Battalion's Bride (Alien SciFi Romance) (Celestial Mates Series Book 8)

by C. J. Scarlett

  “Yep.”

  “All righty,” she said with a firecracker-red lipstick smile. “Night.”

  “Night! Thanks for everything!” I said. “The ribs were amazing.”

  “Sure thing, boo,” she flicked her bleach-blonde hair over her shoulder as I began to walk away.

  “You’re leaving already?” the real reason why I was leaving the party asked. He had a disappointed puppy-dog look in his eyes. “It’s not even seven thirty.” I looked at him, eyes wide.

  “I’m tired,” I said bluntly.

  “You—you want me to come with?” he asked hopefully. Inwardly, I groaned, cursing whatever men’s self-help blog he read religiously.

  “I wouldn’t want you to miss the party,” I said, forcing deep concern into my voice. I was grasping at straws while he was going balls to the wall. Attempting to come up with a way out of the situation, I tugged uncomfortably on the strap of my black-eyelet sundress, then toyed with my favorite necklace—a tiny silver Ouija Board planchette. I ran a hand through my hair, wrecking the soft, beachy waves that I had spent so much time on earlier that day. I was getting flustered and annoyed, and by the look on his face, he thought it was cute.

  “Oh, it’s fine,” he said brightly. Cottoning onto what was happening, Jenny came to my rescue. She placed a hand on Greg’s shoulder.

  “Dude, if you leave now, you’ll miss my homemade beergaritas,” she said emphatically. Beergaritas are a sickening mixture of frozen limeade, tequila, and cerveza that makes one feel as though there is a gaping hole rotting through one’s stomach lining. “You love my beergaritas.” He seemed to struggle. We both watched as the rusted wheels turned slowly behind his murky brown eyes. He shrugged. Evidently, getting into my black-lace panties wasn’t as important as beergaritas because he shrugged again and turned away from us.

  “’Bye, Shay,” he mumbled. With that, he was off to find his next mark. Jenny and I looked at each other. Her eyebrow was raised. We burst into laughter.

  “Ah, man,” she said. “There’s a winner. You sure you don’t want to stick around for more of that?”

  “Nah,” I said. “Hard sell, though.” I waved and made my escape.

  I exited Jenny’s house, making my way to my car, which I had parked out on her street. I checked the time on my phone: seven thirty-five. I had been at the party for four hours—a personal best. I was lightly sunburned, and stuffed to the brim with grilled meats, chips, and beer. I had a bit of a headache coming on. I cursed myself for not drinking any water, but at least I was sober enough to ace a breathalyzer.

  When I reached my habanero-orange Volkswagen Beetle, I paused, frowning. I thought that I had heard a crunching sound nearby, as though someone had gently put a foot down on a patch of dirt. I looked up and down the street. All the cars that were parked along it seemed empty. No one walked along the sidewalk. There were a few kids on their bicycles in the front yard of a house about two hundred feet away. Their voices were soft, the chirping of tiny, faraway birds. They were completely focused on their play, but I had the overwhelming sense that I was being watched. I fumbled with my keys nervously as I unlocked my car with the fob and slid into the driver’s seat. I slammed the door shut and pushed the button to lock the doors. I looked around again. Seeing no one, I started my car.

  I drove out of town, the neat little streets populated by tiny houses disappearing in favor of farms and fields full of crops or cows. It began to grow very dark, and in front of me, I saw pulsing blue lights. I figured that it must be an accident—lights from a cop car, probably. I slowed a little as I went into a sharp turn, thinking nothing of the lights until I found myself careening right into their source.

  I had, in the split second between seeing aliens for the first time, and my car colliding with their ship, thought them beautiful. I mistook them for humans—perhaps ones who had been born with defects that made them inhumanly tall and beautiful. Their ship was enormous, and shaped like a massive, white yacht. It had elaborate, elegant curves, and beautiful pulsing blue lights, almost like a heartbeat. My car hit it, the entire front end folding in on itself, while leaving not a scratch on their ship. Listening to the sound of hissing emitting from my car, I took stock of my injuries before I got out, shakily. I had hit my head, and blood dripped into my eyes. My ribs on the right side were on fire, and my arm hung limply as my wrist pulsed with the heat that indicated a sprain. I was angry because none of them had come to help me.

