridiculous.

But then again, when was the last time he’d worn anything but black?

And she was looking spectacular. If he were to accompany her—as her partner— he wouldn’t want to disappoint her by looking shabby.

As they headed in the direction of Mavrel’s labs, he let out a sigh.

Very well.

None of this was like him, but the Goddess had already snatched the threads of fate out of his hands.

“Good luck, brother.” Rykal gave him a good-natured half-wave.

“Th-thanks,” Mavrel stuttered, astounded by the First Division warrior’s sudden generosity. Under the old empire, such a thing never would have happened. The First Division had been the most feared outfit in the military, and even he would have kept his distance.

How things had changed.

Rykal disappeared in the opposite direction, leaving Mavrel to contemplate the unpredictability of the Universe and his small place within it.

Wasn’t that strangely freeing, though?

For perhaps, he could do whatever he wanted—as long as he adhered to Tarak’s rules. And if he were ever to overstep his bounds, there would be at least a dozen or more Kordolian males at the event who could easily pull him back into line.

Mavrel strode down the corridor, returning to his rooms.

He hadn’t expected this, but there was no turning back now.

She was waiting for him, and every move he made from here on in had to be immaculate.