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  But he could not trust his judgment, clouded as it was with tenderness. Why else had he bought her a gift when he intended to send her away? Protocol disallowed females property, personal or otherwise. At the BCF, anything other than the uniform on her back would be confiscated. And the item he’d purchased for her? She would be flogged for having it.

  What had he been thinking?

  He had been preoccupied with her curiosity, her excitement at visiting the Terran bazaar, the pleasure that had lit her eyes. He wanted to see that again. He wanted to please her. Grant her wishes.

  Monto. Her presence emasculated him.

  But he would give her the gift. She could enjoy it for a week before he deposited her at the containment center. Afterward, he would keep the item as a reminder of his folly, that however strong one appeared to be, vestiges of weakness remained that must be stamped out. Upon entering the domicile, Omra handed over the paper-wrapped package.

  “No.” He shook his head. “I bought it for you.”

  “For me?” She shook the parcel. “What is it?”

  His face ached with the effort it took to smile. “Come into the other room; you may open it.” He led her to a sitting salon and gestured to a divan. She lowered herself and winced. An image flashed of her bottom and thighs, reddened and welted by the time he’d laid aside the sudon. Her tears and pleas had continued to ring in his ears as he’d marched through the Market.

  He had granted her far too much freedom in recent weeks, which had resulted in a deplorable erosion of Protocol, culminating in her calling him by his given name in public. If he’d spanked her too harshly, he rationalized that severity always achieved a better end than laxity. But he recognized his culpability in her misbehavior. If he had not slipped in Protocol, she would not have tried to take advantage. He needed to stand firm. He sighed. Buying her a gift had been the wrong thing to do; it would mislead and confuse her, perhaps cause her to believe he regretted the harshness of the chastisement, even wished to apologize.

  But a boyish excitement welled up in him as she clutched the package. And what benefit was it to be Alpha, a supreme Commander, if he had gained not the right to make his own choices? Set his own rules?

  “Open it.” He nudged her hand.

  Omra untied the string and removed the thick brown wrapper. She gasped. “It’s beautiful!” She smoothed her hands over paper decorated with bouquets of purple flowers. Violets, the antiquities dealer had explained. They grew on Terra. Dak had never seen such flowers, but the color reminded him of Omra’s eyes.

  Her eyes glowed in full glory; she was entranced by his gift and still didn’t know what it was. The prettiness she exclaimed over was still just paper. No one on Parseon “gift wrapped.” Giving presents, while not unheard of, was usually performed by politicos hoping for a favor.

  “You’re supposed to tear off the paper,” he said.

  “But that would ruin it!”

  He grinned at her aghast expression. “Your present is underneath it.” He flipped over the package on her lap to show her the adhesive fastenings.

  She peeled it open to reveal a hard-sided book. Her eyes rounded like the Parseon moon. She worked her mouth, but no sound emerged.

  “I know you’re interested in Terra,” he explained. “The Terrans don’t print books on paper anymore; they read on personal communication units.” An antique, the volume was one of the few translated into Parseon. Not that text would matter to Omra. Dak lifted the cover and thumbed the yellowed pages. “It has a lot of pictures so you can see what Terra looks like. Or used to look like.”

  “You bought me a book.” Omra blinked several times. “Is that allowed?”

  He twisted his mouth. “Technically…no.” But the moment he’d spotted the tome, he had thought of her, so he’d committed a crime to please her. But had he? She had seemed more excited about the wrapping. He surveyed her face, noted her dilated pupils and the tenseness of her posture. She seemed almost afraid. Ah! Maybe that was the problem. He had no fear. He was Alpha, and he could bend the rules or, with a simple pronouncement and a stamp of his seal, eliminate them. He reassured her with a shrug. “It will be our secret.”

  Carefully she flattened the pages and closed the cover. “Thank you. This is very thoughtful of you,” she said in a stilted fashion. She traced a line under the gold-embossed title. “The Life and Times of Terra, An Illustrative History,” she said and folded her hands atop the tome.