  “What are you doing?” I snapped as I stumbled toward them. “You can’t park your weird Mardi Gras float in the middle of the road!” I had been to New Orleans several times, since it was only an eight-hour drive from my small town in Texas. The never-ending parade orgy atmosphere was the closest approximation to what was going on right now.

  They all watched me with their bright, glowing eyes—a group of about five. With my head injury, my memory of that moment wasn’t exactly the clearest. I walked right up to them, pausing and waiting for an explanation. The one nearest to me reached out, grabbing for my throat. His bright eyes gleamed with a dangerous light. I recoiled, finally getting the feeling that these people weren’t who nor what they seemed.

  The maniacally fierce look that then flashed across the creature’s face betrayed his foreign nature and turned my perception of life completely sideways. It had hissed, baring sharp, white, almost translucent teeth, similar to that of a deep-sea fish, and his skin luminesced like a pearl, and his green eyes glowed brightly, dangerously. And, he was blue—about the neck, and his arms were set slightly higher on his back than that of a human’s, causing them to have a remarkably straight and elegant posture. I noticed this all in the split second before I took off into the cornfield by the side of the road, running for my life. Luckily, I was a runner—in the best shape of my life. Unfortunately, I was injured from the crash—probably concussed, and they, too, were in excellent shape.

  Because it was late summer, the cornstalks rose high above my head as I ran frantically, my heart pounding hard enough that I thought it would punch a hole through my sternum. I could feel my pulse keenly in my forehead, and I reached up and brushed away the blood from my face as I ran. The sun had just set, turning the sky a dusky purple, and it had begun to grow cold, causing goosebumps to break out across my flesh. My sundress stuck to my sweaty legs. The taste of beer was still sour in my throat. I felt my arms and legs scraped by the tough stalks as I ran. I held my aching ribs with one arm, each breath feeling like fire.

  At some point during my run, I had kicked off my espadrilles, leaving them behind me somewhere in the field. My feet were bleeding, cut by rocks and other bits of sharp detritus in the soil. The cornfield seemed to go on forever, and part of me hoped that it would; then I would remain hidden. It seemed as though I had been running for hours, but it may have only been a few short minutes. The corn ended abruptly at a wooden fence. I jumped the fence quickly, not thinking about how the wide field of wheatgrass on the other side provided no cover. I just kept running.

  I could hear them closing in. They had been getting steadily closer to me. I could hear their soft footfalls as they loped easily after me on their long, lithe, and sinewy legs.

  When I was barely ten feet into the field of wheatgrass, I heard a loud, ululating cry behind me. I glanced quickly behind me to find that they were closing in quickly. And I tripped over what felt like a root, falling hard on my hands and knees. I skidded slightly on the ground, skinning both of my knees and my palms. My left wrist throbbed painfully, the heat that accompanied a sprain shooting through it. I got up, scrabbling against the soft grass. I was dirty, and bleeding from various cuts and scrapes. Sweat beaded against my temple as adrenaline coursed through my blood.

  I was up and running again when I was pushed down to the ground by what felt like a hand in the center of my back. I hit the ground hard, the breath knocked from my lungs. My chin hit the ground roughly. I lay on my face, gasping for air. Relax, I told myself. It
’s over.

  As my breath returned, I felt two sets of strong hands, lifting me like I weighed nothing. Their skin against my own was cool—as if the temperature of their blood was lower than my own. They communicated with each other in a language that I didn’t recognize. It was smooth, almost melodic. Fear coursed through my body, causing my limbs to go limp, and I was afraid of losing control of my bowels.

  “Wh—wh…” I tried to speak, but couldn’t find the air to form the words. I was hyperventilating, and the world began to go black static—the negative of a television screen with no reception. My vision slipped, and faded into darkness as my body fell limp like a ragdoll.

