Paax

Mercy:

Mercy registered for the Draft on her twentieth birthday. All unmarried, single, childless women of Earth were required to register in compliance with the Mahdfel Protection Treaty.

She was twenty-two when her name was selected for genetic screening. Not a big concern, just give a little blood and wait. The majority of women were removed from the screening process: not healthy enough or not genetically compatible with the Mahdfel. The Mahdfel wanted to bond their warriors with healthy mates. Malnourished, sickly Earth girls wouldn’t do.

Just her luck that she was healthy as a horse.

Fortunately, Mercy qualified for an exception. Critically injured during the Suhlik invasion, Mercy’s mother required intensive medical care. As the only surviving family member, Mercy got a reprieve from the Draft.

Birthday after birthday, guards arrived at the front door and escorted her to the testing facility. Birthday after birthday, Mercy got another year’s exemption.

Mercy knew girls her age that got pregnant simply to avoid the Draft. Worse still, married the first human man they could, whether they loved each other or not. Forced to marry an alien stranger or choosing a loveless marriage to stay on Earth. Mercy guessed it was better to pick your poison but she was thankful for her mother’s condition, even if that condition included crippling medical bills, allowed Mercy to avoid poison picking.

When the guards arrived on her door the morning of her twenty-fifth birthday, she wasn’t worried. Nothing about her mother’s health had changed.

Then, disaster struck.

The note trembled in her hand. “What do you mean there’s a match?”

The nurse shifted her weight from foot to foot, a bored expression on her face. “We re-evaluated the exemptions to include more candidates in the screening process. You were sent an update.”

“I don’t remember.” Mercy received so much mail regarding the Draft and genetic matches. Most of it was junk or propaganda. Some of it mentioned the Earth women’s rights if matched.

“You have a match,” the nurse said. The genetic match was important. Ninety-eight point five percent match or better. No match, no baby.

Mercy attempted to recall all her rights. There had to be a way out. Her mother needed her. She couldn’t leave Earth.

It was bound to happen. Fourteen years passed since the Mahdfel agreed to protect Earth from the Suhlik invasion, an invasion humanity, as a whole, was unprepared to fight. All the Mahdfel asked in exchange for their protection was brides. The Mahdfel only had male children so they sought brides from other species across the galaxy. Lucky for Earth that humans were genetically compatible.

Seemed a reasonable bargain, right? End a devastating invasion humanity had no hope of resisting in exchange for a few women whose families were richly compensated and the Mahdfel got a new generation of warriors. The politicians justified it as the same sacrifice a soldier made when they enlisted, so the media started referring to the bride program as “The Draft”. Then the propaganda started. Only a kid at the time, Mercy remembered the commercials, the posters, and the pop-up ads on the internet. “Protect Earth, Become a War Bride.” “Do Your Part for Humanity’s Future and the Mahdfel.”

Yup, protect the future by popping out Human-Mahdfel hybrid babies.

The compensation for the bride’s families was generous once a baby was produced. That amount of credits could buy her mother the expensive procedure she needed, but that was months, possibly years down the road. Her mother needed her now.

“But my mother is ill. She needs me,” Mercy said.

“Compassionate exemptions have been revoked.”

“But she was injured in the war.” Mercy remembered with perfect clarity the raid which devastated her mother’s lungs. They huddled in the shelter with a single functioning gas mask between them. Mercy, only eleven years old at the time, panicked when she realized the filter on her mask failed. Her mother traded masks without hesitation. Years later, every breath was a struggle. She needed a lung transplant but growing new organs was prohibitively expensive.

“We all made sacrifices during the war,” the nurse said, disinterested.

Mercy’s hands clenched. Some sacrificed more than others. Others continued to sacrifice. “There has to be a way out of this.”

“Are you pregnant?”

“No.”

“Married?”

“No.”

“Engaged?”

Mercy sighed. “No.”

“That narrows down your options then.”