  Several seconds passed before the significance of her words filtered through the morass of his assumptions. He dropped his jaw. “You can read?”

  She nodded. “Yes.”

  “Since when?” It didn’t matter how long, but he was flabbergasted and couldn’t think of anything to say.

  “Since I was a child.”

  “Does anyone know?” That mattered.

  She shook her head. “Only my sire’s son, who taught me. And a few of his friends, I suppose.”

  Dak rose to his feet and paced the room. Omra, a female, could read. The revelation contradicted conventional teachings that women’s brains were not developed enough to master the complexities of the written language. For the first time, he wondered why educating females had been outlawed if they lacked the ability to learn. It contradicted all sense, unless the intent had been to keep females illiterate. Terran females were intelligent, capable. Genetically the Parseon and Terran races were so similar—

  He stopped pacing. “You’ve been sneaking into my library. Reading. Haven’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “I noticed many of the books were not in alignment, but I assumed you had been cleaning.”

  “I did that too.”

  Dak raked his hands through his hair. She could read, had done so time and again, and had hidden it from him. In accordance with Protocol, she and her sire’s son should be severely punished for their crimes—but he’d also committed an offense by buying her a book, though not to read.

  “I guess I bought you an appropriate gift,” he said. Irony twisted his mouth. “There are words besides pictures.”

  “Then I can keep it?” The excitement he’d expected to see finally sparkled in her eyes.

  “Yes.”

  She set aside the book and, with a squeal, flung herself into his arms and peppered his face with kisses.

  Having her soft body pressed against him caused his manhood to stiffen, but he disengaged her arms from around his neck. It would take every gram of fortitude he had, but he couldn’t take her and risk impregnating her now.

  She could keep the book for a week.

  Her literacy did not alter his certainty that the BCF was the safest place for her. He would have to erase all thoughts of her with another alpha. On the next Market day, he would return her.

  Chapter Twelve

  Dak entered Alpha Command Center, where his subcommanders, the highest-ranking alphas who served under him, awaited at the oval table while their beta clerks bustled around the perimeter. His own clerk sat at his station, prepared to document the proceedings, and two guards from his detail manned the door. A prescience had Dak shifting to ready alert. Did his subcommanders hail too hearty a greeting? Did the betas gossip among themselves more than usual? Did gazes linger too long on the dark bruise that extended above his uniform?

  “Let us begin.” Dak assumed his position at the table’s head. He’d divided his province into five areas and appointed a subcommander to each. He nodded at the sector one subcommander, and the alpha launched into an analysis of population mobility and growth, tax revenues, criminal activity, and infrastructure improvements.

  Each subcommander reported in. No surprises. Dak was most curious about the results of the newest venture, the opening of trade with Terra, including the bazaar at the Market, but the subcommander of sector four would not have the results yet, as it took time to develop, gather, and analyze trend data.

  Dak was about to adjourn the meeting when he intercepted a glance between Karak of sector
four and Zeryx of sector five. Karak cleared his throat. “Commander, as you are aware, a civil disturbance occurred in the Market square on Saturday.”

  “Of the disturbance and your involvement, yes, I am aware,” Dak said.

  “I intend no offense to subcommander Zeryx when I say we have ignored the presence of the Enclave to Parseon’s detriment.” The settlement was in Zeryx’s area.

  “No offense taken,” Zeryx said. “I agree with your appraisal.”

  “Two days ago, a familial unit entered the Market and incited the populace to near violence. To maintain civil order, we cannot allow this to continue.” Karak glanced at the other subcommanders.

  “Were you maintaining order by shouting along with the mob?” Dak folded his hands on the conference table.

  “My apologies, Commander, if my conduct appeared unbecoming a member of Parseon command,” Karak bowed his head. “But if I err, I err on the side of my fealty to Parseon and Protocol.”

  A rumble of agreement swept through the chamber.

  “The Enclave is an infection that sickens the body politic. If we do not check it now, it will spread its pestilence to other sectors,” Karak said.

