Unwelcome

by Annalise Alexis

  Ren looks over his shoulder and slows his pace. “I do not see the appeal.”

  “I guess when you can plug directly into your pleasure center and orgasm without having to go through all the work of talking and arranging, it would save some time,” I say.

  Ragar shoves a tall, armor-laced guy who gets a little too close to our quartet. The interloper snarls as he crashes into a nearby table and spills the drinks of the two blue, spiky-haired males currently fighting over one of the aforementioned jail bait serving the establishment. All three are dressed in layers of rags and mismatched animal skins. My guess—they’re ravagers or pirates. The two from the table are speaking a language I can’t understand, but the tall one curses in Meta.

  Pissed and dripping with booze, the two blue guys abandon their argument over the flesh peddler and focus their aggression on us. Ragar turns and straightens to his full height, exposing the large scar that starts high on his cheek and wraps around his throat. At more than six-foot-seven-inches tall and weighing more than three-hundred-and-fifty pounds, his size alone warrants caution. The feral aggression that constantly swirls in his cerulean blue eyes is all most people need to see to know to back down and avoid him at all costs. The three strangers glance at each other, assessing their combined strengths. Satisfied, they stalk toward him.

  “Should we do something?” I whisper to Ren through our bond.

  His lips spread into a grin so wide it pulls at the corners of his eyes. Damn, he’s beautiful. Leandra shivers beside me at the sight of Ren’s exposed teeth. “Just watch, my Aciana. Violence is Ragar’s specialty.”

  Wasting no time, Ragar strides toward them at human speed. How strange. I know how quick he is, why would he choose to move at such a slow pace?

  “He is toying with them.”

  I take a step back, pulling Leandra along with me. I get the feeling not even an umbrella will shield us from the bloody mess we’re about to witness.

  “Come on, you big dumb motherfucker.” The tall one Ragar shoved throws back his hood, revealing a deep orange complexion and a crown of green braids covering his head. His long saber-like teeth curve from his lower jaw halfway up his cheek, and several heavy earrings dangle from his right ear. The two blue guys drop down on all fours and rear back, ready to attack.

  The fight is over in seconds. Ragar walks directly up to the orange guy and rips his ear off so fast, the guy blinks four times before his pupils focus on the jeweled piece of flesh dangling from Ragar’s fist. Abandoning the fight, the two on the ground skitter past him and head for the exit. Finally registering his pain, the male jerks forward, throwing a sloppy punch. Ragar ducks out of the way, palms the male’s skull, and squeezes until he falls lifeless on the ground.

  Well, that wasn’t as messy as I thought it would be. To be honest, I’m a little disappointed.

  Leandra’s gaze is frozen on the blood dripping from Ragar’s fist. His nostrils twitch as he sniffs the air, and concern flashes in his eyes. What does he smell? Leandra’s fear, maybe? He quickly drops the torn flesh to the floor and wipes his bloody hands on his pants. One look at Ren tells me he noticed it too.

  Ragar held back.

  Chapter Eight

  Jayla

  Two of the half-naked females we passed earlier cluck angrily at each other as they grab the dead guy and drag him by the ankles through an employee-only door. The dirty looks they throw our way suggest they don’t appreciate the added workload.

  Everyone stares as we make our way through the crowded room and up the stairs.

  So much for blending in.

  Ren wraps an arm around me at the top of the steps, and Ragar moves in closer to Leandra. People in various states of undress lounge on couches and chairs strewn about the room. Slapping my hand over my mouth, I try to stifle my squeal. At the bar, an actual living, breathing drink server takes orders.

  All service industry jobs on Earth are operated by robots. Jobs for humans are few and far between. So when the chance to apply for a job on Station U came up, I jumped at it. Since Station U was experimental and all the jobs manual—no robotic assistance at all—there wasn’t much competition.

  Determined to live out my western fantasy, I skip away from Ren and sidle up to the bar, pulling Leandra along with me. The Metlinian barkeep scowls and turns his back to me. Jerks like him are why no one uses live laborers anymore. Whatever. It’s not like I could have ordered a drink anyway. I don’t speak Metlin and I have nothing to pay him with. Turning to leave, I feel a light pressure on my butt, followed by a rush of air behind me.

  What the hell…

  Standing there with a severed arm in his hand, Ren’s black pupils are trained on the creature cowering on the floor. He throws his arm at the handsy alien, then reaches over to pull me against his side.

  Can I not leave him alone for two seconds?

