Page 51 of The Commander

Tending to her injuries, asking questions, going slow to earn her trust—took him to the edge of his self-control. He needed a task to clear his head.

Back in his office in Correction, his P.I. had all area reports ready with video of movements around the base and towns Bastian commanded. With the dead space edited out, he found what he suspected right there, for anyone to find it.

Fucking grunts.

He shouldn’t be surprised, but he’d underestimated the red hats. One scene showed the night duty walking by a group of human men in the trees, the men pointed and jeered at them. The duty ignored them. He looked for the day Kitten was captured and got an error message. It didn’t exist.

That was a strange, unexpected display of resourceful subterfuge. Something red hats were not build for.

Other scenes showed groups of men, carrying outdated and outlawed weapons, walking into towns under Bastian’s command and walking out with new recruits and supplies. Sometimes the new additions resisted the transfer. Small teamsof red hats were also visiting the towns, on days when they should not be there.

Bastian had checked the duty reports routinely for any disturbances and to be sure the tax quota was on track. None of this was there.

He expected the humans to resist the alien occupation. He didn’t expect the grunts to aid them. The duty acted independently against him or followed pre-programmed inputs downloaded before their arrival. It didn’t matter. The data suggested Bastian missed the obvious. He looked like a buffoon.

Before Kitten’s arrival, this new development would have been the high point of his day. But she was here now, and he could not play games that might endanger her or risk her falling under Sarrian laws. In the end, their biology would breed more battlers for Control, sons and daughters that could be taken from him, conscripted for the service to a dead goddess.

He wouldn’t allow it; he’d start a war first.

Leaving his office with a sour taste in his mouth he double checked on the surviving human prisoner. Connected to the rebels, the man still might have useful information. 48001 had followed orders and seen to the human’s care, but the videos suggested that the grunt hadn’t followed all Bastian’s orders. It had been there the day Kitten was captured — that information was now missing.

As soon as he could, Bastian returned to the room where he’d interrogated Kitten and first put his hands on her body. He collected the ropes and the rags of her clothing, telling himself he was searching for missing evidence. He didn’t want it out where anyone could find it.

The bond had made him a wuss, as the P.I. would say.

Humans were fragile. She must be sore. They had mated. He had pumped her full of his seed.

But she wasn’t pregnant. There was no change in her hormone levels. He was certain of it.

The red hats were in rebellion, openly conspiring with humans. There was an inexplicable, politically potent name day blade in his possession. Behind those events, Control lurked, some science badge in orbit waiting to hear news that the prime battler breeding program had found success.

It didn’t matter that the timing for young was bad. That was a small thing compared to the need to see his mate round with child. He wanted her fat with a baby. Fucking busting with his seed. Covered in his scent, his pink essence dripping down the pale curves of her legs. Her blood in his mouth with his frillium locked into her cunt. The driving impulse throbbed through every vein in his body. Fighting it would get him nowhere. The urge to procreate would be victorious over everything else until he succeeded.

Her existence obliterated his self-control. She was the one thing in life he wanted.

His reason to live and not make enemies. The one thing in his life he would die for.

He had intended to ask about the name day blade in her possession while he doctored her wounds. But he hadn’t made it beyond bending over her vulnerable neck, fingers lightly tracing over the fine bones of her spine to find a good place for the tracking device. Her smell went to his head.

Her attitude was no help at all, either. At turns demure and embarrassed, then bold and defiant she was so cute he constantly had to stop himself from booping her nose or tweaking her ear lobe before kissing her silly.

He was a fucking prime battler, a killer of civilizations, an ender of governments, the destroyer of destinies. He had feasted on the livers of his enemies and painted himself in their blood.

He did not boop.

Bastian took a deep breath, inflating his three lungs with air and counted. “One.”

He wasn’t a complete idiot. He knew she was confused and uncomfortable. Rejecting the urges of her body to yield to him. His kind had invaded hers, taken it over, turned her people into their servants.

“Two.” She still looked at him and saw a demon.

“Three.” He’d barely made it out of his apartments before carrying her back to the bed and taking her over and over until she couldn’t draw enough breath to speak.

“Four.” He would make her accept him. Make her understand her new life. Her changed priorities. She would run, but they were one being now. She could never escape him.

“Five.” She didn’t know it yet, didn’t understand, but everything had changed for her. She was his queen. The only being in the world whose feet he would kiss.

“Six.” He would offer her his neck. His blood. His life force and she could do whatever she pleased with it.

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