  Chapter 2

  When I awoke, I was in a bright room, naked. A single, round lamp hung in the center of the ceiling. It was absolutely freezing inside the room. My limbs ached from it, as well as the sensation that they had been held still for a long time. I looked at my blue feet, from the cold. I frowned, looking at my legs, and the palms of my hands—they were clean, and the cuts and scrapes from my run through the cornfield were healed. My ribs didn’t ache, nor did my head after the accident. With a sickening jolt, I wondered how long I had been unconscious.

  I tried to calm my labored breathing as I studied my surroundings. The room was perfectly square—crafted of a pristine white metal. I rolled onto my left side and sat up, pulling my legs up against my chest. I was on top of a steel-colored table, much like the slab that one would find in a morgue. It had what appeared to be smooth, black-leather restraints on it, about where my wrists and ankles had been. They had buckles, but they weren’t fastened. They reminded me of a seatbelt.

  I slid down off the table, getting down onto my hands and knees to inspect the strange white metal. I felt along the floor; it was hard, almost like stone, polished to perfection. Crawling over to the wall, I reached out and touched it. This, too, was crafted from the strange metal. I knocked against it—it made no sound. I scratched it with my fingernail. It made not a mark.

  “You can’t do anything to it,” a voice said quietly. My entire body jerked around, searching for its source. A woman’s face peered over at me from around the side of the morgue table, and I realized that I hadn’t fully checked my surroundings. A rookie mistake. I had been far too sheltered in my small-town life. The woman had caramel-toned skin and dark eyes framed by thick lashes. Her hair was wildly thick and curly. She looked to be in her early twenties. She looked like someone who would have appeared in a designer perfume ad. She was dressed in a brightly patterned silk dress—red flowers on a saffron yellow background. It looked dirty.

  “What is it? Where are we? What are they?” I was still in shock, my questions escaping me in an unintentional barrage. She stood slowly, walking over toward me. Her legs were bare and bruised, as well as blue-tinted and bloodless from the room’s temperature. She held a bright silk shoe, the match of which was obviously missing. She crouched down beside me.

  “What is your name?” she asked me. Her look was impassive—her eyes seemed tired; dark circles pressed beneath them. She had a soft accent. Her English was learned, modulated.

  “Shay,” I whispered. I had the distinct feeling that I had seen her before.

  “Sarita,” she replied. “They left me here to acquaint you.” I frowned, not understanding what she was saying. I felt my lips go cold as I went into shock. “Lean back. You have been in stasis, and your body needs time to adjust.” She held my shoulder as she helped me to sit back. I felt my mind breaking away, as though reality had the ability to fork, splitting in two. She then waited for me to calm down, rubbing my arms and legs to bring warmth into them. Her touch brought me back.

  “Stasis?” I asked, my voice shaky.

  “Asleep. For the duration of our journey.”

  “How long?”

  “Eighty years.” The realization that I had slept through my natural human life left me speechless. Grief welled in my chest—everyone whom I had known was likely dead by now. My mother, my father, Jenny… even Greg. I sat there, looking at Sarita in shock, my mouth hanging slightly open.

  “They are the Ak-hal,” she began, not waiting for me to ask. “They destroyed their home planet long ago. They have colonized another. It’s what the human race terms arctic, and they live in a palace made of the same metal as this ship. It’s called mithrim. Is it not beautiful?” Beautiful. A word I would come to hate.

  “Why did they take me?” It seemed that I couldn’t catch my breath enough to speak above a whisper.

  “The Ak-hal have no women,” she replied. “They died, along with their planet. So, they take women from Earth, whom they find beautiful and very like to themselves.” She caressed my cheek, her voice soft and comforting, a lullaby in this horrible, bright place. “You will be dressed in the finest clothes, and fed the most delectable foods, and treated like a princess.”

  “But I—” I began to protest, but Sarita shook her head.

  “You are the property of the Ak-hal, now.”

  “Why? How did they find me?”

  “It’s likely that they followed you for some time. The Ak-hal are exquisite hunters.” I thought of how they had seemed to hold back until I was tired. I thought back to leaving the barbecue… eighty years before—how I’d paused before unlocking my car, looking about me, feeling as though I had been… watched. I had seen nothing, no one lurking about on the tree-lined street. I’d gotten into my car and driven off, right into their trap. My stomach felt queasy, and it ached with hunger. I sobbed, and Sarita slapped me across the face, hard. She looked into my eyes fiercely.