Meaning she had no options. She was matched. End of discussion.

“By all account, the war brides are happy. The Mahdfel treat their mates well. In the fourteen years, there’ve only been a handful of divorces. Five thousand matches and only two divorces. That says something,” the nurse said.

“Five thousand matches?” The number seemed low.

“From this facility.”

Mercy wasn’t impressed. A war bride was basically a baby factory. Their only job is making kids and raising them. Sure that’s great for some but she liked her life the way it was. On Earth.

Her job wasn’t fancy, she was a vet tech, but she got to spend all day with the best creatures on the planet. Completing her veterinary degree proved tough with scheduling classes and doing an internship, especially when she wasn’t sure if she’d be matched and whisked away. She liked having a career. Honestly, Mercy needed the structure of nine to five, Monday thru Friday. She went a little crazy on vacations.

None of that meant Mercy was super thrilled about being matched in the Draft. Brides didn’t even get time to prepare and say goodbye. Brides were teleported to their grooms instantly, wherever the groom was located, and no exceptions. Her little career? Over. Her house? Her family would have to pack everything up. Friends? Need to say goodbye. At least she didn’t have a dog. Mercy had wanted a dog for the longest time because dogs were concentrated joy, but she feared the Draft. If her name was pulled, how could she leave behind a being of concentrated joy?

Wherever she’s going, she can get a dog, or its alien equivalent, when she got there. So, lemon, meet lemonade.

The nurse presented a data tablet to Mercy. It displayed the marriage contract. “You are a ninety-nine percent match, which means there is a one percent chance that pregnancy with a Mahdfel child can end in death. Please sign here to indicate you understand the risks associated with breeding with the Mahdfel.”

Yup, no sugar coating.

Ninety-nine percent was great odds, as best as the genetic tests could do, but some women still died while carrying their hybrid baby to term. It was a known risk, hence the generous compensation.

Mercy pressed her thumb to the tablet.

“Indicate here that you consent to having a translator implanted.”

Mercy pressed the tablet.

“And here that you are willingly entering into the marriage contract and agree to be teleported immediately to your groom’s location. The marriage will be finalized when you and your groom copulate.” She made it sound so romantic. Mercy pressed her thumb to the tablet again.

“Congratulations on your union,” the nurse said, voice devoid of any jubilation.

“Where am I going?” Mercy asked. Some brides went to live on military bases, other in the orbiting space station. You can have a dog on a space station, right?

The nurse read from the tablet computer. “Seems this is a special case,” she said.

Fantastic. “My husband-to-be is not planet side?”

“He recently retired and returned to his home world. Sangrin. That’s where you’re headed.”

Retired. The concept was so strange. Most of the matched warriors were young and in the prime of life. Retired? Was she matched to a decrepit old man? Maybe he wouldn’t be that interested in sex. Or maybe he was an old perv who craved the taste of a young human woman. Mercy shivered.

“Dr. Nawk is a remarkable man,” the nurse said. “He’s made many advances. You’re very lucky.” She didn’t feel too lucky.

“Is that my husband’s name?”

“Paax Nawk. The teleporter will be ready in two minutes.”

Mercy recognized the name. Doctor Paax Nawk, Mahdfel’s mad scientist, creator of the genetic compatibility test. Before the test, bride candidates suffered through rounds of orientation and interviews. The Mahdfel literally “sniffed” the women to see if they were a match. The whole concept was just kind of gross.

The genetic test was better, Mercy decided. She could do without being sniffed by an endless parade of soldiers.

“Is he kind?” she asked, this being the most important question. She could tolerate any situation as long as her husband was kind. The compensation would help care for her mother, Mercy’s top priority and she could deal with an older husband. Older wasn’t bad. He had experience and maturity and probably really wanted a mate and family. He was a scientist, so he wasn’t an empty-headed soldier. They’d have things to talk about. Maybe he’d let her finish vet school. Gah, Mercy couldn’t believe she was already lowering her standards to include her husband “letting” her do anything.

