the armor would roll down to cover them, shielding all the weak spots in the ship’s hull.
To the left of the bed was a large sitting space with low comfortable couches clustered around an entertainment screen, and to the right was what looked like an office area. An open door revealed a bathroom with its own shower and tub—luxury indeed and thoroughly wasted on him.
Focusing on his trunk, he walked toward it. Some warriors had trunks that had been handed down through their families, wrought in folaanri or other expensive woods and banded with brasstic.
Nyek’s wasn’t old, nor was it valuable. His grandfather’s weaponry had been all his father had been prepared to offer when he’d left home, so his trunk was a cheap plasti-wood affair he’d picked up on leave during his first assignment. Battered and scuffed after over twenty years, it was banded with ship-tape and the stamps from previous assignments. Like him, it was practical and serviceable, not fancy, so he’d never seen fit to replace it.
Lifting it with a small grunt, he placed it on the bed and flicked the latches. It wasn’t locked. No warrior would ever dare to look in another’s personal trunk. It just wasn’t done. And besides, he would know if anyone had. The arrangement of his belongings was always precise and to a pattern known only to him.
He lifted the lid and looked within. For a moment he didn’t move, checking the arrangement of everything before grunting in approval. As he’d suspected, nothing had been touched. There was a minor change in the placement of some items, but nothing more than natural movement during transit.
Closing his eyes, he made the sign of the goddess and reached within for the box settled in the top left corner of the trunk. His fingers brushed over the wood reverently as he lifted it out. Carrying it to the side of the bed, he set it down gently before opening it.
Within, the contents were carefully wrapped in an eedireen-silk cloth. His breath escaped him in a soft rush as he peeled it back to reveal the statue of the lady goddess. With careful hands, he decanted the rest of the items from the box and then, smoothing the altar cloth into place, began to set them up. His lips moved in prayer as he did so, consecrating this small space and offering his dedications to Liaanas. His offerings were in the hope she would smile down on him, the lowliest of her warriors, and grant him...
For the first time in years his thoughts stuttered. Normally he prayed for the chance to die gloriously in battle to honor the goddess, but as he went to murmur the words, his tongue stalled and refused to form them. His brow creased in concentration as he tried again and then snapped open when he couldn’t force the words from his tongue.
Instead, the image of Lady Indra, the waspish little human female, filled his mind. Irritated, he shook his head and tried to banish it... and her... from his thoughts. But he couldn’t, his mind expanding on the image until he could see the light of challenge in her eyes clearly and the little curve of her lip as she’d needled him. He growled, the sound filling the air around him as his hands bunched into fists.
Little liiraas had known exactly what she was doing when she’d baited him, trying to get a rise out of him. She was exactly the type of trouble he didn’t need. Unlike other Latharian warriors, he didn’t want or need a mate. His life was dedicated to the goddess, and that’s all there was to it.
Besides, there was no way any of the human females aboard were still unmated. Not with so many K’Vass aboard. He couldn’t see that Danaar would allow his men to be deprived, not when females were available, and they so desperately needed to rebuild their race.
Any females found would have been secured and allocated to warriors in short order. So, he didn’t need to worry about her tempting him... all he needed to do was find her mate and warn him to keep his human in line.
A deep, vicious growl filled the room and his eyes snapped open. For a moment he thought someone had crept in behind him to offer challenge. But the sound had come from his own throat. His fists were clenched so tightly his nails had bitten deep grooves into his palms—all at the thought