Every muscle in Conor's body was screaming at him. Never in all of his life had he thought that attending a funeral could be so exhausting. But here he was.

While exhausting beyond belief, the funeral was also an unforgettable affair—even if it took until sunset to be completed. For a man like Conor, who had never attended a funeral, it was extensive and long-winded, yet every moment was beautiful.

Once Eivaley had managed to pull Conor away from the fresh tombstones, her mother took control of the event. Eyurali announced Brakul and Stitch to the entire assembly. She outlined what she knew about their lives and why their effects on the Kurlatra empire deserved renown.

Like Conor, their titles and reasons for remembrance were related to their work and who they aided.

Stitch, the doctor for the master of war, was a man who understood cybernetics beyond what any man could. A man who, without his constant effort, Conor would have been unable to perform beyond what any sentient could reasonably be capable of.

The statements about all the augmentations that Stitch had given Conor could have been more detailed; they were gross oversimplifications of the millions of credits worth of technology in his body.

She likely had spoken to the royal doctor and been briefed on Conor's medical treatments. The Human only thought this because the skittish doctor was the only person who knew everything wired into his body, but the empress seemed too well informed for her statements to just be lucky guesses.

Once Eyurali was done singing the praise of what Stitch's efforts had done for Conor and the Kurltara, she began the sequence that dug under Conor's skin, Brakul reverence.

Sure, Conor considered Stitch to be one of his only friends. But Brakul was different. They fought, lived, and bled together for years while Stitch stayed in Heavalun, waiting for their next visit.

Conor and Brakul had more than once slept, holding one another for warmth in a warzone while under a blanket. It was the only way they would survive those frigid temperatures. They struggled through the night, only letting the other sleep for minutes lest they die.

In those holes, those dugouts, they were born for one another. Conor and Brakul simultaneously held the most reverent care and intimate understanding of one another. If the other ever faltered, they would both die. They had to comprehend and care for the other more than their own lives solely because the other kept them alive.

They were the warm fires barely allowing each other to cling to life, whether on a frigid night or a hot summer day. They were there for one another from Heavalun's depths to Hyurans' steps. There was no such thing as a secret between them; they knew each other to the depth lovers of decades would struggle to.

Brakul, Warrior of Heavalun, Mentor of the Lord of War, The Beast of Battle; Conor's true brother, father, and friend.

The soldiers were in no way just by standards in the funeral; they were the main event.

Once, the empress and the High Champion had placed the bouquets and swore that Brakul and Stitch would never be forgotten by the Kurlatra empire, swearing that they had joined Eyalta, Nikitals, and all other royals at the side of their gods, it was the troop's turn to honor those who had fallen.

In neat order, each soldier, alone, marched proudly from their formation, their clawed feet padding softly in the lush grass. They approached the royal family like silent specters, ready to deliver a final word of wisdom to the living.

With practiced speed and precision, the trooper rendered a crisp Kurlatra salute. They held one hand straight out in front of them, palm up, while the other clasped their tails tip-off to their side.

The intent of the action was to show the other that you had no weapons ready and offer one hand to receive orders from their higher-ups.

This pose was first performed nearly a thousand years ago as a way for commoners who needed aid to receive food and medicine from the, at the time, first empress’s army.

Over time, it was adopted by all Kurlatra services: Navy, Marines, Army, spacers, and, of course, Air service. All it took was for lost souls from around the planet to join their ranks and simply always perform the action they had known to do.

Everyone in service took little time to mimic the action; even the officers and nobles did so to revere the empress and her family.

Vuraley posed the same way without hesitation while the other nobles simply bowed. They performed a different action because saluting was only done by those actively serving or those with a military history.

After the soldier dropped their first salute, they marched in front of the tombstones, saluted each individually, and said a short, nearly silent prayer;

Conor knew the nobles could not hear them, but with his enhanced sense, the soldiers' chiming words were as loud as the drums of war.

Their words were simple but held nothing back. The troopers called Brakul and Stitch heroes, brothers, men who died before their time, examples of men to live by, and above all, someone they hoped to make proud and meet at the First Empress' side.

The final thing each soldier did before returning to the formation was salute Conor and Eivaley, apologize for their loss, and ensure Conor understood he had their help if he needed anything.

Conor had no idea how far those words went at the time, but soon enough, he would see the veterans genuinely meant anything: killing traitors, dealing with the underground of the planet, making people disappear, and even overthrowing a government.

The final group to offer their respect was the Lost Ladies. But they were far more intimate and concerned for those who had lost someone than the stoic soldiers.

The lost ladies filed forward and hugged Eivaley and Conor, wishing them well. After their hug, each dropped a single flower atop the graves, nearly burying them in golden lilies.

