Captured by the Alien Warrior: A Sci-Fi Alien Romance (Zalaryn Raiders Book 2)

by Viki Storm

  “Undress,” he says again. “Wash your breasts. Then bend over and let me inspect you. You’re supposed to be a virgin. I want to see what a pure human cunt looks like. You might be clan property, and I might have to submit you to the auction house, but mark my words: I will buy you. I will own you. The first cock you feel piercing through your tight little hole is going to be mine.”

  “No,” I say. I’m not sure what I’m saying ‘no’ to—then I realize I’m saying no to all of it.

  He just laughs. “That’s not a word I like to hear. If I hear it too much, I might have to cut out your tongue. They used to do that to human slaves in the old days. But our race has gotten a bit weak. I’m trying to restore our glory, restore our warrior spirit. Purge the weak element from our society. Part of that includes showing our human slaves their proper place. You will obey me. You will service me and my crew. Defiance will not be tolerated.”

  “Now,” he says, pausing to catch his breath. He’s gotten a little worked up. White, frothy spittle has gathered in the corners of his mouth. There’s a few dewy drops of sweat at his temple. “I told you to undress. Wash your breasts. Then bend over and present yourself for inspection. I need to get to the cockpit and set a course with our Admiral Superior, so I do not have time to take my pleasure of you—when I do that, I will need lots of time—but I do wish to look at your cunt and see what type of female I have captured. Remember what I said about the word I hate to hear.”

  I can’t believe what I’m hearing. His words, so full of venom, compounded by the fact that they sound so bizarre with his harsh alien accent. Cut out my tongue? That might only be the first thing he can think to punish me. These bastards are creative in their violence, if nothing else. I know what they did to Delilah and Bert. Still.

  “No,” I say. I am not going to start down this path of servitude. I might be wearing a collar and a leash, but I am no one’s dog. If I don’t resist, if I submit and say ‘yes’ this time, it will be all that easier to say ‘yes’ next time. And the time after that. And then I will cease to be a human. I will be a dog. His dog. “No,” I say again, louder, this time in the Zalaryn tongue. “Never.”

  “You stupid whore,” he says. “I don’t have time for this.” He pulls back his arm to strike me, but I’m able to get my hand up just in time to shield the worst of it. Still, it hurts terribly. I feel like I was just kicked by an ornery donkey.

  I stagger and fall to the floor. He pulls the purple garment from me and reaches for a control on the wall. The spigot begins to spray freezing cold water, colder than the water from the wells in Yrdat during our coldest winter months. He pulls the handle of the spigot out of the wall and sprays it onto me. The water pressure from the little hose is intense. It feels like I’m being stung by a hundred bees, all with icy-poison in their stingers.

  I open my mouth to scream and he points the jet of water in my mouth. I gag on it, coughing and choking as it comes out my nose.

  “I told you to wash away your filth,” he says. He kicks me while I’m on the ground, trying to ball myself up and protect my face from the harsh spray of water. After what feels like long minutes, the water turns off and he puts the hose back onto the wall.

  “Wait until I come back,” he says. “You will learn obedience. I have all sorts of things to help you learn. And if you can’t learn…” he pauses, seeming to consider the disappointment he’d feel at such a wayward pupil. “I’ll throw you to the crew—and after they’ve used you up, you’ll go out the hatch into the void. And if anyone ever asks, I never captured a Marked female on Yrdat. That barcode on your shoulder will only protect you if I want it to. And right now, returning an escaped Marked female to the auction house would help my father’s cause to the High Throne. But if you become more trouble than you are worth, remember what I said: First to the crew. Then out the hatch. They’re a hearty and hale group of lads. When the last one’s done with you, the first one will be ready again. Think on this while I’m gone.”

  He closes the door to the washroom, leaving me wet and shivering on the cold, white floor.

