Chapter 7

Chapter

Seven

BEHTU

" T alrut, old friend. You recall that favor you owe me," I growl into the comm, my voice echoing through the command deck of my spacecraft. The control panels blink back at me with a steady rhythm, indifferent to the urgency coursing through my veins.

There's a crackling hiss before Talrut's gruff voice filters through, "Well met, Behtu. Old friend, eh? I had no idea you had any much less considered me as one. As for calling in a favor, how could I forget when you took a dagger for me? How close are you to making my life more interesting?"

"Close enough that I'm breathing your polluted air," I retort, adjusting the thrusters as my ship pierces the outer layer of the atmosphere of Talrut's home world, Grag 2. Sparks of friction dance along the hull, a fiery display against the void. It's almost beautiful, a deadly sort of allure that matches my mood.

"Get your forge ready." My pulse throbs in my temples, each beat a reminder of what's at stake. Jules. My heart tightens like a vice at the image of her imprisoned aboard Warlord Zarnak's vessel, her faith resting solely on my shoulders for rescue.

Talrut's snort crackles through the comm, a static-laden sneer that could ruffle feathers, if I had any. "Breathing my air? Behtu, you make it sound so intimate. Should I expect flowers upon your grand entrance?"

"You know flowers wilt in this dump of an atmosphere," I shoot back, smirking despite the tension knotting my insides. I toggle the ship's controls with practiced ease, navigating the familiar yet always treacherous descent toward Talrut's domain.

"Preparing to land at your dock," I announce.

"Waiting on you, Maverick," he replies gruffly.

My Lizordian freighter shudders slightly as I guide her down, engines humming a deep, throaty purr that resonates through the marrow of my bones. The landscape on Grag 2 is a blur of dusky hues beneath me, industrial and unwelcoming.

I land the ship with a gentle thud outside Talrut's forge, the clamps engaging with a satisfying click. Talrut's place is a mishmash of metal and machinery, a fortress of solitude built from the scraps of a thousand ventures.

I grab two bulging sacks, open the hatch, extend the ramp, and step out into the dim light of dusk. The air here is thick and heavy with the scent of oil and methane.

My heart beats a frantic rhythm as I stride toward the forge's entrance. Time is slipping away, every second a whisper against my skin, a reminder that Jules is waiting, her fate hanging in the balance. A cloud of steam billows from the open door ahead, welcoming or foreboding, I can't decide.

The clatter of my boots against the stone floor echoes through the cavernous workshop as I approach. Talrut's back is turned to me as he labors over some sort of project.

"Well met, Talrut," I say, announcing my arrival.

The trolite whips around, his small stature almost comical compared to mine. As short as he is round, his pudgy body is covered in vibrant blue, bumpy skin that resembles the mossie stones on Tagar 5. Tufts of fiery orange hair sprout sporadically across his forehead, and elbows, and cascade down his back like a miniature waterfall of flames. Wisps of steam from the forge curl around him like phantoms, and the pungent smell of molten metalloid fills the air. Golden eyes, wide and gleaming with mischief, are the only smooth surfaces on his lumpy face.

"Behtu Ky'Orlax," he croaks, his voice gravelly as he bows low. "The Klaxis King graces my humble abode. To what do I owe the pleasure?"

I ignore the misplaced formality and stride closer, the urgency simmering beneath my calm exterior. "I need your artistry, Talrut," I state, my gaze locking with his. "A replica of the Zorite Statue."

His prickly brow wrinkles and I can almost see the gears turning in his head, assessing the gravity behind my request.

"Zorite isn't easy to come by, Behtu," Talrut replies, scratching at the rough patches on his chin. "Nor is it simple to work with. That stone is more metalloid than granzite and has a temper as fiery as?—"

"Make the statue hollow," I interrupt, leaning in close enough for him to feel the heat of my resolve. The words slip from my lips like a secret shared between conspirators. "It's imperative you leave a cavity that's undetectable."

"A hollow relic," Talrut muses, his eyes narrowing with intrigue. "You plot a deception worthy of legend. What mischief drives you to such lengths?"

