by Alana Khan
Table of Contents
Up to Now…
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Epilogue
Thantose Sneak Peak
Glossary
Who’s Who
Acknowledgments
Copyright
Galaxy Gladiators Alien Abduction Romance Series
DAX: Book Eight
By Alana Khan
Up to Now…
About four months ago, aliens kidnapped ten Earth women and forced them into cells with ten gladiator slaves. Thrown together as random couples, they were ordered to mate under threat of death.
After overthrowing their captors, they’ve been roaming the galaxy earning enough credits to keep ahead of their former owners, the MarZan cartel, as well as the corrupt governing Federation.
Some of the original couples mated, most live in separate quarters on their ship, enjoying ‘friends with benefits’ status. Dax and Dahlia fall into the latter category.
(Click here for a refresher of Who’s Who)
Dax
Present Day
On planet Aeon II
Chapter One
Dahlia
I guess this is as close to the ancient Colosseum in Rome as I’ll get in this lifetime. Ten of us from the Fool’s Errand are sitting on stone benches that ring the round fighting area in this huge outdoor amphitheater.
It's mind-blowing that we arrived on a state-of-the-art spaceship to sit in a structure built thousands of years ago on a planet I never heard of to watch a bloodthirsty combat sport.
Sometimes my new life feels normal —well, the new normal. Sure, hasn’t everyone been kidnapped from their comfy bed and transported into space to be a sex slave? Then taken part (well, a small part —I watched) in an armed insurrection? And then roamed the galaxy in search of credits to stay one step ahead of the evil Federation as well as the galaxy’s most fearsome drug cartel?
But today, everything seems freshly surreal and somehow amazing. I’m watching gladiators fight on hot sands with swords, axes, and spears just like in the movies. Except all of these males are aliens. And in the bowels of this arena, behind an ancient stone wall, is my alien.
Well, he’s really not my alien. Not that he’d object to me calling him that. I’m not sure what else to call the huge alien gladiator my captors forced me to mate with after they abducted me. I’ve pigeonholed things in my mind, calling our ‘thing’ friends with benefits. Occasional benefits. Very occasional. Only when I’m really horny.
I should probably find an alien vibrator on one of the planets we visit. That should be top on my ‘to do’ list. Amazon doesn’t deliver to space, though, and the thought of waltzing into a store and asking a reptilian shopkeeper if he has any vibrating rabbits… well, it sounds too embarrassing.
I’m not being fair to Dax and I know it. He has more feelings for me than I have for him. I’d have to be deaf and blind —or maybe dead —not to notice it. I think it irritates some of the other women on the ship who think I don’t appreciate him. Many of them have paired up with their guys; some have mated. And here I am acting like I’m doing the guy a favor just to sit with him at dinner.
Well, I have my reasons.
Dax
My friends Stryker and Steele flank me on this stone bench, but we’re not talking. Even though none of our upcoming matches are to the death, most males have their own rituals in the minimas before they fight. None of them involve chatter.
I’ve increased my training schedule from six to eight hoaras a day to prepare for this fight. My body’s in peak physical condition. I fight for different reasons now that I’m a free male.
When I was a slave, I fought to be the premier gladiator in my ludus. It provided me with extra provisions, the best bunk, and the first choice of sleeping companions when my masters rewarded us with sex.
Now, I fight for my comrades. It gives me a purpose I never had before. I have one skill —my ability in the arena. Born a slave, groomed to be a fighter from my earliest memory, I’ve honed my gladiatorial skills my entire life.
I sacrifice to keep in top condition. And I give everything I have during my fights so I can win purses that will put fuel in our vessel and food in our bellies. I would die to keep this ship running, to help us evade our enemies. It’s much more fulfilling than fighting to line some drackhole owner’s pockets.
I say I fight for everyone on the ship, and that’s true. But I only have one picture in my mind when I say it —Dahlia. My Dahlia. I shouldn’t think of her like this. She doesn’t feel that way about me. But it’s what’s in my heart, and I’ve never been good at lying to myself.
“All right, drackholes,” the Reptilian slave master snarls, “Kryton and Vex are up next, then Alban and Merrit.”
I rise and shuffle toward him. The dracker has no idea I’m a free male. I fight under the name of Vex, ‘owned’ by my ‘mistress’, Dahlia.
We just bought a new ship and gave it a new name. Being on the run, we take every precaution to evade our pursuers. Between the Federation itself and the MarZan cartel, our powerful ruthless former owners, it seems every resource in the galaxy is hunting us.
Which is why I fight.
I stand in the arched stone doorway with an excellent view of the arena. This is one of the biggest I’ve fought in, and it’s old —ancient. The stands hold 60,000 beings, and it looks almost full. I don’t know where Dahlia is. It’s better that way. I don’t need distractions when I fight.