  At least I’m clean, I think. I’m used to being cold, but clean? I haven’t been this clean in a long time. I get up to a sitting position and start to think. One thing is in my favor—he did not lock my collar in position. Kroda was able to set it to freeze in position, keeping me stuck in place. But the captain either doesn’t know how to do so, or doesn’t have the controls.

  I run my hands along the washroom’s door panel, but can’t feel any latch or lock. There was a little box with buttons on the outside of the door that controlled the locks. Their technology is far, far more advanced than anything on Yrdat—but it’s also more advanced than anything on Earth. Even in my family’s large house, we didn’t have ever-glowing lights or magic buttons that turned things on and off.

  I know that such things used to exist. I always kept up with my studies; my father insisted upon it. I know much about the history of Earth and the technology of the Pre-War Era. This door uses some sort of electrical conductor to work. I can make no guess at what material powers it, but it most certainly works with semi-conductors and circuit boards.

  Both of which are ruined by water.

  I take the water hose from the wall spigot and turn it back on. I blast myself in the face with another cold jet of water, but after tinkering with the buttons, I get it under control. I spray at the door for what seems like forever. The water level is rising inside the washroom, the water spraying at a faster rate than it is able to seep out under the door. The captain will come back and find his room a bit more wet than he left it. Maybe the rotten bastard will slip in a puddle and break his neck.

  There is finally a crack and pop and then the stink of burning polymer. I have a moment of panic when I wonder if I broke the door lock and permanently locked myself inside this washroom. Would the captain take pains to break down the door and retrieve me? Or would a sadistic creature like him take pleasure in my slow death? Because it would be slow. In here, I have all the water I can drink. I’d last for a while. It might take me weeks or more to starve to death.

  Still, I feel a smile spread across my face. That might not be as merciful as the boiling blood and exploding lungs of a free-fall in space, but I’d take that over whatever cruel fate is in store for me aboard this ship full of lustful warriors.

  As soon as I have that thought, smoke starts to leak out from the crack of the door panel. I try to slide the door open—and to my surprise, it opens.

  I rummage through the captain’s room to find a weapon. He always keeps that stick-thing on his belt, but maybe there’s something in the room I can use. I open his wardrobe closet and see he has many fine garments hanging up. His breeches are soft leather, but even with a belt there’s no way I can keep them up. The Zalaryns usually go shirtless, but he’s got a few billowy tunics hanging up—the white cloth seeming to glow in the dark cabinet. I throw one on and it comes to my knees. I wish I could have a pair of underwear or pants, but this tunic at least covers my body.

  I scour the room but find nothing suitably sharp or heavy to use as a weapon.

  The captain has a lot of furs and pillows and clothes and tapestries—but nothing I can use as a weapon against that giant brute.

  I’m thinking that maybe I can strangle him with the end of my leash when I hear the boots echoing in the hallway. Heavy. Fast. Someone’s running.

  And then, with one sickening blow that seems to rattle the marrow inside my bones, the door flies open.

  Setting up the comm-antenna and the signal beacon is difficult. I need a wide-open area to unpack the equipment—the sky can’t be obscured by rock or trees or storm clouds. The comm-antenna is two feet high, and must be tilted at a thirty degree angle facing west. Assembly takes at least thirty minutes.

  Which is why I don’t do it.

  As the crew of warriors boards the ship, I linger in the back of the line. My fingers brush up against the satchel on my waist-pouch where
I keep the communications equipment. I could sneak away, hide out until the ship takes flight. Set up the instruments and send a message to Xalax, telling him that the rebels are planning to raid our home planet in just a few days’ time. Then send the signal beacon that will broadcast my coordinates, and wait for Ayvinx to descend in a light craft and come get me. I can resume my post as Captain of the Imperial Guard with all the respect and honor rightfully accorded to one in such a position.

  Yet my fingers do no more than brush against my satchel, feeling the hard metal lines of the instruments.

  Rebel commander Noxu and his wretched son Ingzan have a lot of spiteful words about the weaklings in the Zalaryn race. That we’ve gone soft. That we need to remember our true warrior spirit.

  But they’re wrong.