I purse my lips and give a cryptic reply, "If I told you, I'd have to kill you."

Talrut doesn't need to know my business with the Grymlok warlord nor the human female who has become more important to me than any treasure in the whole of the Universe. My fingers tighten around the sacks I carry at my sides, the thought of Jules left in such a vulnerable position ignites a rage within me hot enough to consume everything in its path.

"Never mind, then. I rather enjoy breathing," Talrut says with a jagged grin, turning away from me to survey the chaotic sprawl of his workshop. "It will take me some time to scrape together enough zorite?—"

"This will be enough," I reply dropping the sack filled with zorite bricks on the worktable, my impatience a living thing between us.

Talrut opens the sack and peers inside, his gnarled fingers hovering over a random brick. Golden eyes, gem-like and skeptical, lock onto mine. "Behtu, even with my skills," he rasps, "this is no simple trinket to forge. To replicate the Grymlok relic?—"

"You are the only person I know who can do it." I'm not stroking the trolite's ego, what I say is fact.

He grunts, noncommittal, his gaze drifting back to the sack of zorite I so foolishly melted down and formed onto bricks. "The hollow center poses risks. If the structure fails?—"

"It won't." The thought of Jules depending on me fuels a simmering desperation. I need the Zorite Statue, and I need it flawless.

"Materials aren't infinite, Star Maverick," he mutters, stroking the bumpy skin at his jawline. "If the core isn't supported properly during the cooling phase, the whole thing could?—"

"Enough excuses!" I bark, more sharply than intended. With a flick of my hand, I toss a second sack. It lands with a solid thud against the surface of his worktable. Dythum crystals tumble out, their luminescence pulsing like captured stars. The sight of them causes a greedy gleam to replace the uncertainty in Talrut's eyes.

"Payment," I say, watching as his rough digits gingerly caress one of the gems. "And incentive."

Bushy eyebrows rise, a silent question forming on his lips. Talrut's fingers, knobby and eager, probe the edges of the sack, disbelief etched into every crease of his blue visage. He lifts a Dythum crystal between stubby fingers, its glow casting ghostly shadows on the walls of his cluttered workshop.

"Don't ask where I got them and you can keep the leftover zorite," I snap, my tone as sharp as a dagger's edge, knowing full well the value of the material. It's a bribe cloaked in generosity, and we both know it.

"Leftover zorite for a job well done?" He weighs the Dythum crystal in his palm, reassessing the challenge. "Consider my doubts extinguished."

"Good." My chest tightens with impatience. "I need it done quickly. Time is a luxury I can't afford."

Talrut nods, a newfound determination steeling his features. He turns back to his tools, the Dythum crystals now forgotten as he mentally prepares for the task ahead.

The forge's roar is a tempest of heat and flame, its fiery breath engulfing the zorite bricks with hungry intensity. Talrut's fingers dance over the controls with practiced ease as the melting process begins, his focus unbreakable as he monitors the temperature gauges. As the scent of melting zorite fills the air, I'm left to stew in a silence punctuated only by the pounding of my own heart, an echo of the ticking of time that counts down the moments until I can free Jules from Warlord Zarnak's clutches.

The need to return to her, to ensure her safety, coils tightly inside my gut. It's a desperation that borders on madness, a hunger that goes beyond the flesh that has nothing to do with my sivot who still slumbers. The mere thought of her in danger sends shivers down my spine, igniting a primal instinct within me that refuses to be quelled.

I pace the confines of the cluttered workshop. A tempest rages within, an unyielding force that demands I reach her side at any cost. My boots kick up small whirlwinds of dust, each step an echo of the turmoil churning within me.

A glance at the chrono cuff around my wrist sends a surge of adrenaline coursing through me. Time is the enemy, slipping through my fingers like the pink sands of Pryt's beaches. With every blink, her image flashes in my mind, haunting every second that ticks by.