  The alphas nodded.

  “And what do you propose?” Dak asked.

  “I have a military unit on standby prepared to sterilize the settlement,” Zeryx spoke, confirming Dak’s suspicions that his subcommanders had spoken with one another before he’d arrived.

  Colluded. “All we need”—Zeryx glanced at his peers—“is your stamp.” His beta produced a document and slid it in front of Dak.

  Dak scanned the directive, then schooled his features into neutrality. “Your solution is to exterminate every man, female, and child of the Enclave?” It was no less than what Marlix had proposed. Sentiment ran deep and rabid against the Enclave. It would continue to create a stir as long as it existed. For peace in his province and Parseon, he should sign the directive. For the greater good.

  But it was not good for one small, wild-haired female still with her milk teeth. He could not erase the image of her clinging to her sire’s leg in terror. What had she done to merit extermination?

  “The children are guiltless victims.” Dak rubbed his fingers over the bruise. The discoloration had faded quite a bit due to his metabolism, but the ache had persisted. In truth, the pain had begun before the stone slammed into his chest—it had started when he’d begun to consider sending Omra back to the BCF.

  “The children bear the defective genomes and the culture of their progenitors. And the Enclave produces offspring at a rate faster than the rest of Parseon,” Zeryx said. “They show no discrimination in their mating—the Enclave permits even betas to breed.”

  The betas in attendance took no offense but shook their heads, a consensus of condemnation of the abhorrent practice.

  “They are a small group now,” Karak said. “But if their reproduction continues, they could outpace us. I also recommend we cut off commerce with the Terrans. They had females manning their booths in a position of authority and giving orders to men!”

  Several betas gasped.

  “Women are not marginalized on Terra. They participate as full citizens in society,” Dak explained. “Their ways are not our ways.”

  “Exactly!” Karak said. “Terran culture hammers at the girders of our social structure. How long can that occur before society unravels? The revenue from the tariff the bazaar generates is not worth the threat to Protocol.”

  “Are we so weak we cannot withstand diversity, a little dissent?” Dak steepled his fingers and peered at Karak.

  “We are not weak.” The subcommander scowled. “But strength requires vigilance. Even though the host will survive, one does not allow an infection to run its course. We must curtail it at the first sign of illness.”

  Zeryx nodded. “We are under attack on two fronts, Commander. From within by the Enclave and from outside by the Terrans.”

  Karak leaned forward. “A simple revocation of the Terran license will take care of the latter, and your seal on the military order will eliminate the former.”

  “Are you in agreement with Karak and Zeryx’s proposal?” Dak glanced at the other three subcommanders.

  “In allegiance to Parseon, yes, Alpha.”

  “In allegiance to Parseon, yes, Commander.”

  “In allegiance to Parseon, I do.”

  The tearstained face of the female child swam into view before a vision of Omra was superimposed. Omra, who could read. Who’d experienced sexual pleasure at his hands. Who baked well enough to open her own bakery, had she been male. Who conversed intelligently. She was as capable as any beta and many alphas too. Yet Protocol arbitrarily, blindly insisted she wasn’t. Parseons were a fearless, aggressive race who’d warred among themselves for thousands of years until they’d developed Protocol to channel their bellicosity. Protocol had saved their race from destruction. But had it outlived its purpose?

  He surveyed his subcommanders. They exhibited the same fervent gleam, a union of mind and spirit. He’d chosen each alpha for his courage, strength, and cunning. And how very shrewd they were. His trusted cabinet members had conspired to force his hand by spinning extermination of the Enclave into an act of patriotism.

  No one ranked above Alpha. But if he refused to approve the measure, news would fly throughout Parseon. With the support of Dak’s own subcommanders, his esteemed foes on the High Council would pounce on the opportunity to eliminate the Enclave and check Dak’s power. He had little doubt how Marlix and Tarbek would cast their vote. That left two others. One would support him. The other would vote with Marlix and Tarbek.

