Claimed by the Alien Warrior Triad (Scorp Blood Tribe Book 1)

by Corin Cain

  In real life, I’m probably in an ambulance right now – being shipped off to a mental facility after being found convulsing in the alley.

  I didn’t just lose the love of my life today… I lost the career I’d worked so hard for the past decade to achieve. You can’t be a high-level lawyer and have a mental breakdown. The firm would become a laughing stock if they employed a lawyer who wasn’t balanced, sober, and respectable.

  “Wake up! Wake up! Wake up!”

  I yell the words to myself, slapping myself hard enough on my cheeks to see stars.

  The huge man carrying me stops so abruptly my head smacks against his bulk. I bite my tongue by accident.

  “Ow,” I say to myself, shocked by hitting myself. With surprising gentleness, the enormous man slowly sets me down and stands before me – a towering figure who makes me feel tiny in his shadow. The moment my feet hit the ground I realize I feel lighter – as if gravity just turned itself down a notch or two, or I finally lost that stubborn ten pounds that never seems to go away.

  I should be terrified. I’m either having a mental breakdown, or I’m in a lush climate – an alien one, if the gravity is any clue – with three huge, savage men covered in tattoos and scars. I don’t know which situation would be worse.

  Despite that, I’m at least somehow comforted by the huge man in the front of me. His brilliant, emerald eyes drink me in. He reaches out his massive hand towards me. I don’t flinch as he gently strokes my cheek, still stinging from where I slapped myself. The tenderness in his gaze contrasts to the obvious lust in his pants. I’m made very aware of the power difference between us. If he wanted to, there could be nothing I could do to stop him from just taking me hard in the grass.

  I shiver at the thought. A lighting frisson trembles down my spine from his touch. My body is betraying me, responding involuntarily to his fingers tracing the contours of my cheek. My nipples harden to sensitive peaks, and I’m glad I still have my jacket on, despite the warmth – if only to keep a layer of protection between my naked desire and this beastly man.

  He doesn’t look at me like I’m a lawyer. He doesn’t look at me like I’m a respected professional.

  He looks at me like he’s consumed by my essence. Like he’s utterly obsessed with engraving every detail of my being into his memory. I’ve never felt so wanted in my life. The two huge warriors step closer, and their bodies make me feel so tiny and helpless. It would be so easy to surrender to these three barbarians – to let them use me for their pleasure. I bite my lip, trying to control my lust as the stranger leans forward, his lips aching for mine.

  Oh, my God! Is he going to kiss me?

  Then his face changes. All the kindness disappears, leaving only stern violence. My eyes widen as he clenches his jaw tightly.

  The three men move in unison, as if they share a single mind – surrounding me, their immense shoulder turned against me. I’m suddenly right in the middle of their three, broad backs. Their bodies are tense and ready. As one, they reach down and grab the hilts of their weapons, as if the stubs could somehow do something.

  And then the warrior with the buzzcut and the gold-flecked jade eyes activates his weapon. Where before there was only a thin, wooden stick in his hand – something that looked almost incomplete – a spiked head suddenly appears at the top of it, emanating a low buzz that I can’t tell if I’m hearing – or feeling.

  I’m transfixed by the weapon. The dark head of the mace is blacker than the deepest blackness. It instantly triggers to the memory of a field trip I took when I was a kid. We went deep into a cave and the guide told us to turn our flashlights off. The pure absence of light scared me so badly I shivered and instantly turned my flashlight back on. Kids at school teased me for being scared of the dark for months – but I couldn’t have stood being in that pitch blackness a second longer.

  That darkness, that absence of light, is the color of the mace head; or lack of it. It’s like a fault in reality – an absence of being. Black tendrils drift from the mace-head, so faintly I can’t tell if I’m imagining them or not. A strange blue light emanates from the weapon – an impossible contrast against the material’s lack of light.