“He’s a genius.”

Well, then, Mercy thought, stomach sinking. She hoped he liked dogs.

“Teleportation is activated. Take a deep breath when the scan starts. Eat the mints when you arrive. It helps.” The nurse shoved a silvery packet in her hand and set her bag at her feet. So much for a warm and cuddly bedside manner. “Have a safe journey, Ms. Drake.”

Teleportation was the worst but at least she would be unconscious soon. A signal with her genetic code would be sent from relay station to relay station: near instantaneous travel across the system and not too creepy if you didn’t think hard about it. A static buzzing gradually increased in Mercy’s head, followed by nausea, then nothing.

Paax:

Matched. This was some sort of joke.

Paax had petitioned his clan’s Warlord before to be matched to a mate but was always denied. Paax was no longer a warrior. Only warriors got the privilege of mates. The decision always rubbed Paax the wrong way.

He began his career as a warrior but was diverted into genetic research, where he excelled. Didn’t he develop the genetic testing which allowed matches with women of alien species? Didn’t he help accelerate the healing properties inherent in the Mahdfel genetic code? His current research could revolutionize so much about the Mahdfel.

He was a warrior. His battlefield was the lab. He fought against the genetic engineering the Suhlik did to his people so many generations ago.

Finally, Warlord Omas agreed.

In a swift change of attitude, his Warlord declared Paax’s service to his clan and to the Mahdfel as a whole to be honorable and as great as any warrior.

That was not a gift. Nothing with Omas was freely given. Paax knew what Omas wanted. Paax also understood he must deny his Warlord. Since the death of his mate, Omas’s temperament was volatile. Unstable. Unacceptable qualities in a clan leader. Paax’s research only exacerbated the situation. An eager warrior should challenge Omas but the Warlord had superior skill and strength to spare. No one could survive a challenge.

This was the worst possible moment for Paax to be matched.

A match. A mate. His mate.

A pleasing possessiveness swept over him. She was human, from a little blue and green planet called Earth. Humans were odd looking with skin ranging from pale milky beige to dark brown. They had no horns. Plus, their stature was smaller than the Mahdfel. His mate would be fragile. She would require protection.

Absently, Paax rubbed the tattoo on his chest. It tingled, which was entirely a product of his imagination. Mahdfel tattoos were responsive to desire and to a mate, but it was unheard of for a tattoo to glow in response to the knowledge of a mate, to an unknown Earth woman.

Omas would use her presence to manipulate Paax. Judging from his tattoo's sensitivity, it would work.

Mercy:

It was snowing.

Mercy faced a great glass wall. The harsh lighting of the Transporter Station reflected her image against the snowy night.

Mercy rubbed at the ache in her forehead and fought back nausea. Teleportation sucked. It was crazy expensive, not instantaneous and left the passenger with an upset stomach. No thank you.

Mercy took a deep breath and popped the chewable mint into her mouth. Her stomach settled immediately. Right. Bearings. Transporter Station on the Mahdfel planet Sangrin.

A technician, wearing a drab black uniform, barely glanced up from his tablet. His complexion was a pleasing plum. A pair of black horns curled back from his forehead. A Sangrin Mahdfel. If Mercy had any doubt about being on another planet, they vanished. “Please queue for an automated vehicle.”

“Where do I meet—”

“Please queue for an automated vehicle,” he repeated, bored. He waved her off to the side.

Outside, Mercy waited for the driverless vehicle. Shivering, snow settled on her hair, unmelting. She was one of many Earth women in line with a lost expression on her face. The queue moved swiftly. A vehicle pulled smoothly to the front. A woman climbed in and the vehicle whisked her away to her match.

Teeth chattering and fingers numb, her vehicle arrived. Sighing with pleasure, she sank into the heated seating. Warmth surrounded her and sensation returned to her nose and toes.

