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THE GENERAL'S POV: Six days ago

It's late. I've been on my feet for endless hours, but I'm nowhere near exhaustion. There is still much to do, even if the darkness has claimed the sky.

I cross camp and ignore the two Entertainers that stop and lift their skirts. I have no time to fuck. No interest, either. Not since Joan; the female with the alien name I struggle to pronounce, the one that likes her food as warm as her skin, the one that wrings her impossibly small hands when she's nervous, the one that rejected me, the one that for the first time in my life made me feel peace instead of Enragement when I came inside her.

She doesn't look, act or smell anything like the females of my planet. This never bothered me. She is attractive, even with her pale skin.

I've always been attracted to things I cannot have. I think this is because I was born into poverty. Now that I've made it so far up the ladder of power, I deny myself nothing. I got the title of General that typically is passed to older officers, and now I want the pretty alien.

Of course, Joan is no title or object. She can reject me all she wants, but the morbid fire in me will only be stroked every time she does. I thought having her once would be enough. I was wrong. It feels like our coupling went incomplete, like something lacked.

She told me her kind isn't passionate like mine is. She is unable to lubricate or display the joy of an orgasm. Fucking a human is like fucking a corpse.

I did not enjoy sex with her, and I dislike even more the voice in my head that insists something went wrong. Logically, it's unlikely. I have the reputation of a General that takes care of his people. Joan knows this and would have told me if I hurt her, and I would have made all accommodations needed to account for my mistakes. But she doesn't come to me.

I am always the one chasing her, reminding her that those skittish eyes of hers belong to mine, and that I'm eager to fuck her again to see if I can re-wire her. Maybe if I fuck her with a different technique, she'll gasp on my cock when she orgasms.

Lost in my odd attraction to her, I lost sight of the idea that other males could also be interested in her. I've never sweated competition, because I win in everything I compete in.

Joan is different, though. She is free game. All men in camp can solicit sex, and she has the right to turn them down without retribution. I know all about this rule, because I created it with The Headmistress. Now, my work is stabbing me in the back because the thought of another male propositioning Joan makes me irrationally violent.

I abide by the rules I made. I'm a logical leader, and followers stray away from hypocrites.

But Joan...

Joan and Malik...

Hearing him call for her while she was with me made me realize I'm not as stoic as I usually am. Joan was eating the food I warmed for her as I watched and asked her if she would let me eat her, too. Then, one of my own subjects called for her and took her away.

There are still imprints from how hard I dug my nails into my palms. I wanted the blood of the male that took my human.

I knew Malik would be in a great deal of pain if I got my hands on him, so the suffocating, rational part of me walked me away from the entrance and to my medicine.

I tossed back two pills and instantly felt jealousy evaporate. I became more focused on things that matter: work, not females. All Masters take this drug. It makes us incapable of feeling useless emotions like happiness, turning us into machines in the flesh. It's a shield. Without it, we feel the stinging of society's rejection, and the skinning when we lose a brother in battle. It is better if we never allow ourselves to get attached to each other. In this line of work, death is persistent. I have lost dozens, but shed tears for none.

I have known many of my men for decades, Malik included, but I don't allow myself to care. Joan should receive the same indifference from me, but I can't muster it. She is too intriguing, and while the drug inhibits many emotions, it does little to curiosity.

Joan is not my men. She is not a boulder of muscle and coldness like Masters. She is soft, pretty, and she smells like the warmth of home. The female is literally out of this world, and I want to know all there is to her. I am a conqueror. This is what I do.

Zolanos have named bridges, towns, and children after me. My greatness is vast, but Joan kicks my drug in the face and reminds me that I am only a mortal.

For the rest of that day, the drug helped me escape her enchantment. I fuck an Entertainer and let the clapping of our flesh sing our anthem. I am a soldier, and I'm at home when I'm in my Enraged state. I bask in the anger that floods my muscles after I come in the Entertainer, but then I dry my cock on my pants and I get to work.

For the next few days, I avoid Joan. The drugs keep me focused on what matters, but the effect is fading.

It's night now, and I'm finally retiring to bed. I'm crossing the camp when I catch a whiff of Joan. My eyes tear the tent apart in search of her and lock on Malik.

Why does he smell like my female?

The drug in my system disintegrates, boiled into steam by my anger. In one leap, I'm in front of him.

Malik's instinct kicks in and he counters, but I'm faster. I'm a General for a reason. The tree I shove him against groans. One more blow, and it's going down.

"General," he says, confused.

My palm is on his chest, close to his heart, ready to separate it from arteries and make it rain red.

"You fucked her." I snarl.

Fifteen years. I have been a General for fifteen years, and never have I lifted a hand against my men over a female.

I've been recognized as a talented male for years. My ability to control my rage is what earned me the title of General, but lately, I've been acting like a lesser male.

"You will leave tomorrow morning to the Southlands and answer to the Lieutenant. You won't look back." I shove him again, my hands ripping through his shirt.

He's confused as he answers, "yes, General."

His retreat calms me a little, but it's not enough. It will never be enough until I have my nose in Joan's hair and my lips against her ears, asking her what makes her tick.

"Gather!" I roar to the dark sky and walk away from Malik before another thought of Joan makes me put him seven feet under.

My men exit their tents and get in formation in the middle of camp. I cross my arms over my chest and stare at Joan's tent. It's dark in there. Is she asleep, sated by the imprint of Malik on her flesh?

"One hundred. Now."

All men drop and begin burning through pushups. I pace a straight line and watch them, looking for mistakes.

I'm so antsy that I could thunder through a thousand push-ups, but I know my body. My temper is teetering, and I don't need any more adrenaline pumping through me.

"Again."

"Again."

There are many more agains until I let them retire. I'm standing by myself, feeling like a fool, and realize I had been pacing with my back in the direction of Joan's tent. I had subconsciously been blocking my men's view of it.

She seeps deeper than any drug.

– • –

"General," someone calls from outside. It is Malik.

I know it's important, because everyone knows better than to disrupt my meetings.

I duck my head on the way outside and regard him. His bags are packed. He looks prepared to obey my command and leave camp.

"Joan wishes to speak with you."

I don't give my meeting a second thought. Neither do I care to ask what the fuck Malik was doing with Joan— again. I leave him behind. My long legs take me across camp to Joan as if she's The General and I'm her subject.

At this point, I might as well be.


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