Total pages in book: 175
Estimated words: 166095 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 830(@200wpm)___ 664(@250wpm)___ 554(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 166095 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 830(@200wpm)___ 664(@250wpm)___ 554(@300wpm)
“Oh, Bethiah isn’t mean to me,” I protest. I don’t like that they’re disparaging her. “You’ve got it all wrong. She’s the best person in the galaxy, next to Jamef.”
“Hmmph,” is all Yaahi says.
“And I’m happy to have you dress me, if that’s what Jamef wants, but I’d like Bethiah to get dresses, too. I won’t take anything unless she’s included as well.” I move to Bethiah’s side and take her hand, squeezing it to let her know I’m on her side. “If we’re both not welcome, then I’m fine waiting here. With her.”
Yaahi eyes me, and then clucks her tongue. “Such a loyal, sweet thing. Truly she deserves better. Come. Me and the other wives will dress you. Consider us your issahs, your kin-mothers, while you are here.” She gives Bethiah a reluctant look and then adds, “Both of you.”
I beam at her and then turn to Bethiah. I expect my mate to have an annoyed look on her face. Perhaps an eye-roll. Something. Instead, Bethiah’s staring at me as if she’s never seen me before, her expression thoughtful.
Rubbing my thumb over the back of her hand, I whisper, “Do you not want to visit them? We can stay here if you want.”
She shakes her head. “No. No, fluffit, let’s go get you something pretty to wear, shall we?”
Fifty-Three
BETHIAH
Something inside my small, dark heart thaws a little when timid, sweet Dora stands up to the praxiian harridan and insists I get fancy clothes if she does. The last thing I want is some old biddy’s castoffs, but the fact that Dora forced them to accept me makes me feel…warm inside.
Ugh. I really am becoming soft.
I can’t complain about it, though. Not when Dora made them all welcome me despite my earlier antics. And right now, she’s having the time of her life. The moment we entered the women’s quarters, she’s had a dozen women—or more—fussing over her. The motley mix of elderly females of all races surround her, exclaiming over her pretty yellow hair and her soft skin and how charming and cute she is. They pull out dresses and fabrics and Dora’s eyes light up as lovely dresses are paraded in front of her. They push sweets in her direction and offer her wine, and the ugly szzt/ooli hybrid is braiding her hair as if they’re best friends.
And I’m a little jealous, because that’s my fluffit, but I also don’t want to ruin her good time. Just because I’m cranky doesn’t mean she has to suffer. I’m always a little cranky.
As a pretty dress of shimmering violet silk is held in front of Dora, her eyes shine with delight. I feel like a keffing arse. She likes pretty things. Here I’ve been handing her functional clothing and Dora’s never complained or said anything about it. But I should have guessed. Rhonda liked pretty things, too. She liked them enough that she’d picked them over me.
But Dora touches the dress and glances over at me. “I don’t suppose you have two of these? Bethiah would look pretty in purple, too.”
Ah, kef me. If she were any sweeter, she’d melt the floor. She’s not like Rhonda at all, and I don’t know why I keep comparing them. I’m just keffed in the head.
“We have this in yellow,” an old ooli matron says. “Your mate’s other female would look lovely in it. Yellow is not good for you. It distracts from your shiny hair. But on her, it would be becoming.”
Dora gives me an encouraging look.
“I like yellow,” I say, just because she seems to need me to say something.
Her smile blossoms and my heart gives a funny little twist. She turns back to the ooli. “I’ll try on the purple, then.”
The fussing continues. Dora is shorter than the women here, and as one compares her to a daughter who was stunted in growth when she was young, they laugh and shorten the hem and dote on her. I watch from afar, because I don’t want to ruin the fun.
Someone sits down at a table next to me and places a large cask of wine between us. It’s the old praxiian female with the graying ruff. Yaahi.
“So,” she says. “You and the little sweet one share a mate.”
“Yup.”
She pours the wine, offering me a goblet. “Which one was first? You or her?”
Where exactly is this going? “We were kind of a package deal.”
“Mmm. And what are you hiding?”
I eye her over my wine glass. “Hiding?”
Yaahi gestures at Dora. “She is adorable. Charming. Kind. Any male would count himself lucky to have her as his plaything. And yet instead of going to a station to have his ship upgraded, Jamef is here, listening to Kaatir spin stories of his glory days in the military and will pay far too much to get his supplies here. It smacks of hiding. So unless you are a murderous criminal, you are hiding her. And I am curious as to why.”