  The leader actives the hilt of his own weapon, and a long black sword appears. I swear it looks hungry, as if a blade can thirst for blood. The long, deadly blade apparates from nothingness to existence, and if I hadn’t already – I now truly realize how dangerous these three, beastly men are. The mohawked warrior with the flint eyes is the last to actives his own weapon – a cruel and deadly-looking battle axe.

  “What’s going on? Are we in danger?” I ask, though I know I’ll get no answer. The three of them ignore my voice completely, focused on something I can’t see. It’s tough to glimpse past their ring of powerful, broad backs, but I search frantically for sight of whatever caused these three terrifying warriors to go on full alert.

  Then I hear it.

  Thump.

  Thump.

  Thump.

  The sound triggers a reflex in my primordial brain. My animal instincts awaken – long ignored in the safety of those pristine law offices and courts; where I was the apex predator.

  Now my fight or flight instincts flare up – and flight tells me to run.

  I step back, panic gripping me – about to try and break out of the protective circle I’m surrounded by. Then, suddenly, the warrior with the mohawk wraps his huge hand around my arm. His flint-grey eyes, with that light touch of green, meet mine, and I feel his aura of protection encircling me.

  Thump.

  Thump.

  Thump.

  I recognize the sound. I once went to an aviary, and watched the handler with an eagle. It screamed out in distaste and flapped its wings ferociously. The sound I’m hearing is the beating of wings.

  I look up.

  The sun blinds me, but I blink it out of my eyes to focus on the threat.

  If I’m still on Earth, it certainly isn’t the 21st century any longer. The only thing that makes sense is my psychotic episode has led me to hallucinate that I’m in a prehistoric era – back when animals were huge. The thing flying towards us is an eagle; but only if eagles had wingspans the length of a bus, and cruelly hooked beaks that were longer than my arm.

  The bird screeches out imperiously as it swoops down towards us, and terror washes over me.

  The only thing keeping me from crawling into the fetal position is the strong hand steadying me. The mohawked warrior’s eyes track the eagle as it flies towards us, and there’s not a hint of fear in his gaze.

  His arm moves so fast it can’t be real.

  That eerie black axe whistles through the air, cutting towards the flying death that wants to rip us to shreds. The head of the weapon smashes against the breast of the bird, and scarlet blood arcs out. At the last second, the eagle opens its wings wide and pulls away, blood splattering down and soaking against the warrior’s arm. The bird veers off, screeching in pain, and the rush of wind from its beating wings nearly throws me onto the ground. Soon, the monstrous bird becomes a dot on the horizon, and then disappears into nothingness.

  The warrior’s hand is still around my wrist. For a moment, I wish I knew his name – so that I could thank him. Then I realize the stupidity of that thought. These men, whoever they are, are the whole reason I was in danger in the first place. I yank my arm in a huff, but I can’t escape the looming stranger’s vice-like grip. I’m reminded of how powerful he truly is. If he wanted to, I’d never be able to escape his grasp.

  The mohawked warrior squeezes, and his face changes and becomes brutal and terrifying. His veins bulge, pulsating with green venom, and as he snarls his face contorts into a beastly mask.

  “You’re hurting me!” I yell, trying to pull back. His eyes clear, and then he reluctantly releases me. I wipe cold sweat from my forehead. Finally, the mohawked beast speaks to me in his guttural language – but the only word in the string of speech I understand is “Aubrey”.

  How
does he know my name?

  I’m incredulous the thought crossed my brain. It’s so mind-numbingly obvious.

  Because you’re have a psychotic breakdown, Aubrey. He’s a delusion! Of course he knows your fucking name. Be smart. You didn’t get made partner because of your looks.

  A shiver runs through me as the warrior reaches forward, brushing back a strand of my hair. I’ve always found a man touching my hair to be strangely intimate, and I shudder as part of me aches for the beastly man to do much more than just touch my hair. I ache for him to rip these stuffy, warm clothes off my body and claim me. I rub my arm where he held me too tightly, and I can see his handprints on my skin. I don’t know what came over him. It’s as though he changed for a moment – lost himself in anger.

  Then he swallows hard, and I stagger back from the beastly man. He strides to retrieve his axe, and the moment between us passes.