  With the lack of support from within his command and outvoted by the High Council, his people would view him as weak, ineffectual. His power would erode until a contender wrested his province from his grasp once and for all. How much was he willing to sacrifice for a female child who was doomed anyway?

  Mark the directive with his seal, and the inhabitants of the Enclave would die tomorrow. He would quell negative sentiment and be hailed as a hero. Peace would reign in the land, and he could keep Omra with him.

  Refuse to stamp it, and the High Council would overrule him, and members of the Enclave would be put to death in the near future anyway. The only way to protect Omra would be to send her away.

  A breeder child or his breeder?

  Dak picked up his seal.

  The alphas exchanged approving nods.

  Dak gestured to his beta clerk. “Prepare a new directive placing the Enclave under an Order of Protection. Deliver it to my chamber. This meeting is adjourned.” He tossed the seal on the table.

  He was Alpha. As long as he was alive, he, and no one else, would decide how he ruled his province.

  * * * *

  Dak slipped onto the platform to the lullaby of Omra’s gentle breathing. He hoped tonight it would serve to soothe him.

  “Are you angry with me?” Her hushed words caused a hitch in his heartbeat.

  “I thought you were asleep,” he answered, focusing on the expanse of stars visible through the glass-domed ceiling. Omra had been deep in slumber three nights that he’d returned to his domicile. He’d noticed dark circles under her eyes, a lethargy about her in the morning before he left for the day. Her body seemed to demand sleep as much as his had rejected it. He did not object that she did not wait up for him. Her lack of wakefulness meant he did not have to look her in the eyes, knowing the time they had left together dwindled.

  In his peripheral vision, he caught the beam of moonlight as it danced on her hair. No longer wild and unkempt, her thick mane gleamed.

  “I am not angry. Why would you think that?” He breathed through his mouth to alleviate the pain. His body had launched a fierce assault against him. His chest hurt from the inside out, and it felt as if metal rivets were being pounded inside his skull. He continued to breathe and focused on the night sky, searched for the stars that did not appear to twinkle. Those were planets. One
of the tiniest specks was Terra.

  “You have not claimed…your rights since…since Market day,” she whispered.

  No, not since the day his lust had jeopardized them both, and not since he’d crossed a bridge with the Enclave and set it afire. He could not retreat from the decision to return Omra to the BCF. “I do not want…to claim my rights,” he said.

  Hurt echoed in her tiny gasp. Then silence. He clenched his fists to avoid hauling her into his arms. If he glanced into his recent past, he would find another burning bridge. He could never “claim his rights” with Omra again. To seek release, to lose himself in her receptive body, yes, but take her without her consent? No. To do so would not grant him what he needed—for her to ache for him as much as he ached for her. Desire and misery had become one.

  He wasn’t a stupid man. He understood her talk of “rights” meant she was amenable to mating, but he did not dare grant her request lest he impregnate her. The only fortunate circumstance was that she was not with child. He would not be able to send her to the BCF then, and both she and their offspring would be endangered. “I believe you misunderstand my meaning,” he said haltingly. “I do not wish our coupling to be an act I force upon you,” he said. Nor did he want her last memory of him to be an assumption she did not please him, that he did not hold her in high regard.

  What will she assume when you abandon her at the containment facility? He thumped a fist against his breastbone. Monto, he hurt.

  “It is not,” she said.

  He flinched when she settled her hand on his chest. Heat seared his skin and shot straight to his groin, which had hardened just by lying next to her. His manhood ached with a fierceness that surely couldn’t be healthy.

  “You jump as if I scared you,” she observed.

  “I am Alpha,” he growled. “I am frightened of nothing.” Except that she would become a casuality of his command.

  She scooted closer until her breasts brushed against his side, her legs touching his. Her fingers felt like feathers on his skin as she trailed them over his chest. He squeezed his eyes shut and held himself still. One moment. He would allow himself to savor her touch for one small moment before he shoved her hands away.