The hum of Talrut's duplicator is a mechanical lullaby, crafting a mold of the Zorite Statue with meticulous precision. Once complete, the melted zorite can be poured and a framework added to support the weight of the finished statue.

A deafening crack splinters through Talrut's workshop, severing the silence. I whirl around, my heart hammering a frenetic rhythm against my ribs. The mold, once seamless and promising, now sports a jagged fracture down its side like a bolt of lightning frozen in time.

"By the stars..." Talrut's voice trails off, his blue-bumpy hands hovering over the ruined mold. We lock eyes, and I see the reflection of my own dread mirrored in his rounded pupils.

"Start over," I command, the words laced with a desperation that claws at my throat. "Now, Talrut."

He nods, and my pacing resumes, each step punctuated by the ticking of the chrono cuff around my wrist. Time is slipping away, a thief in the darkness stealing my only chance to free Jules from a certain death.

Talrut resets the duplicator to create a new mold. The machine whirs back to life, its hum now a taunt, a reminder of the precious minutes we've lost. I run a hand through my hair, pushing it back from my face, trying to shake off the grip of dread tightening around my throat. Recreating the relic is only half the battle, I still need time to travel back to Warlord Zarnak's ship.

"Come on, come on," I mutter, my gaze fixed on the machine.

Sweat beads on Talrut's forehead as he works, an uncharacteristic display of tension from the usually imperturbable artisan. His fingers dance across the duplicator's controls, adjusting settings with a fervor fueled by my growing restlessness.

"Blinking dund!" I growl at the machine, though it's my own helplessness that earns my ire.

"It will hold this time," Talrut reassures me.

As the new mold takes shape, my thoughts spiral back to Jules with her hands shackled, the sheet wrapped around her lush body, and my scent still clinging to her smooth skin. I curse myself for not claiming her as a Kaul male does a mate. I should have knotted her, filled her with my mating seed as my sivot has already done.

"Please," I breathe, the word a talisman against despair. "Let me be in time."

The mold holds its shape and the zorite is poured. The forge's heat wraps around me like a second skin as Talrut dunks the mold into a cooling vat. Sweat beads on my forehead, every drop a reminder of the relentless ticking of time.

"Almost ready," Talrut grunts, his bumpy blue skin glistening under the intense light of the forge.

He lifts the mold from the vat and gently sets it on the workbench. Wielding a heavy mallet, poised above the now-cooled zorite shell, he shatters the mold with one decisive strike. The shatters the mold, revealing the hollow replica of the Zorite Statue within. I lunge forward, hands outstretched, ready to cradle the salvation of my chosen mate.

"Careful, it's still fragile," Talrut warns, but his voice is lost to the roaring in my ears. The relic is cold against my heated palms, its intricate surface a testament to Talrut's mastery. The empty cavity within echoes my own hollow chest, without Jules, what am I but a shell?

"Thank you," I rasp, my gratitude genuine, yet laced with the desperation clawing at my insides. "You've done more than you know."

"A favor repaid," Talrut bobs his lumpy chin.

"Until again, Talrut."

I don't waste another heartbeat. With the statue secure in my arms, I bolt from the sweltering workshop, the stagnant air a welcome caress against my sweat-drenched skin. My ship looms ahead, a silent promise of hope. I can already feel its engines thrumming, the familiar vibration syncing with the restless energy to reach Jules.

After I quickly fill the hollow void with a taste of revenge, I secure the statue within the cargo hold and race to the command deck. The ship responds to my touch, engines roaring to life. With a final glance at the receding planet, I engage the hyper-drive. Pinned to my seat, I shoot through the atmosphere, a comet blazing a trail back to her, the only treasure who truly matters.

JULES

Panic claws at my insides, a relentless beast that won't be tamed. Every tick of the floating chronometer Warlord Zarnak activated to taunt me is a drumbeat to my doom. Behtu is out there somewhere in the vastness of space, his promise to return and save me from this nightmare hanging by a thread as thin as the last shred of hope I cling to.