  The leader of the three – at least, that’s what I assume he must be, since he was the one who picked me up and flung me over his shoulder – kneels down in front of me as though he’s proposing. His veins are pulsating as well, his heart clearly pounding from the battle, but he seems to have more control over his emotions than his mohawked companion.

  The beast of a man is kneeling down before me, and I get a sickening flashback to the mortification I felt when Joshua proposed to me, back in that crowded restaurant in the Upper East Side. I still said yes – but I’d wished dearly that he’d asked me in a more a private place.

  Instead of a diamond, like Joshua had offered me, this towering, long-haired stranger plucks a huge, golden feather from the ground and offers it to me. It shimmers in the sun, and I gasp.

  The sun.

  How did I miss it? I guess being flung over this monstrous man’s shoulder, and then being terrified for my life as he hoisted me through an alien jungle, offers a fair excuse...

  …but now I pay attention and look at it, I notice what’s wrong immediately.

  The sun is too big.

  Too red. Too hot.

  That confirms it. I’m not on Earth any longer.

  I tremble as I take the golden feather, tingles shivering through me as my hand touches that of the ridiculously huge, long-haired warrior.

  For a moment, this feels so real.

  For a moment, I almost forget that my career, the last thing of value in my life, is over.

  Dead.

  I walked out of a partner’s meeting on my first day in the position – one I’d worked an entire decade to get.

  Now? I’m probably strapped to a bed in a psych ward.

  I pull my jacket off, my armpits sticky. The eyes of the three aliens – and I’m convinced now that’s exactly what they are – widen as they drink in the sight of my exposed arms.

  “It’s just an arm, don’t act like you’ve never seen one before,” I mutter, shaking my head in disbelief at the situation.

  The leader stands easily, and points to himself. “Stray-ker,” he says slowly, in his rumbling voice.

  It takes me a second to realize he’s telling me his name.

  “Stay-ker,” I reply, and his stern face softens for a moment in the hint of a smile.

  “Stryker,” he says again, quicker.

  “Stryker,” I answer, and his smile broadens.

  The one with the buzzcut points to himself, his finger touching the top of the vicious scar that somehow doesn’t mar the perfection of his body – only enhancing his physique. It’s so proud and distinct; utterly unlike the pitiful, tiny little scars that shamefully crisscross my thighs.

  “Brigg. Kara dum maka, Brigg.”

  I have no idea what ‘kara dum’ make means, but I’m glad his name is simple.

  “Hello, Brigg,” I reply.

  He shakes his head. “Brigg. Noda hello Brigg.”

  If the situation wasn’t insane, I’d laugh. I nod. “Brigg,” I reply, omitting any other pleasantries – so he knows I can at least figure out his one-syllable name; and that I’m not a complete idiot.

  Out here on this warm, luscious planet, I guess I don’t have my law degree or prestigious position in the firm as proof of my intelligence. Out here, if I’m not careful, my abductors might think I’m stupid.

  Abductors. That’s how I have to think of them. Because if they’re real, that’s what they did to me. It doesn’t matter that they’re so fucking gorgeous it’s not fair.

  The huge warrior with the mohawk – the one who fought off the enormous eagle – returns from retrieving his axe, deactivating his weapon as he nears. The blade disappears into nothingness, and the eagle’s blood that coated it suddenly splatters on the ground; with nothing to hold it up any longer.

  “Haleon,” he says, his voice dripping with need for me. His name fills my mind – like dark, sweet molasses. There must be some evolutionary instinct deep inside of humanity, born from prehistoric times, to instantly get turned on when a guy saves you from a gigantic fucking monster – because despite him being my abductor, the way he’s looking at me makes me shiver.

  “Thank you, Haleon. Haleon,” I say again, making sure he knows that I understand his name.

  I’m grateful for the mohawked warriors’ protection for a second – before I remind myself, again, that he’s one of my abductors. That these bastards are the reason I’m on some jungle planet far away from… Well, if I’m being honest, far away from nothing but the tattered ruins of my former life.