  Zalaryns are warriors. We take what we want.

  But we have honor. We take from the weak, but we do not take from the destitute or the infirm. We collect females as tribute, but we do not force ourselves on the females of planets we raid. We do not lie. We do not betray trust.

  That is where Noxu and his ilk are wrong. They say they embody the true Zalaryn spirit, but in fact they represent the deepest perversion of our warrior code of honor. They are nothing but spoiled children who want to indulge their worst instincts—and lash out at any wise elder who tries to guide them towards the righteous path.

  That is why I can’t leave Aren to her fate upon that ship. When I put the collar around her neck, I did it to protect her—that is true. But what’s also true is that when I put the collar around her neck, I owned her.

  From that second forward, I owned her.

  And I must take back what’s mine.

  I file into the ship with the rest of the crew, but I hang back, hoping no one will notice me. Hoping—as much as it causes my ears to pulse with my boiling blood—that the lads will be too excited at the prospect of taking their pleasure with a human female that they will not notice my lurking. I make my way through the corridors, but when I get to my small room, I keep walking. I have a small travel bag, but there is nothing valuable inside.

  The only thing I care about is locked in the captain’s chambers.

  “Hey,” a voice says. I don’t recognize the voice, but when I turn around I recognize it as belonging to Voa. He was the one who was ready to help with the skewering.

  “What?” I hiss. I do not need to be challenged by a cruel and lump-headed youth.

  “Where are you going?” he asks, like he’s taken it upon himself to be the leader of ship security. Or, more likely, he’s looking for a fight. There are many like him in our race—more muscles than wits, unfit for idleness, two clenched fists ever-ready at his sides and always looking for a face in which to plant them. In what seems like another life, it was my job to whip lads like him into shape. Teach them discipline and respect and honor. Mostly youths like him don’t want to learn, but almost everyone can be taught if you whip them soundly enough.

  But things have changed. Noxu has given an alternative choice to youths like Voa. Why stay in the service of the High King and endure hard training and learn self-control, when you can join in the rebellion and be told that those base instincts are righteous and should be honed to a fine point?

  “None of your concern, lad,” I say. I try to brush past him, but he has the gall to grab hold of my wrist. I clench my teeth and swallow my rage. Beating some sense into this little imp will only draw attention to this area of the ship. Instead, I rotate my wrist and jerk it back in one quick move that leaves his hand empty and his eyes wide with surprise. I push him against the wall, wincing when the sound of his skull clanging on the wall echoes down the corridor.

  “You’re going to get her aren’t you? Sad that your pretty piece of human cunt got taken away from you? She might be Marked, but the captain said that we could—”

  “I heard what the captain said,” I say. I can’t bear to hear those vile words again.

  I want to rip out Voa’s tongue as a preventative measure.

  “That’s why I’m giving him this.” I hold up the control to Aren’s collar. It’s a small piece of metal, cylindrical with just a few buttons. Open and close, hold and unhold. “It’s the control to her collar.”

  “Maybe since you have the control, you plan to unlock her,” Voa says, smiling like he thinks he’s really smart to have figured this out. “I think I should call the captain and see what he has to say about this. You have a sour look, like you want to keep her all for yourself. If I was you, I’d be raging with all the blackness of the void if someone took her from me. I’d feel so weak, so powerless—”

  But he can say no more. In one second, he is on the floor, two of his teeth tinkling on the floor in a shroud of bloody pulp. Something crunches inside my hand as it connects with his face, but I ignore it. I have broken more bones in my hand than I care to count.

  I step over him and continue down the path. Voa will be found sooner rather than later, but I plan on being far away from here by then.

  The door to the captain’s room is locked, but with a quick charge to my weapon, I blast it open. The sound is not terribly loud, but the shockwave reverberations of an anankah blast are unmistakable. They will come. Soon.

  I open the door and see that the room is torn apart. She must have fought. Of course she did. She has the spirit of Lakiv, the first Zalaryn Warrior Queen.

