by Rosette Lex
When the day of the coronation itself dawned, though, it was surprisingly all right. She got to sleep in until breakfast, and afterwards she was positively pampered as her hair and her makeup were done. The makeup artists were so excited; they had never worked with anyone with skin as pale as hers, and apparently they looked at it as a fantastic challenge.
When at last they let her look into the mirror, her hair was braided back into the very beginnings of a braid, before the majority of her hair was gathered into a tail, with a strand of hair wrapped around it to hide the tie. The tail, then, was curled so that it fell down her neck and back in long, loose ringlets. Her make up was done in purples and silvers so that her eyes stood out like a pair of beacons, and her nails were long, perfectly filed, and painted purple with silver tips.
Once she saw her clothing for the coronation, she understood the color scheme. The dress was made of light, thin fabric. It was low cut in the front and almost entirely backless, and the skirt was above her knees in the front but trailed along the ground in the back, even in her heels. The heels in question were four inches tall, and were actually open-toed boots made of light, petal-soft leather.
The dress was a pale and yet vibrant shade of purple, and the boots, the braid of chains around her neck, the belt of thin chains around her waist, and the cuffs around her wrists were all silver. Crystal was mesmerized just looking at it, and once she was wearing it, she felt like she could take on the entire world and win.
Once she was dressed and ready, she was hustled to the doors just outside the throne room, and it was almost eerie how empty the corridors were as she walked.
She could hear someone speaking from within the throne room, though she couldn’t make out the actual words. She imagined it was all rather grand and noble, though she couldn’t help but think whatever the message was wouldn’t fit her. She didn’t have long to dwell on it, though. Soon enough, the speaking ceased, and the doors opened.
The women who had escorted her to the throne room ushered her through the doors, and Crystal stood tall, lifted her chin, and walked towards the two thrones at the end of the long, dark red carpet. In that moment, the carpet seemed almost endless, but Crystal kept her steps calm and purposeful.
Only when she was standing beside Gerralt at the thrones could she truly take in what the throne room had become for the day. There were banners hung on the walls, all in deep red and depicting the Trevelyan clan’s crest.
The endless benches were draped in garlands and wreaths of the brilliantly colored flowers—every shade of the rainbow and every variation therein—that Crystal had chosen, and every seat was filled. The thrones as well had been draped in banners and flowers, and it looked as if some sort of playful nature deity had swept through and left an endless amount of petals on the floor.
Gerralt smiled at her calmly and held his hands out expectantly, and Kelso handed him Crystal’s crown. It had to be hers; he was already wearing his own. And Crystal’s crown was beautiful. It matched Gerralt’s, true, but where his was mostly a gemmed band, Crystal’s had fine chains and jewels dangling from it, turning it from a simple circlet into an elegant headpiece.
“Crystal Cavanaugh,” Gerralt started. “You are my mate, and I could not be happier. As such, do you swear to remain by my side and help govern our kingdom to the best of your abilities?”
“I swear,” she intoned in reply.
“Do you swear to stand strong in the face of adversity and to be fair and just in the face of a crisis?” he asked.
“I swear,” she replied.
The crown was settled on her head, the chains sweeping across her hair and forehead. Gerralt looked out over the crowd, and it seemed like his voice could have shaken every bench as he said, “Arise for your queen.”
There was cheering and applause, and flowers and petals were being thrown, and Mellia was laughing like every dream she had ever had was coming true, but Crystal paid no attention to it.
She paid attention to Gerralt as he reeled her in close and kissed her, wrapping his arms around her and holding her close. He kissed her as if he was drowning and she was air, trying to breathe her in, and Crystal kissed him just as desperately in return.
With the crown sitting on her head like a symbol of all that had happened, with her people cheering, and with Gerralt holding onto her like a life line, Crystal had something of an epiphany.
She would be okay. Everything would turn out okay.
BOUGHT BY THE ALIEN
ROSETTE LEX
Copyright 2015 by Rosette Lex
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced
in any way whatsoever, without written permission
from the author, except in case of brief
quotations embodied in critical reviews
and articles.
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any
person, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
First edition, 2015
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Table Of Contents
Chapter 1: Property
Chapter 2: Touch Me More
Chapter 3: Cabin in the Woods
Chapter 4: Alien
Chapter 5: Siege
Chapter 6: Brushes With Death
Chapter 7: Tempting Fate
Chapter 8: Bride Race
Chapter 9: Family Reunion
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Chapter 1: Property
Everything stank. The filthy roadhouse floorboards under May’s knees smelled of generations of beer and vomit soaked into the wood, the air of unwashed bodies and cheap cigarettes. She stank too, of blood and sweat, her blonde hair spiked and tangled with both. One eye was swollen shut, which was almost a comfort, as she didn’t have to look at the leering figures around her with it. Nor her own body, which was nude, crackled with dying blood and covered with developing bruises. Her heart was pounding in her ears, almost drowning out the raucous yelling around her. Almost.