And that was it. The empress dismissed everyone after the sun had long since set. Like shadows, the Loast Ladies and the Soldiers weaved back through the gravestones, returning home.

Now that Conor and the others had returned to the palace, each footstep felt like he was moving tens of thousands of tons. That he had even managed to escort Eivaley to her room was a miracle. Conor already felt his eyes closing as he struggled to bring her home.

The Human managed to do it through sheer force of will and Eivaley's support.

Each time Conor began to stumble or nod off as she guided him to her room, she nudged him and clawed at his side; Conor awoke instantly from the pain, at least for a second or two.

“Come on,” Eivaley insisted, not letting her paramour push her into her bedroom. Instead, she pressed him on toward his. "I’m walking you to bed.”

Conor did not argue about it. While he would typically fight about it, insisting he had to make sure she was safe, right now, with her gentle encouragement, the Human could not muster the force to resist her influence.

If Conor had to drop some bodies, he would push through, fight like a beast, and live by the mantra never shall I fail.

But now was not that time.

He was so thoroughly exhausted that Conor collapsed straight into bed once he reached it.

The warm bowl-like bed the Kurlatra used drowned him nearly immediately in what felt like endless meters of velutinous silk. He did not even remember getting undressed or falling into the ocean of blankets. The pillows rubbed against him like the ocean breeze, washing away the fatigue as he settled in for the night.

As he lay in a fugue state, blinking in and out of consciousness, Conor thought he dreamed of Eivaley's brisk body latching to him underneath the blankets. She wrapped her tail around his thigh while clinging to him like he could batter away the frigid winds of the desert nights.

Having her there, assuring him she would always be there, would be the only thing that could make the day better. It would undoubtedly put the demons howling in his soul, condemning his failures to rest—but this was just a dream.

Brakul was gone, and having the funeral made Conor accept that reality, even if admitting it still panged like a knife wound. But her presence would ease that pain, put a bandage on it, and balm his nerves with angelic care.

It was not until Conor felt a slick tongue roll across his ear and heard Eivaley whisper to him that he figured out it was oh-so blissfully real. “Come on then, hold me already.”

“Why are you in my bed?” Conor questioned, pulling away the blankets, revealing a sight that instantly woke him up.

Eivaley clung to his side and had one leg resting across his waist. Her bare, full breasts molded around his arm and halfway engulfed his chest.

The cute pout in her lips and yearning gaze bored into his mind and nearly distracted him from a familiar pair of black lace panties, offering the only barrier between them.

The sight was enough to make Conor almost drool, recalling how she tasted and the sultry way she begged him for more.

Eivlaey snapped her tail in frustration, assuming Conor would have figured out she wanted to sleep here. It was not like she was being subtle right now; unless she started humping him, there was no more apparent way to show she wished to stay.

“Because I want to,” Eivaley purred, nuzzling against Conor's chest and attempting to return the blankets to keep her warm.

She entirely had no intent of trying to have sex with Conor right now. They had just had a funeral; it would not be proper to even think of asking now, much less attempt to seduce him.

All Eivaley intended to do was offer her company for the night, recalling the stories of how much Conor liked Brakul being with him in tough times.

Sure, this was not a warzone like in Conor's stories, but the thought of leaving Conor alone burned Eivaley's mind. It made her feel like she was giving up on the man he had grown to love, That she was forgetting about being there for the Human she saw as far more than just a Champion.

“I figured that, Conor replied, holding the blankets open so as not to let her lull him to sleep—if that was what she had in mind. But knowing Eivaley and their first encounter, he would not be shocked if she was planning on resuming what they started in Heavalun.

He could picture it now; Eivaley would crawl up onto him and beg to be retaken over his knee, then railed until she saw stars. Urla knew she had tried enough times over the last few months to make it possible.

“But you know what I am asking,” Conor insisted, grabbing Eivaleys chin and making her look up at him.

By Urla, if he wasn’t sure she wanted to ride him throughout the night, he was now. The picosecond, his metal hand wrapped around her chin, practically melted against him while licking her lips.

It was undisputable that her somewhat submissive streak was a turn-on for Conor, but he had to be responsible here. Conor would lose the decision to stay with her if her father, the church, or any of Eivaley's sisters learned about them having a tryst without his commitment to be her Champion.

He could never stay in the palace. He and Eivaley would be exiled at best and put to the rope at worst.

Eivaley enjoyed him being dominant like this, but like Conor, she knew there was a limit to what they could do. Even if her mind, body, and soul yearned for Conor to just admit, he never wanted to be away from her.

“I just want to stay here, sleep, maybe snuggle a bit,” Eivaley admitted after the images of Conor treating her like a piece of meat faded from her imagination. "I want just that, I swear."

“Just sleep?” Conor raised a brow.