"Your time is running out, female," Warlord Zarnak growls, his voice a low rumble that vibrates through the cargo hold. The words slither across my skin like the caress of a blade, and I suppress a shudder. His towering frame looms before me, an eclipse against the sterile light, his amber eyes alight with malicious glee.

"It doesn't appear Behtu is returning for you," he taunts, revealing jagged teeth in a grotesque smile. "It appears the Zorite Statue is more valuable to him than your life."

I glance at the chronometer hovering in the air before me. So many zeros and so little time. From what I can tell about the alien clock, there's still about three minutes left. I swallow hard and reassure myself that there's still plenty of time for Behtu to reach me before the leather-faced warlord presses the button to detonate my collar and end my life.

I push down my niggling doubts. Behtu promised to return with the statue the warlord demanded. Something happened and he's just delayed. He'll be here in time.

"Perhaps I was wrong about the power of a bondmate," Warlord Zarnak muses aloud. "Perhaps the space pirate values treasure more than his chosen mate's life."

I lift my chin defiantly, my heart pounding against my ribcage. "There's still time. He's coming back for me." My voice is steady, belying the turmoil that rages within. It has to be true because the alternative is my head being blown off my shoulders.

My entire body jerks and I barely suppress a squeal when alarms blare to life, cutting through the tension like gunfire.

"Proximity alert," an electronic voice announces over the scream of the sirens. "A vessel approaches."

Warlord Zarnak's expression morphs from thoughtful concentration to momentary surprise, and then his thin lips curl up into a sinister leer.

"Ah, so the Star Maverick has returned after all," he says, rubbing his clawed hands together. "We shall see if his valor was worth the wait, or will your life be forfeit."

The door slides open with a hiss, and Behtu rushes inside. His glossy blue skin seems to absorb the dreariness around me, and cradled in one arm he holds a dark silver statue.

A little over a foot tall, the Zorite Statue is contorted and unassuming, a representation of whatever creature it is meant to depict. Its twisted shape lacks any remarkable features, appearing almost comical in its simplicity. It's hard to fathom that this unremarkable figure holds such immense value in the eyes of the Grymloks, for its appearance is far from awe-inspiring.

Behtu's glacial gaze meets mine and everything else fades away. The weight of my fear dissolves into irrelevance. Relief crashes into me like a tidal wave, and I can't stop the tears that scald my cheeks. He came back for me just like he promised. There's a fierceness in his piercing gaze, a promise that ignites a flame within my chest. I'm still not safe, not yet, but with him here, salvation feels tantalizingly close.

Behtu steps forward, the unremarkable statue cradled like a newborn in his arms. Its dark silver sheen catches the scant light, a dull glimmer in the gloom of the Warlord's cargo hold. His voice slices through the tension, "Here is your precious relic. Now, release my female."

"Well met, Star Maverick," Warlord Zarnak's tone drips with mockery as he visually inspects the statue with a predator's gaze. The power play is palpable, a dance of dominance and defiance between two formidable beings.

"You are never well met, Zarnak," Behtu retorts, a flicker of impatience in his cool gaze. He makes a show of pulling a thin band with pulsating lights from his pants pocket and wrapping it around the statue's throat, a parallel to my own plight. "Release my female or see your precious relic destroyed."

"An idol threat." Warlord Zarnak's laughter booms a sinister echo against the cold metal walls. "You wouldn't have gone to all the trouble of returning the relic only to watch your female's head evaporate into stardust."

"You destroy my treasure and I will destroy yours."

Behtu's bluffing. I shiver and pray Warlord Zarnak doesn't call him out on it, or I'm dead.

After what feels like a thousand years, the warlord signals for one of his many underlings with a sharp nod. The shackles that bind me are light made solid by some unfathomable technology and begin to dim. I gasp as the pressure around my wrists vanishes, the once unyielding restraints now fade away. Then the tightness around my throat eases, the collar disengaging with a click that rings louder than any shout of triumph. It falls away, clattering to the cold, metal floor.

Behtu doesn't wait for the echoes to fade. In a quick motion, he hands off the statue in exchange for me. His grip is both a lifeline and an affirmation, I am free.

