Chapter 11: Marinah

King sits back with his cup of coffee and watches me devour breakfast. I don't even care. I do, however, notice that the hard lines on his forehead smooth out as he relaxes. I would say it makes him look softer but nothing about him is soft. This morning he's in black military pants and a black T-shirt that molds to his chest. His bicep bulges as he lifts his coffee cup to his mouth. A question goes off in my mind that won't leave me. No straps this morning but that doesn't mean his chest is any less defined. He said he will kill me and I believe every word yet I'm unafraid, which is so unlike me. I guess it could be the food. For some reason the thought of my pending death isn't worrying me. Maybe I've faced my fears and come out the other side a tad bit stronger. Who knows? It's just nice to not have the worry hanging over me.

I eat until I'm stuffed and can't possibly get another bite in my stomach. If I were back home, I'd feel guilty about the food I just scarfed but guilt seems to be missing from my psyche this morning. It's not a bad feeling but like fear, I know it will return. For now, I'll just be happy to be alive and to have consumed real food.

"You haven't eaten much," I prompt King. He's been studying me for far too long.

"Why are you so unsteady on your feet?" he asks instead of answering my question.

I turn slightly in my chair and push my feet out from under the table so my legs are extended. "These sticks are too long for me and my feet too large. It's been that way since I turned ten. Maybe neither are the right size for my body." I smile to let him know the question doesn't bother me, but then it doesn't seem to bother him to have asked, so I'm unsure why I bother.

His exploratory expression doesn't change. "Your father was a good warrior. He was capable of killing hellhounds."

I actually laugh and then follow it by shaking my head. "You're making hellhounds sound easy to kill and I know that's not true."

He gives me a very slow blink, his eyelashes swooping down to cover his startling blue eyes and then lifting so I can see into their ocean depths. He might not be classically good looking, but it all seems to work and being relaxed right now makes him striking. Yes, that tug between my thighs happens again and I ignore it. "For your father they were easy to kill. He's the one who figured out we must sever the head to stop them. Nothing else worked as quickly."

"My father severed heads?" I ask in disbelief. Not that I didn't think he was capable, but my father was older when he received his promotion and though I knew he fought alongside his troops I thought of him more as their leader and not part of hand-to-hand combat.

"He did and he was good at it. I'm surprised he didn't train you."

I cover my laugh so it won't explode too loudly. "I'm not much of a fighter and never have been. Before my recent promotion, I worked in analytics, a job my father made happen so I wouldn't be fighting. He knew my coordination limits."

King takes another drink of coffee, sitting back even farther in his chair. "You have no desire to fight even if it means humans may not survive the next attack?"

He's pegged me and by the new look on his face, I disgust him. I have no intention of lying and so far the truth has worked better anyway. "I'm not fighting material. If they need fodder in battle, I'll put my red stripe on and close my eyes to wait for the inevitable."

"Why?" he grunts.

He can't be serious. "You've seen me walk and trip over nothing. You've seen me fall down stairs. I'm not exactly what you would call graceful."

"I've been watching you do those things all week. You could try something different."

He's been watching me, the jerk. And most likely ignoring my requests to speak with him. I laugh in spite of my anger. "Fighting mode for me will never happen and anyone who tries would be very disappointed." The Federation learned this the hard way and the slight sunburn I have for their efforts has only faded slightly.

"I don't think so. You hunch slightly when you walk, which throws off your balance. You don't use your core strength to ground yourself because you've never been trained."

"So train me," I say on a whim. The words slipped out of my mouth before I even thought about it, proving I'm an even bigger idiot than I've demonstrated so far. Even if it's a losing proposition, I would have something to do besides twiddle my thumbs.

King stares at me for the longest time while I watch indecision twist inside his skull. Finally, he decides I'm not quite so interesting. He stands quickly and walks out of the room, leaving me with the remainder of the food. He says something to the door guard and walks away. I stay sitting for about five minutes before I walk to the door and try to return to my room. My guard has other ideas and steps into my path. I back up and begin pacing King's room. Blast the man. It wouldn't hurt for him to give me a few instructions before deserting me.

I'm about to pull out a handful of hair and weave it through his uneaten food when he returns with the overgrown buffoon driver King referred to as Boot. It fits. His brain must be in his feet or possibly one foot it's so small. He doesn't look any happier about this situation than I am.

King stops in front of me and for the first time I appreciate the fact that I don't need to look down to see his eyes like I do other men. There's something to be said for a man being taller, which was not the case with my last wannabe boyfriend.

"Boot is now your personal trainer. He'll be working with you for six hours each day while you make improvements."

My mouth falls open and when I realize I must look like a moron, I snap it closed. "You're not serious?" My eyes track to Boot. From the sickened look on his face, King is totally serious.

"Boot has his orders and now you do as well." He turns to Boot. "Take her back to her room so she can change into something a bit more geared to combat fighting."

He actually said the words "combat fighting." He's out of his half-animal mind. "I'm here to broker a treaty not to learn to fight." And just a few minutes ago I was willing to give it a try. I would if it were anyone but Boot.

King's eyes find mine. "I'll broker when I have a warrior to deal with. I asked for a woman and what I received is a defense secretary who can't kill a fly. If I make a deal with you and you die, how will I trust your people to keep their word?"

I'm not sure he should trust them even if I'm alive, but that piece of info will remain my secret. If King doesn't side with us, humanity is lost. He might say my father was good at killing hellhounds, but I really don't believe him. It took three soldiers to kill one and the hounds came by the hundreds of thousands when they invaded the first time. If their teeth and claws didn't rip you to shreds, the poison they secreted finished the job.

"I'm supposed to trust the man who left me to die in a hot room and then carried me like a sack of grain?" I ask as a last resort knowing I'm only delaying the inevitable.

King's lips twitch. "Training you is his punishment for his questionable actions. He wants the punishment to end, so he'll do his best. Killing you or allowing you to die will give him the same outcome. His life depends on yours."

Oy vey!