“Greetings, Mercy Drake,” the onboard computer announced. “Please enjoy your complimentary ride to your match. Direct your questions to the vehicle’s computer. May you be prosperous and have many sons.”

The vehicle glided smoothly through the landscape. The Transport Station was on the edge of a city. Lights and signs flashed in the written form of the Sangrin language, which Mercy understood without issue. Surprised, she realized the vehicle spoke to her in Sangrin. How odd. The translator implant worked.

Dense forests in a rolling landscape replaced the city. Lights from the road illuminated the trees near the edge of the road. Tree bark gleamed dull silver in the light. The leaves were a deep purple, nearly eggplant. Snow dusted everything. The vehicle departed the wide road for a narrower country road. Eventually that became a winding dirt track.

In an hour, the vehicle deposited Mercy in the dark and the snow. She stood at the end of a driveway. An old farmhouse with faded red paint glowed warmly in the night, nestled in thick mulberry shaded trees dusted with snow. There were no other lights in the distance. This had to be the place. Mercy picked up her bag and marched towards the house.

Time to meet her husband.

A figure emerged from the shadows, as dark as the shadows and big. Darker than, as if the light actively avoided him. His eyes were a bright blue, luminous in the dark. A warrior. From his stance, not a happy warrior.

“Doctor Nawk?” Mercy asked.

The figure chuckled. “No, little human.”

Mercy waited, expecting the warrior to either introduce himself or explain where to find her match.

“So you’re the match causing all this fuss,” he finally said.

“I haven’t done anything,” she said indignantly. “I teleported immediately. I didn’t have time to call my mother.” She should have pleaded with the nurse for a phone call. Her mother knew about the testing appointment and would be notified by the agency of the match, but it wasn’t the same as saying goodbye. Not even close.

The man stepped forward into the light. His complexion was a deep purple, almost black. His hair was shorn down to the scalp. His features were harsh, sharp as a razor. Mercy did not want to be on the receiving end of his wrath.

Angry voices drifted in from the house.

Mercy turned but the man placed a hand on her arm. “Wait. Our Warlord is not done with your mate.”

“And you were sent here to...what? Scare me? Jump out at me in the dark?”

He made no reply, instead leaning in and taking a long, deep sniff. Mercy stiffened in response. He sniffed her! How extraordinarily rude.

His lips twitched in an almost grin but he shook his head. She wasn’t his match.

“I am Mylomon,” he said at last.

Mercy shoved past him and stood in front of the door. The voices inside no longer shouted.

The door opened before she could knock, revealing a large, athletic man. He had the warm complexion of ripe plums. Tall black horns swept back from his forehead. Straight black hair hung down his back. His facial features were strong, classically handsome. His lips, a shade darker than his complexion, were full and kissable. Please be her match, she begged to fate.

Mercy had to tilt back her head to focus on his extraordinary blue eyes. They were kind, she decided. Charmed, Mercy had an overwhelming urge to kiss him. That was a good sign, right?

“You’re late.”

So maybe not such a good sign.

Mercy forced her smile not to waver. She shifted her bag on the ground and stuck out her right hand. “Mercy Drake. I was just matched to Doctor Nawk.”

He looked perplexed at her outstretched hand. “There must be some mistake. I expected you hours ago.”

“The agency teleported me immediately. I assure you, I got here as fast as possible.” This did not bode well. “Are you Doctor Nawk?”

The man stared at her for a moment before taking her hand. Instead of a pumping shake, he ran his rough, calloused thumb across her skin. His touch was electric, exciting her. Nostrils flared and he breathed deeply. His eyes flashed, color changing quickly from green to a deep blue. A low rumble emitted from his chest but he didn’t move. His intense gaze ate her up from head to foot. Oddly, Mercy didn’t mind. Being the focus of his concentration was exhilarating.

“Are you mine?” he asked, voice low.