The current match is a Cestus match, which is also how Steel, Stryker and I will fight. Although they don’t pay as well, they’re fought without weapons and are the least likely to result in injury.
Cestus gladiators fight nude and unarmed. There are few other rules.
“Drackhole, put on your gloves!” the Reptilian shouts at me. When I give him a questioning look he sneers, “Your match is gloved, idiot.”
They do things differently here. Gloves are banned in most sectors because they can be so deadly. The gloves cover from knuckle to wrist and have small metal balls encased in leather over the entire back surface. I’ve heard of males killed with one good punch.
Luck is with me today, a kind-hearted shaggy blue Chaldean throws me his gloves. “I’m betting on you,” he says, “I’ll need those back.”
I’ve never worn a pair of these before, so the Chaldean helps me wrap the leather bindings around wrists and forearms. Stryker and Steele are watching every move. They’ll be fighting soon and may need them.
I thrust each fist into the opposing palm a few times to get the feel of these. They add at least a dextan of weight to each hand. I can see how they’re deadly —and why they’re banned.
I appraise my opponent. He’s an ugly, mottled brown humanoid with an amphibious look. The round ochre patches on his cheeks look papery thin. He’ll be vulnerable in those spots. He has two eyelids on each eye, one blinks up and the other blinks down. This isn’t a vulnerability, it just gives him an evil, angry expression.
He’s a head shorter than me, but I’ve found my size isn’t a big advantage in most gladiatorial matches. It all comes down to skill. This being my first time in a gloved match, I’m at a distinct disadvantage.
The roar
of the crowd brings my attention to the ring. The reptilian from Dray is pounding his opponent, a Herren, not only with his gloved hands but his muscular green tail.
Usually in Cestus matches, officials stop the fight when one opponent is on the ground and can’t get up. That evidently isn’t the way it’s done on Aeon II. The sound of crunching facial bones and high-pitched screams assaults my ears.
I take a deep breath and let it out slowly. Controlling my breathing and pulse pulls my thoughts to the present. I’m a gladiator. This is what I do. This is what I’ve always done. This is who I am. I’m lucky I’m no longer forced to fight —it’s a choice. I protect and provide for the others. I do this for Dahlia.
The judge stops the match only after the Herren is unconscious. Two lackeys pull him past me by his ankles. He’ll be lucky if he survives.
“Vex versus Kryton,” a deep male voice announces over what sounds like state-of-the-art speakers.
Entering the arena, the blazing heat of the sands burns my bare feet and the harsh suns bake the top of my head. I glance at the blur of spectators in the stands, then focus on the arena. Ten fiertos away there’s a small pool of blood where the Herren just laid.
The ceremonial horns blare, signaling the start of the match. We thump one fist to our chest as is the custom and come out fighting. I don’t initiate the fight. I wait for him to come at me —it gives me the edge.
He attacks like an animal, head down, fists balled at his sides, all might and no thought. He’s grunting. I step aside and he rushes past me.
“You missed,” I taunt.
He returns using the same strategy, his head still down. I take one step to the left; he darts past me again.
If the stakes weren’t so deadly, I’d feel cocky right now. But a fight like this could switch directions in a moment. I keep my focus.
He approaches a third time, now upright, looking at me. He swings. I parry, thrusting his hand away with my forearm.
Stepping toward me, he tucks his arms to his sides and pummels my abdomen with short, tight punches. Now that he’s within my reach, I pull back and give him one hard punch to the jaw that hits him with such force he stumbles backward, his head cocked to the side.
After taking a moment to regain his senses, he approaches again, jabs at my face, and misses. He manages a hard punch to my jaw which swings my head back. While I’m shaking my head to clear my thoughts, he attacks with another short, quick volley to my belly. I pull back my fist and punch him so hard in the shoulder he falls to the sand.
If I had delivered that punch to his jaw, he’d be dead. Without question.
He rises to a knee, then forces himself upright. After wobbling a moment, he hurtles toward me and leaps, connecting with my jaw. Pain spikes from the point of impact to the top of my head. My vision goes black, then I see floating stars. I stumble backward, trying to regain my senses before he can manage another punch.
Balling my fists, I breathe, focus, and see him running toward me. My greater size is an advantage as my longer arm reaches him before he’s close enough to touch me. I connect with his jaw, and he crumples to the ground. That punch could have killed a lesser male.
“Stay down, Kryton.”
He shakes his head, less in a ‘no’ motion than in an attempt to get his brain back online.
“Stay down, Kryton. My next punch will kill you.”
He bobbles his head again and attempts to rise. This imbecile is going to get himself killed.