  “You must not fall apart.” I nodded, inhaling. Something in her tone told me that to lose myself would be the death of me. I understood that Sarita was instructing me on how to survive. I took a few steadying breaths.

  “The Ak-hal are not like us,” she said. “They don’t like emotion. They prefer to master their own emotions, since they are a race of dragon shifters. When they get angry… it can mean utter destruction. They look for mates who will not anger them. They cannot control themselves when they do. So, you must show them that you are like them, so that one of them chooses you for his mate. Once that happens, everything will get better.” I sat there, stunned. Anger, confusion, and fear all flowed through my veins. “Once you mate with an Ak-hal, you will go through a mating ritual, which will make you immortal, like them.” Her eyes had taken on a strange glow.

  “Are you—” I began to ask, suddenly realizing that Sarita wasn’t on my side. She nodded, no emotion whatsoever crossing her face.

  “I am mated to Ak-hal,” she confirmed. So, the missing shoe, the bruises—they were all a ruse. I had been set up. I had trusted that which had seemed familiar. My first lesson in the twisted, manipulative minds of the Ak-hal. My mind whirled.

  “When did they take you?”

  “Two hundred years ago,” she said simply. “I was taken from my life as a lowly human, considered next to nothing on Earth. Now, I have status, eternal life, and any comfort I never would have dreamed of otherwise.”

  “Who were you?” She shook her head.

  “Nothing,” she replied simply. “Viewed as something lower than a worm.” I squinted, trying to figure her out. I wasn’t sure whether I could trust her or not.

  “Come,” Sarita said. “I must prepare you.”

  “For what?” I asked cautiously.

  “Your presentation to the Ak-hal,” she explained efficiently as she guided me to a standing position. “When you first arrive, you will be presented at the palace. You have two weeks following your presentation to secure a mate. If you fail…” she paused, looking away. She cleared her throat before looking me in the eyes. Despite her lapse, she still didn’t show any emotion. “If you fail, you will be executed.” I felt sick, and my knees buckled. Sarita caught me as I fell against her, hard. She supported me, helping me to stagger awkwardly over to the far wall.

  A door appeared in the mithrim, evanescin
g like the bottom of a glass of milk as it emptied. Sarita had one arm wrapped around my waist, and the other grasped my elbow. We left the bright room, entering a dimly lit hallway. This, too, was crafted of mithrim. The lights, in red-orange lily-shaped sconces created a warm glow. She led me, slowly, to another room. It looked very much like a beauty parlor, with a vanity and a large bathtub. It had sage-colored tiles covering the floor. The walls were a soft green to match. Another woman entered. She was dressed in an elaborate green silk dress with a tight bodice and long, fitted sleeves. The skirt was full, and rustled softly as she walked. She had her hair pulled back in an elegant chignon. She said nothing, instead, taking my free arm and helping Sarita to guide me to the bathtub.

  I wanted something to cover myself. I had rarely been naked in front of others, and to find myself in this situation was… a tad frightening to me. I stood awkwardly in the tub. Sarita bent down and turned on the faucet. Hot water came out, and I knelt down on my knees in the tub, letting the water heat my skin. I sat down fully, my body beginning to relax in the blessed heat of the water.

  “It will do you good after you have been in stasis,” the other woman explained.

  “What is it—stasis?”

  “Your bodily functions are paused. It’s like being frozen in time,” she replied. “Until you mate with an Ak-hal, you are still mortal. I am Clara.” She smiled at me kindly. I nodded, letting it sink in that I had been in some kind of coma for eighty years.

  “When will we reach the planet?” I asked.

  “In a few hours. The planet is called Gorodrim by the Ak-hal. The original inhabitants call it something else,” Clara said as she began to wash my hair, using a lavender-scented shampoo. She massaged my scalp, rubbing with the tips of her fingers. She was a little rough—tugging my hair a little as she worked the shampoo into it, much like a hairdresser. Sarita used a soft-bristled brush to clean my skin, scrubbing until my flesh was rubbed pink.