A hot blush spread over her, followed by an ache between her thighs. Just a biological reaction, nothing else, to a handsome, dominant man. It’d be strange not to be attracted. She nudged the bag at her feet and rubbed her hands together for warmth. She wasn’t dressed for the cold. “It’s snowing.”

“My apologies. My mind is elsewhere and call me Paax. Come in, please.”

The front door opened into a small entry with a staircase to the right. A door was closed to the left, either an office or closet. Mercy couldn’t tell. The rest of the house seemed to be down the short passage.

Paax, her husband to be, ran a hand along one horn. “I’m afraid I’m caught unprepared for your arrival.”

“You were notified about the match.”

“No, well, yes but only a few hours ago. I have a visitor. Completely unrelated to the match,” he added hastily.

Mercy fidgeted with her hands. Did he like the look of her? Was he ashamed to present her to his visitor? Was he going to send her back? Five minutes into being a war bride and already she was failing. Why did she have the overwhelming desire to have this standoffish man desire her? Being sent back was a good thing, even if it meant losing the credits to help her mother. Mercy could get on with her life and she’d be in exactly the same situation as she was yesterday.

“I’m delighted you are here,” Paax said. “Please do not misunderstand but this is not how I planned my first encounter with such a beautiful woman.”

Mercy smiled. He thought she was beautiful. “I’m your wife,” she said. “I’d like to meet your visitor but I need a little time to rest. The teleportation made me feel rather unwell.”

“Yes,” he said, attention drifting. “Those machines leave a lot to be desired.”

A man appeared at the top of the stairs. He folded his arms and leaned against the wall, surveying the tension between Mercy and Paax. He appeared remarkably similar to Paax, just a confident, cocky and bulked up version. “Who is our delicious little guest?” he asked.

The man and Paax exchanged a long look. “My wife,” Paax said. “Mercy. She only now arrived.” He grabbed her bag and climbed up the stairs. As the men passed, Paax deliberately knocked into the man’s shoulder. He growled a warning.

She followed Paax up the stairs. “Call me Mercy, please.”

The man did not budge as Mercy endeavored to move past. He towered over her. She brushed against the length of him. He was solid and all muscle. He grabbed her wrist and held her in place, his grip like steel. Mercy twisted her head away as he leaned in and took a long, deep sniff.

Gah. Her skin flushed from the near contact but it wasn’t right. The entire situation left a bad taste in her mouth.

“Warlord Omas Nawk,” he said, voice barely louder than a growl. “Pleasure to meet you, Mercy.”

Mercy yanked her hand away and hurried down the hall. “Don’t be a stranger,” Omas called after her, laughter in his voice.

Mercy found Paax in the second bedroom off the hall. Her bag and case neatly waiting beside the door. The room was simple but lovely: large bed with fresh white linens, a bureau, and small writing desk. The room was too tidy, missing personal effects. This was a guest bedroom. Her stomach sank again with disappointment. A large window framed a stunning view of the surrounding fields and trees. The tree outside the window had a dusty of snow, like confectioner’s sugar.

“Mercy.”

She turned. Paax stood close, hand on her shoulder. His warm hand ran down the chilled skin of her arm. He repeated her name, voice low and predatory, sending shivers down her spine.

He stepped back. The tension broke with an audible snap. “Please take a moment to unpack or whatever ladies do.” He studied her. Absently he rubbed his chest. “We have much to discuss.”

Mercy unpacked a few toiletries, washed her face with a travel towelette and checked her hair. She’d packed her bag that morning just in case she was matched. It contained her comm, data tablet and a few changes of clothes, mostly underwear and her favorite shoes. A quick brushing of her long, dark brown hair and she put it up in a loose bun. She replayed her encounter with Paax. He studied her with intense concentration and said her name dripping with sex. Mercy blushed at the memory.