A surge of warmth explodes through me as Behtu's arms encircle my waist, pulling me against his chest with a force that expels the last breath of cold dread from my lungs. He holds me as if I am both the victory and the spoils of war, precious and fiercely guarded.

Warlord Zarnak snatches the pulsing light collar from the statue with a sneer and hurls it at Behtu. He catches it, deactivates the lights, and stuffs it in his pocket.

Behtu swings me into his arms in a bridal carry. The hatch opens and Behtu is running with me cradled in his embrace through an iridescent tunnel toward his awaiting ship just a few strides away. Only a shimmering, transparent light separates us from the ominous void of space that surrounds our fleeting passage to safety.

I don't dare take a breath until we reach Behtu's vessel, where he settles me in the seat beside his at the command console. The hatch seals shut with a resolute hiss, severing our connection to Warlord Zarnak's ship. Finally safe aboard Behtu's ship, the adrenaline ebbs away, leaving tremors in its wake.

"Strap in," Behtu says, his hands deftly navigating the control panel. The ship responds to his touch like an extension of his will, the engines thrumming with pent-up energy.

I strap into the co-pilot's seat, my body still riding the high of our escape. Behtu glances at me with a stormy sea of relief and unresolved tension in his cool gaze. He moves us a short distance away, not far enough away for my comfort, and turns the ship around to face the warlord's craft.

"Why are we not leaving?" I say through stilted breaths.

Behtu extends to me a boxy device, its matte surface betraying none of its purpose. "You should be the one to do it."

"To do what?" I eye the device suspiciously. "What is it?"

"Revenge," he says, the corner of his mouth twitching with a smirk that belies the gravity of our recent peril. "Go on. Press the button."

My fingers close around the cold metal, its weight alien and foreboding in my palm. The device is unadorned, save for a solitary button that seems to pulse with latent power beneath my touch.

"Go ahead, Jules," Behtu encourages, his gaze locked onto the viewport where Warlord Zarnak's ship looms, a dark behemoth against the tapestry of space. "Before he becomes wise to what I've left with him."

"What will happen if I press the button, Behtu?" I ask, uncertainty tightening my throat as Warlord Zarnak's ship begins to fly toward us.

"Now, Jules!"

Behtu's hand closes over mine and together, we press the button.

A moment passes—a heartbeat, an eternity—and then the universe folds in on itself. Warlord Zarnak's ship quivers like a mirage before collapsing inward with a silent, violent implosion. Destruction so unexpected it wrenches hysterical laugh from deep within me.

"Holy shit!" I gasp, tears streaming down my cheeks as laughter quakes through my body. "It's gone."

"Yes, and he can never hurt you again," Behtu murmurs, his eyes reflecting the light of the imploding ship, now reduced to nothingness. "Compliments of a Ziarian imploder."

"How did you sneak something like that aboard his ship without him knowing?"

"Inside the statue," Behtu states, a savage satisfaction lacing his words. "The relic was a fake. I called in a favor from a trolite artisan, Talrut, whose life I once saved to make me a hollow replica."

"You asshole!" My mouth falls open in disbelief. "What if the warlord had noticed the statue was a fake?"

"But he didn't."

"Lucky for me." My temper flares knowing what would have happened had Behtu been caught trying to pass off his fake. "You put my life at risk for revenge! And here I thought you actually cared what happened to me. I'm such an idiot."

"I do care what happens to you, Jules!" Behtu turns the heat of his glacial gaze on me. "If I had the Zorite Statue to give him, I would have, but I didn't. I melted it down long ago."

"Melted it down?" My blood freezes in my veins.

"I traveled to Grag 2 where Talrut's forge is located so he could recreate the statue from the zorite bricks melted down from the original relic. It was the only way to save you."

Emotions collide within me like a tempest, a whirlwind of uncertainty, confusion, and a swelling of affection. I don't know what to think. I'm tempted to question why he's held himself back and not claimed me if I mean so much, but I resist the urge, not wanting to ruin the moment.