“Yes,” Eivaley eagerly nodded, “I would not start lying to you now.”

Conor rolled his eyes, recalling the first time she tried to fuck him and how that entire situation was a heaping mountain of lies. She tried to trick him into taking her to Pound Town so she could use her dear daddy and the Kurlatra military to keep him around.

The Human had given much thought to what that would have meant over the last few months. Would he be a slave? Would he be in the same place he was now? There were thousands of variables that could have changed.

Fuck, for all he knew, Vuraley would have just shot him out of an airlock and buried the fact his daughter fucked an alien. It would follow the man's brutally effective MO(modus operandi).

If Conor was forced into what might as well have been slavery, he likely would have already killed Eivaley and all her sisters and likely would have died in a firefight trying to steal a ship to get off this planet.

But that was not the reality of his life.

No, Conor was well taken care of. He had friends, a warm bed, and all the food and money he could ever want. The only thing he did not have was what he had been denying for months: that Eivaley was his and always would be.

“Fine,” Conor replied, rewrapping his paramour in the blanket and rolling onto his side a little bit to face her. However, unlike earlier, Conor did not fully encapsulate her in the blanket like a warm bed burrito.

This time, the blanket ran just below her neck, letting Conor see her shimmering eyes, beautiful smile, and, of course, the valley of her curves.

Eivaley repeatedly thanked Conor for not kicking her out while engaging in the hug. She coiled around her man like a viper, pulling herself tight to increase their skinship.

Conor also tried to physically show his acceptance of the offer to be there for him. He let go of her chin and held her head close to his chest, his powerful heart thumping in her ear like distant artillery fire. He firmly grasped her plump rear and pulled, keeping her from sinking into the bowl-like bed.

Eivaley's breath hitched in her throat. This scenario was unbelievable. She had tried to stay in his bed for months, but each time, she was quickly sent away, denied, and told he did not want that.

Until now, Conor only showed glimpses of wanting to stay by her side. Now, he was showing his reciprocation wholeheartedly.

It took no time for the pair to feel similar to when they were dancing alone a month earlier.

Their bodies lightened to the weight of hydrogen, and only the other's breath and heartbeats tied their destinies together.

Right now, they were alone in the entire universe. The moons, stars, planets, sentients—none of it mattered.

All that existed was them and the perfect void, the endless passage of distances between nebulas and quasars. The sections of the universe where no one would ever look for them, much less find them.

It was just what the two lost souls yearned for. Conor wished to escape his past, the pain, and all the violence he was known for. Eivaley wanted it because if she was gone, she would never have to harm her dear family in pursuit of a social position she had no desire to fulfill.

Even though they both understood that escaping this life was what they needed, they were bound to it by gilded chains. They were condemned to exist in social strata long before they could have been comprehended as possibly existing.

They could only steal away these fleeting moments when they could unquestioningly be there for one another. Exist to support their paramour and only worry about assuring the other's happiness.

Conor, without thinking, kissed Eivaley on the top of the head, causing her to shiver and moan slightly. It was bliss yet, at the same time, torment.

Conor was right there, and all Eivaley needed to do was bridge the last few gaps to keep him by her side. She had been struggling with how to enrapture him entirely since his arrival.

All it took was her mother's counsel and watching how her eldest sister, Mulaney, behaved around Burlai for her to understand the enigma of a warrior's mind.

“Can I do anything to make you feel more comfortable?” Eivaley whispered, her warm breath crawling across his skin.

“No, this is perfect,” Conor replied, not understanding the question's weight.

“That’s not what I mean,” Eivaley replied, clawing at the metal on Conor's chest. “I want you to stay, to feel safe here, to know I am safe. I've been trying to think of how to do that and can’t come up with anything. So what can I do for you?”

Conor looked off into the distance, pondering the idea. Sure, he felt safe around here at this point. No one here really made him feel on edge for his own safety; the only one he worried about was the little ruby in his arms.

Conor was just one man. Protecting her was a full-time job, especially with all of her sisters trying to kill Eivaley. In Conor's mind, each shadow hid an assassin, each meal could be poisoned, and every time he stepped away from her was the last time she would be seen alive.

Conor needed a solution to her safety, but he had not invested much time in finding one because doing so felt like investing in his future here. Preparing her to defend herself was him saying, "I will always come when you call."

Simultaneously, it was as if he was surrendering his role in her life as her protector—even if it was a little bit.

Conor looked over at the wall, seeing his armory on proud display; sniper rifles, shotguns, laser blasters, rifles, and handguns, including the JKL.

At that moment, Conor devised his plan while surveying the arsenal in his mind. He could not always be there, but he wanted to be. Being a practical man, Conor would do something no Champion had ever dared: arm his Lady.

“Want to learn how to shoot a pistol?”

Stolen novel; please report.