They had much to discuss. Would he demand to complete the marriage contract soon? Mercy grew hot at the idea. The marriage contract was sealed with sex. Simple and straightforward. A little time to get acquainted with her husband would be nice but she’d manage. She felt an attraction, a pull to the man. That would do for now. Then again, that blush. He might be shy. Sexy but shy. Mercy really liked this idea. Most Mahdfel men were portrayed as aggressive and dominating, protective and territorial.

Paax was… different and the difference was sexy as hell.

Paax:

Paax’s twin, Omas, waited at the foot of the stairs. It wasn’t like the Warlord to show such patience. Typically Omas would be fuming and shouting, bullying people to get his way. And Paax had a strong idea about what Omas wanted: his mate.

Omas could add it to the list of his other unreasonable demands.

“She’s lovely,” Omas said, voice guarded and flat.

“She’s mine,” Paax said. Mercy was lovely. Long, dark hair pulled back in practicality. Great dark eyes watching him under fringe. And her scent… Sangrin was in the in middle of winter but the scents of summer clung to her: sunshine, honeysuckles and something deeper, like cool water. Most importantly she smelled liked his. The genetic tests were accurate but nothing beat the exhilaration of the old-fashioned sniff. Mercy belonged to him. He’d battle anyone who would be foolish enough to try to take her.

“Such a strong reaction so quickly,” Omas said. “It’d be a shame if someone were to challenge you.”

“So extortion is your plan?”

“Yes,” he said bluntly. “Come back to Judgment. Bring your lovely new bride.”

“Or?” Paax didn’t have to ask. He already knew.

Omas licked his lips. “You haven’t claimed her yet.”

“She just arrived. Did you expect me to throw her down to the floor and fuck her on the threshold?”

The smirk on Omas’s face said yes, he wanted that. “If she’s matched to you, she’ll be compatible with me.”

“But she was matched to me, Omas. Don’t be greedy.”

Omas snorted. His twin was taller and broader built than Paax. Omas liked to brag he got all the brawn and Paax got the brains, but that wasn’t true. Omas was cunning and was quick on his feet both physically and mentally. Paax wasn’t scrawny by any stretch of the imagination. He and Omas received the same military training all young Mahdfel men undergo. Omas continued his military career, gaining bulk and experience, while Paax was deferred to a science program.

Omas would easily defeat Paax in a straight fight but Paax wouldn’t roll over. Not now. Not when he could lose Mercy. Unacceptable. He’d have to outwit his twin, or claim Mercy soon.

Tonight.

“Are you going to challenge me?” Paax asked. An old rite, seldom used now since the genetic match, but still legal. Paax didn’t want to fight his twin. Omas was the stronger warrior, both physically and in skill. He was Warlord for a reason. Victory against Omas was unlikely. Improbable.

“I say we let the lady choose,” Omas said. “Or are you afraid she’ll skip the bookworm and go for the man in the uniform? A real man, not some defect.” Ah, there was the classic bully, taking all the best toys from his twin.

Paax land his hand flat on Omas’s chest, causing the man to snarl. “You had your mate and you couldn’t keep her.” Paax regretted the unkind words as soon as he spoke them. Omas was blameless in his young bride’s death. Stationed in the middle of a war field, a stray missile ended their union. Still, Omas’s frustration did not mean he got to poach his brother’s bride.

Omas pushed Paax away and stalked down the hall. “Return to Judgment or I will have her, Par. You can’t stop me. You have twelve hours to make your decision.”

Paax rubbed a hand over his face. Omas would challenge him, he was certain. He needed to claim Mercy tonight but human women needed time to get acquainted with their grooms. Pushing her for sex immediately could damage their marriage. But if he didn’t, Omas would snatch her away. Fuck her. Claim her. As much as he loved his twin, Paax knew Omas was cruel and short tempered. Beyond that, beyond the need to protect Mercy from his twin, Paax ached at the notion of losing her. A life without her inquisitive, dark eyes would be empty.

He may not have claimed his bride yet but he already belonged to her completely.