She had fought at first, trying to get away, begging for help from the man she thought loved her while he turned away and slunk out the door. He was too weak and cowardly to stand up to her stepbrother, Tom Morrison, who owned the town of Clarkville in every way that mattered. In the roadhouse, among these drunk lumberjacks and mill workers, Tom was king; in the streets, he had a badge and gun to back it up. The only law enforcement for miles around, he decided what was right and wrong in Clarkville, and God help anyone who tried to push back against him.
She heard his laughter rise above the ruckus and her good eye squeezed closed on tears. Ever since her mom had remarried when she was seven, she had had to deal with Tom’s bullying. If she got a present, he would steal or break it. If she protested, he would slap her around. Her mom had tried to intervene, only to get a beating from her stepfather for trying to discipline his precious boy.
As she grew older, it continued. He drove off her friends, drove off her boyfriends, and when she started working to try and save enough to get out of town, he found ways to take control of her finances too. At one point he had nearly had her declared mentally incompetent to make it easier for him to take what was hers, but decided against it when it became clear she could earn him more money working as a waitress in the roadhouse than she could drawing SSI. May hated Tom, hated him even more than she feared him.
She had tried to outsmart him. One of the bartenders, Matty, a skinny, tattooed transplant from New York City who was tolerated for the strength of his cocktails, had taken a shine to her. She had begged him for help escaping town, telling him she had a little money saved aside but no vehicle. All he had to do was take her and a suitcase, get in his battered pickup, and drive until they crossed the county line. They could do it when Tom was sleeping off one of his drunks, she had reassured Matty
. As long as they never came back to Tom’s private domain, they would be safe.
But Matty had lost his nerve double-quick after watching Tom beat down a derelict whom he caught peeing on his car. And when the time had come, Matty had walked away without her, having told Tom of her plans to cover his own ass. That was sixteen hours ago. Sixteen hours of beatings, of Tom’s hands going places they should not have, of terror and humiliation and pain. And hate, deep down: burning hate, for Tom, for Matty, for the other men here--and some for herself, for not being strong enough to escape.
She dragged her head up despite the heavy steel collar around her neck and the pounding in her head, and looked around at them. The roadhouse regulars: ten men in various shades of plaid and denim and various states of inebriation, every last one waving a fistful of money as Tom called out the bids.
“Five hundred, do I see five hundred for the fat white bitch? Five hundred. Check out those big titties, she’ll take a pounding and then feed you breakfast outta those. Five hundred for the heifer. Come on boys, I got bills to pay. Let’s go. Five hundred? Five hundred from Joey Clarkson, he’s feeling rich tonight. Who wants to beat him? Let’s go five fifty. Five hundred fifty dollars, gentlemen, and you can take this uppity bitch here home and do whatever you want to her from here on. Five fifty?”
Tom owed tax money on his land and stood to lose it if he didn’t pay up. He was short maybe a few hundred dollars, and this was his solution. Sell her to one of his friends, for sex and God knew what else. Like a slave. Like chattel. Like nothing human at all.
She looked around at those red, drunken, leering faces, every last one of them cheering on the whole mess while they stared at her like a piece of meat they were hungry for. She stayed kneeling, hiding her ample breasts with her battered arms and her face with her hair, terrified, mortified, wishing this was just a dream. But no, it wasn’t.
“Five seventy five from Paul Tremper. C’mon, Paul, you think you can cheat me? Even this sad whore’s worth at least seven hundred. Bid her up now, boys, she can even cook. Do I see six hundred?” He pointed to the back. “Six hundred from Joey Clarkson. Gonna beat him, Paul?”
“Six fifty!” yelled Paul Tremper, who owned the one store in town. He was twice her age and half again, with half his hair white and the rest gone, and a beer gut that overhung his groin. He stared nonstop at her breasts and licked his lips with a thick tongue. She thought of his fat, stubby hands on her skin and gagged, pulling ineffectually at the manacles around her wrists. Without breaking his patter, Tom came walking over--and kicked her in the face.
May fell hard and lay there, head ringing as the bidding went on around her. Her jaw throbbed, and her nose dripped fresh blood onto the boards. Terror washed through her in waves--but under it all was that little hot seed of anger. And that part of her whispered that if she ever got the chance, she would burn the place down with everyone here trapped in it. Especially Tom. Most especially Tom.
The bidding was up to seven-fifty, and Tremper was winning. He stared at her greedily, rummaging in the pockets to pay his fee, already thinking he had it in the bag since no one was bidding anymore.
“That’s seven fifty going once...going twice--”
“One thousand dollars.”
The voice came from the back, cutting through the yelling and startling everyone into silence. The crowd rustled, and she dragged her head back up to see what was going on. A man stood in the back of the room--one she had never seen before.