  Haleon just keeps looking at me, licking his lips. Whatever culture these aliens come from, they obviously have no social norms against leering at women there – since the three of these magnificent bastards have had no embarrassment about the obvious situations in their loincloths.

  By situation, of course, I mean their enormous and barely-concealed erections.

  I narrow my eyes. I need to give at least some indication that I don’t appreciate being pulled away from New York and into their reality.

  Then I sigh, letting some of the tension out. Whether I’m imagining this, or it’s real, it feels as real as anything I’ve ever experienced before – and if I want to stay alive, I better damn well treat this as real. The thought is rebellious in my mind; and I force myself to nip resistance to it in the bud.

  Don’t for a second entertain the possibility this is real. Crazy people have no idea they are crazy. As long as I understand that this is fucking insane, I’m still a sane person who’s just hallucinating. The moment I accept this as truth, I’ll be lost forever.

  I gaze past the warriors, trying to find an indication of a way back to Earth. All I see are rolling plains and a verdant jungle, miles away. The grass we are standing in is tall and lush, grazing against my legs gently in the warm breeze.

  “Aubrey,” says Haleon, his flint-grey eyes – speckled with that beautiful green – lighting up as though my name is his favorite word.

  Brigg, Haleon, and Stryker. My subconscious sure came up with some interesting names.

  Alright. Think, Aubrey! How do I get out of this? Piece it together logically. Could it be that my brain is somehow… Testing me? If I can find out what my subconscious wants, then maybe I can get out of this delusion! Oh, God – this is insanity…

  I fight back despair. It isn’t just the names of the warriors that are so out-of-this-world. Seven-feet-tall humans exist, but they end up playing basketball; and they sure as hell don’t look like these three.

  There’s no possible way for a human to have that much marble-colored muscle packed onto their frame, even if they injected themselves with all manner of harmful steroids to get it.

  Plus, no-one I’ve ever seen has such light, marble-colored skin. They aren’t albinos, without pigment. No, the skin of these three looks exactly that of the like statues I’ve seen in museums; smooth and polished. But the thing that really stands out about them isn’t their tribal tattoos. It’s the green in their veins – that venomous fluid that pulses beneath their skin.

  It’s starting to make sense. My mind conjured
up the polar opposite of Joshua. His boyish good looks are the antithesis of the manly, hard features and diamond-cut jawlines of the three men looming in front of me. I can practically smell the pheromones and testosterone dripping off them.

  The whirling, ornate tribal designs of the tattoos that cover their chests and arms draw my eyes. Joshua would never have dared to get a tattoo – which was once something I liked about him. I might be a shark in the boardroom and the courts, but I’ve never felt comfortable being around the kind of clients that were particularly buff or tattooed up. They intimidated me.

  Yet, the danger radiating from those men is a candle compared to the burning bonfire of raw, potential violence that smolders off from these three, huge, beastly men in front of me.

  These guys don’t just have a few little tattoos. They’re covered in them – their enormous muscles a gallery of intricate tribal designs, seared into their skin with a green ink that almost glows.

  Stryker steps forward, and I realize his plan before he can act. He’s about to grab me and flip me over his shoulder again – which is a convenient, but undignified way of travelling. I remember his huge palm patting against my bottom, and my cheeks flush at the humiliation.

  I leap back.

  My heel is stuck in the damp ground and stays in place. The rest of me? The rest of me goes flying.

  If I wanted to portray myself as a smart, classy businesswoman, that chance has now gone. Instead, I land awkwardly in a pile on the ground; my professional, black skirt soaked and ruined in the mud.

  The three men laugh – emitting deep rumbles that make my cheeks burn red with indignation.

  “Don’t laugh!” I scold, knowing they won’t understand my words – but hoping my tone is clear.

  Stryker holds out his wide hand, but I ignore it, getting up and refusing his help in a huff. I kick off my other heel. They might be a necessity in the office, but on this alien planet these towering stilettos are wildly impractical.

  Alien planet.

  It hits me again. These warriors aren’t human.