I push him back with the bottom of my foot, then step on his chest, pressing his back to the sand. I place my foot on his collarbone, pinning him to the ground.
“Seven dextans of pressure will break this bone, idiot. Stay down.”
He’s still attempting to get to his feet.
I put a little more pressure against his collarbone and it’s ready to break when he finally lies back down.
Applause fills the stands. If I looked up, I’d find Dahlia. All I’d need to do is follow the loudest applause; it would be from my group of friends.
I don’t want to see her right now. She doesn’t like my fighting. She might be clapping, but I’m certain her eyes won’t be bright with pride at my accomplishment.
Perhaps she’d be proud if she knew I could have killed that male if I’d shown less restraint.
Dahlia
I’ve watched several of Dax’s fights since we’ve been on the run, but I take no joy from it. I was never a fan of MMA or WWF or any of those American Gladiator things on TV. Knowing people could be seriously hurt? Especially when I happen to sleep with one of them from time to time? No, not for me.
But I come because I like Dax, and he appreciates my support. So I’m here, and I’m watching. He’s bigger than the other guy. And if I can judge by looks, he’s stronger than his opponent. But what’s with the gloves? He’s never worn those before.
“By the balls of Freyd,” Shadow says through gritted teeth, “those are Cestus gloves. Most civilized planets have banned them for eons… except for Aeon II, apparently.”
“Banned? Why?” I’m certain I don’t want to hear the answer.
“You can’t see from here, but they’re lined with metal balls. One good punch can kill.”
I glance up at Shadow’s serious face. His clenched square jaw tells me he’s worried. Which causes me to worry, too.
I may not want to share quarters with the guy, but I certainly don’t want to watch Dax get killed under the hot suns in this antique coliseum.
I use several techniques to get through the match. Closing my eyes works until the crowd erupts in noise. Then, whether it’s booing or cheering or a collective gasp, I open my eyes and watch through my fingers.
When the toad-guy hits Dax with a flurry of rights and lefts to the abdomen, it’s as if I’m on the receiving end of the pain. I could swear I quit breathing until the end of the match when Dax’s opponent lies back on the sand and the judge walks out and holds up Dax’s hand, declaring him the winner.
I’m standing without even being conscious of it. “How do I get down there, Shadow? I want to be with him. Look at his stomach.” I point as if anyone needed direction. His abdomen is a mass of red welts visible from a hundred yards.
“You can’t go down there, Dahlia.”
“Like hell.” I can’t just sit here and wait for Steele and Stryker to finish their matches. “Unacceptable. I’m not waiting,” my voice is commanding. “I’m the owner of record. I can collect him. Can you come with me Dr. Drayke? He’ll need medical attention once I get him back to the ship.”
“Yes,” blue Dr. Drayke says, his voice clipped. He doesn’t like these matches any more than I do.
“Thanks.” My heart won’t quit racing until I’m back on the Fool’s Errand with Dax.
I hurry down the aisle and slide sideways in front of the first row to get to the shelter where they keep the fighters.
It’s hot and dusty and I could swear I smell sweat that has seeped into the porous rock walls over the last thousand years.
Dax’s stomach looks worse than it did a few minutes ago. In addition to huge red welts, there are places I can see individual round red dots where those metal ball bearings pounded him.
Dax looks relieved when we collect him, but he remains his macho self and rises to join us, acting as casual as if his name was just called to be seated at Olive Garden. We all know he’s hurting, but he won’t cop to it.
Half an hour later we’re leaving medbay, where the doc gave Dax a diagnosis of a concussion, a recommendation to get some rest, and a supply of painkillers.
“I’ll help you to your room, get you settled, then grab you some food,” I say.
“You don’t have to.”
I crane my head to glance up at him. He’s in a great deal of pain, but he’s plastered a calm mask over his face.
“I want to.”
“Okay, if that’s what you want.”
With every step we make toward his cabin I notice he puts mo
re of his weight on my shoulder.
My brother and I had a push-and-shove match once when we were in grade school. He punched me so hard in the stomach it knocked the wind out of me. I stood there, eyes opening wider and wider in fright as I realized I couldn’t breathe. No air went in and no air went out. I remember it like it was yesterday ‘cause it scared the shit out of me.
Dax is a big, bad gladiator, but I wonder if sometimes taking all this pain isn’t as easy as he makes it seem.
He’s hot and sticky and has sand clinging everywhere. I’d want a shower if I was him, but he may just want to sink into bed.
“Want a shower?”
He nods. Which scares me a bit. Dax is a talker. He’s massive and loud and funny. He teases the other guys and jokes with the girls. Big Dax is many things. Quiet isn’t one of them.