He walked forward, parting the crowd like sheep, his tall form standing head and shoulders above most of them. He was not local. Even if she didn’t know every ugly face in this hellhole town, she would have known that just from the way he carried himself. Refined. Commanding. Not to mention clean. He was huge, well over six feet, only his height balancing the amount of muscle he was carrying under his plain gray trousers and sweater. His polished black boots clicked precisely across the sawdust-strewn floor, and until he stepped into the light, she couldn’t see his face--giving him an air of mystery that didn’t quite dissipate when she could.
His features were narrow, with high cheekbones and an aquiline nose; his skin pale, and his hair paler--almost silvery-looking, and close-cropped like a soldier’s. His narrow, long-lashed eyes were a bright green, like new grass, and fixed on her, returning her gaze directly instead of sliding over her like an unwanted hand. She blinked up at him, and the corners of his eyes crinkled slightly, even if his mouth remained a businesslike line.
“One thousand dollars, cash,” he repeated in a clear voice that held a hint of command. His accent was light, lilting and unfamiliar. Maybe German? Maybe something else entirely. She stared at him, wondering who the hell he was, and why he had walked in on this damned atrocity and decided to participate instead of freeing her.
“Hey, who the Hell are you?” Tremper demanded, going red with frustration as he stomped toward the newcomer.
“Corin,” came the answer, and the man walked past the startled Tremper, headed for the makeshift stage she was chained to. He tilted his head up to look at Tom, one pale eyebrow arching curiously. “Is my bid unacceptable?”
Tom stammered a moment, but then lifted his chin. “Only if you don’t have the cash to back it.”
Corin considered him a moment, then reached into his trouser pocket and removed a substantial bankroll. He counted off twenties ten at a time, then held up the thousand, his expression calm and inscrutable.
“Jesus Christ.” Tom looked impressed...and greedy. He looked around at the others, smirking. “Anybody want to beat that?”
A rustle in the crowd. No hands were raised. Tremper swore and shoved his hands in his pockets, turning away.
Tom slammed his fist against the wall next to him. “Sold to the foreigner in the gray suit! C’mon and pay up here, and I’ll give you the key.”
Oh God, he actually did it. He sold me off like a goddamn cow at auction. And this guy is going along with it! She started to shake, fresh tears rolling through the dried blood on her face.
The man paused, tilting his head to look at her, as if some awareness of her misery had finally sunk in. A line appeared between his brows. He looked between her and Tom, and said quietly, “I assume that she was lawfully won in battle?”
“What’s that?” Tom was holding his hand out for the money, but the question made him cock his head like a confused dog, scratching his scruffy dark beard.
“Her provenance. She appears to have been abused.” The stranger’s businesslike tone never wavered, but that line stayed between his brows.
“I wasn’t won in anything!” May gasped in desperation. “This drunk sonuvabitch is my stepbrother--”
“Shut up!” Tom rounded on her, raising his fist--
--only to have it caught in the stranger’s firm grip. He had moved almost too quickly for May to follow. Tom blinked in shock, and Corin said quietly, “I would prefer that you not further damage my property. The key, please.”
“Money first,” Tom managed, even as he tried and failed to free his hand.
The stranger shrugged, and dropped the roll of a thousand deliberately as he let him go. Tom tossed him the key and then scrambled after the scattered bills.
Corin crouched down next to her and unlocked the collar, lifting it free from her neck. Then he did the same to her wrists and ankles. His hands were surprisingly gentle. Her bonds clanged to the floor nearby and he bent over her, looking her up and down. He looked up at Tom. “She is significantly injured."
"Yeah, well, too bad. You bought her, you deal with her. No take-backs." Tom didn't even look up from gathering $20s. "Now get her out of here. I'm done dealing with that bitch."
The man looked down at her as she struggled to rise. His eyes were cold and implacable, but when he crouched down to pick her up, his hands were gentle. She whimpered as his hand jarred a cracked rib, and he shifted his grip immediately.
She found herself lifted easily, as if she weighed nothing. She shu
ddered, holding herself still, wondering what he would force her to do once they were in private. At least it wouldn't be one of those stinking pigs from town--not that the thought offered her much comfort.
"Try to keep still, your wounds may reopen otherwise," he told her quietly as he carried her out. The others stared at them as they left. Then the roadhouse door banged shut behind them, and she felt the night's cool air on her skin. She grayed out, too exhausted by terror and pain to keep her good eye open.
She woke to the rumble of a motor beneath her and the feel of a thick, soft blanket around her. Something cool lay over her injured eye, clinging to the spot when she shifted. She freed one arm from the blanket and explored the object with her fingers. It felt like a plastic bag filled with some kind of gel. After a moment, she lowered her arm, then steeled herself and opened her eyes.
They were on the highway, pines flashing past the windows along with the occasional oncoming car. The ride was smooth and fast, and high off the road; she guessed they were in a Jeep. The ride was quiet; no radio. Almost as if he had chosen to let her rest a while. She sat up a little--and pain jolted through her ribs again. She stopped with a hiss, and lay back down.