at myself for thinking I could ever figure out something that tedious or that I’d have the patience to sit still long enough to do it. No, knitting definitely isn’t for me. If my life had too many moving parts before, it now has very few.
I stop by the round porthole and stare at the stars flying by. I can’t believe I’m flying through space on an alien vessel. We’re millions of light years from Earth by now. Since humans have yet to leave our solar system and I never anticipated being an astronaut, it seems a bit surreal.
Mathadar made a ship wide announcement yesterday. He reported that we caught a ride in the bubble of an alien ship that quantum jumps or something like that. It enabled us to cover enough ground to catch up with Pern’s ship that left several months ago. I didn’t feel any kind of distortion, but they say we completed the jump. The distance between Earth and Onello normally takes nine months at a battleship’s top speed. That means we have a little over a month left after the jump. To have covered so much ground in such a short period of time seems too fantastical to be real.
Turning back to the task at hand, I stow my military gear and grab my electronic data pad. They’re handy and standard issue for all potential brides. I was a little surprised that I’m considered a potential bride. I always assumed that at my age I’d be Chantel’s plus one. Even more shocking is the number of warriors that have approached me for courting. So far, there have been around a dozen, including Kryos, one of the healers taking care of Borak, and several others who seemed earnest enough. I’ve only accepted the standard supplies issued to everyone by the Draconian government.
Though several warriors have tried to gift me individually, I’ve declined all their generous offers. I don’t want to inadvertently end up in any romantic entanglements until I fully understand Draconian culture. I’m not taking a chance on anyone being hurt because of me ever again.
Borak’s friend has been particularly persistent. Kryos is handsome and a real talker. He’s tried to gift me with fancy gowns, jewels, figurines carved of semiprecious stones, foul smelling cologne and even exotic sweets. Unfortunately, he’s not the one I want.
I drop back on my bed and lay the data pad on my chest as my mind drifts to the one man I want to pay attention to me. Suddenly, he’s the only thing that I can think about. Borak wants me to join his clade. More importantly, he wants me for his mate. I want that as well. Being with Borak and Chantel is the only place I can imagine myself being. I don’t even know what kind of living situation his clan has to offer, but I guess that piece isn’t as important as being with the people that I care about.
I know some of the other women are overwhelmed with the number of males vying for their attention. Knowing there are thousands more unmated males on Onello hoping for a bride just adds to the stress. This situation with Borak just fell right into my lap and seems almost too good to be true. I don’t want to rush into anything, but I’m intent on seeing if we’re compatible.
Memories of him wrapping me up in his arms float through my mind. I liked how his wings felt against my skin, soft and sensual. I wonder if he can feel my skin moving across the underside of his wings, or if maybe his wings aren’t that sensitive. I’ve got to admit those stolen moments with Borak in the medical unit made me feel young again. Being with him also makes me feel like I’m starting over, and in this brave new world anything is possible.
My data pad chirps. When I bring it up to my face, I see a message from the very person I’m obsessing about. Knowing that he’s thinking about me while I’m thinking about him puts a smile on my face.
Greetings, my beautiful queen. I wish to invite you to take nourishment with me in the dining hall. After all those food bars we consumed during the time of war, fresh food will be a welcome change. Perhaps afterwards I can give you a tour of all my favorite parts of the ship.
I go back and forth in my mind between thinking we’re not teens