  “Aren,” I whisper. As I walk further into the room, my boots squelch on the rug. Wet. What the hell happened in here?

  In a crude imitation of yesterday’s scene, she leaps out at me, a glimmering weapon in her hand. But this time I am ready for her. I catch her in my arms, wrapping them tightly around her.

  I brace for her thrashing and struggle, the moment I close my arms around her waist, she stops. She relaxes. She melts—like an ice block in the light of the suns.

  And she puts her arms around me.

  Our bodies are pushed flat against each other, the bony knobs of her hips pressed against mine. Her breasts are against my chest, her nipples stiff and hard as rocks underneath the tunic.

  Mine. She is mine and I have her back. The relief washes over me… along with something else. Something stronger than any oath I might have sworn at the Imperial Fortress.

  That’s when I feel it start to happen. The change.

  It must only take a few moments, but every fraction of every second is slowed to an excruciatingly, deliciously slow pace.

  My cock grows hard and heavy, threatening to undo every stitch of every seam in my breeches. My chest starts to prickle, like there’s a hundred hot needles going into my flesh. But it’s not an altogether unpleasant feeling. I’m flushed hot, sweat sprouting under my arms. The sick anxiety I’ve been holding in my stomach gives way to a warm spreading feel of content.

  Content? No. Not content. Hunger is more apt. Desire. Longing to consume every inch of her.

  To make her mine.

  She has been mine since she leapt out of the closet. I just didn’t realize it.

  I thought I was collaring her to protect her. Oh no. I took her to make her mine. There was nothing honorable about it.

  I want her with a pure and simple greed.

  I don’t even need to look down to know that my chest is turning purple. This small human female, hidden amongst the weeds and the dust of a desolate planet in the far-flung reaches of the quadrant: she is my bonded mate.

  I can feel the bond forging between us, palpable, like a collar around my own neck.

  The desire to take her right now on the captain’s bed is overwhelming. Her body is hidden by the over-sized tunic and I want to rip it off of her—to see her smooth and pale body again. The taut pink peaks of her nipples. The thatch of dark hair between her legs.

  I can sense her desire and her fear, mingling together in waves that seem to linger about her. She feels it too. Of course she does.

  When the universe gives you a mate, it does not whisper the fact. It knocks you on the head and
screams it in your ear.

  I press my erection against her stomach. The urge to thrust is strong. It is involuntary, like a sneeze, my need to penetrate.

  Suddenly, she breaks away from me. “Listen,” she says, speaking the Zalaryn language so clearly and perfectly I don’t realize it at first. “I hear someone coming.”

  “You understand my language?” I ask. Did the captain give her an implant?

  “Yes,” she says. “I had a procedure when I was young.”

  She was able to hear all of the cruel and vile things that the other warriors said about her. She heard the captain’s threat: she’s got two other holes we can have fun with.

  I hope it is the captain who’s coming so I can give him a procedure that will prevent him from having fun with any hole ever again.

  “Get on the bed,” I command. I wish it was a command in earnest, but there is no time for that now. The lust that clouds my entire being fades as I hear the heavy boots in the corridor. I click the control of her collar and there is a hiss of air as the pneumatic lock releases. She looks at me, perplexed, but I reach over and take it from her neck. “Pretend you’re asleep. When he comes in, distract him, don’t anger him.” I hide behind one of the cabinets and wait the longest ten seconds of my life.

  “Human!” Captain Ingzan shouts. He flings open the door and immediately sees her on the bed. He screams something else, speaking her language. I don’t understand what he’s saying, but I don’t need to. He’s gesturing to the room, the obvious state of disarray.

  She answers him and I’m astounded how calm and steady her voice sounds. There is such strength in that tiny little human. I’ve seen many valiant acts on the battlefield, but her bravery in the face of this monster is just as admirable. Probably more so.

  He yells some more and I only recognize one word in his rantings: Kroda.

  She replies, but he cuts off her words with a torrent of his own rage. He reaches back his hand to strike her.