  “Um, did you just rip that guy’s arm off?” I ask, surveying the reaction from the room’s occupants. None of the other guests seem too surprised at the level of violence Ren just displayed. Most are busy drinking, gambling, or getting serviced. The bartender is the only one who looks annoyed. He yells into the back and throws his rag onto the bar.

  I point to the thing still wriggling around on the ground. “Seriously?”

  “He touched you,” Ren answers dryly.

  “Yeah, I get that. But you ripped off his entire arm...”

  He shrugs. “He will not attempt it again, now will he?”

  Damn, he’s a savage sometimes. I probably would be more disturbed except the man, thing—whatever it is— sprouts another arm fairly quickly. Ragar disappears to scout the area and the rooms for rent down the hall behind me. Judging by the sounds, most of them are occupied by people engaging in the same VR porno. Not much variety, eh? I’ve never partaken in one myself, but I’ve heard they come complete with a set of programmed pleasure sensations. And a guaranteed happy ending.

  Taking a seat next to Ren and Leandra, I try to blend in. Kind of hard when you’re pasty white and fully clothed. I snicker when the same girls from downstairs start scrubbing the blood stains off the floor. Poor things, they really are getting the shit end of the deal working here. I select the option for Meta translation on the digital menu inlaid in the table and let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. The girls of choice are all adults. Letting my eyes stray to one currently grinding topless on the lap of a bulky, burgundy-faced male with long black braids, a head of bright red hair hovering in the back snags my attention. My view of his face is obstructed by a pair of tits but I can tell from the silver hands squeezing the base of her back, it’s probably our guy. Jackpot!

  “Psst. Twelve o'clock,” I whisper to Ren, trying to be covert. He raises a brow and shakes his head.

  Leandra looks confused. “There isn’t anyone behind me, Jay. What are you talking about?”

  “Tren Vakoro sits behind us, Skara. That is the incorrect description.”

  “Oh, well you get my point. Wait, how long have you known he was there?” I ask, surprised Ren hasn’t detained him yet.

  “Since before we sat down.”

  “What the hell? What are we waiting for? This place reeks of armpits and jizz. Can we get out of here already?”

  Leandra removes her hands from the table. The couple previously dry humping on the couch to her left start to full-on screw. “You’ve got to be kidding me…” she mutters under her breath, cupping her hands around her eyes to avoid seeing the jiggling ass bouncing up and down not too far from her face.

  “Have patience. Ragar is scouting for additional threats and searching the smuggler’s room for useful information. The male is sufficiently distracted for the time being.”

  I sneak another glance at Tren Vakoro. His metallic hands grip the set of bare ass cheeks on his lap with fervor. Well, that escalated faster than expected.

  “Stay here,” Ren whispers, rising from his chair. I crane my neck to meet his gaze.

  “What? Where are y
ou going?” I look back at the smuggler, and the girl on his lap has stopped bouncing.

  “What the hell?” The girl climbs off of him and pulls down her skirt, revealing his exposed dick pushing through the opening in his pants.

  Vakoro is frozen in place, veins bulging with both hands gripping his thighs. His eyes are closed, and the Durosian he hired to service him is none too pleased he appears to have fallen asleep while she was doing her thing.

  “Asshole. You still have to pay me.” She reaches into his pocket and pulls out his currency stick. After pressing the small square end to the chip imbedded in her wrist, she throws it at him before walking away, tucking in her boobs in as she goes. “Thanks for the tip, dickhead.”

  One look at Ren confirms he’s holding the guy’s mind. Part of me wants to explain to the Durosian that Vakoro hadn’t grown bored, but if she wasn’t bright enough to figure that out herself, trying to explain mind control probably wouldn’t sink in either.

  “I guess Ragar found what he needed?” I ask for Leandra’s benefit.

  Ren nods. “He is positioned at the end of the stairs. Please stay seated while I detain the Bandurian.”

  Ren stalks toward the smuggler. Leandra and I, not wanting to be in the way, ignore his request and retreat in the opposite direction to the chairs by the bar. Ren grabs Tren Vakoro by his throat and lifts him from the seat.

  “Don’t forget to let him breathe!” I yell out as a reminder, catching the attention of a nearby table occupied with several rough-looking males gambling. All four of them have green skin and numerous facial piercings. With two slits for a nose and wide eyes, they’re far more reptilian than any other race I’ve seen. The black ink tattooed all over them appears to display varied levels of authority, and the presumed leader—covered head to toe—is far less interested in Ren than the other three.

  The Bandurian’s skin continues to fade from a vibrant metallic silver to a duskier gray until, with a sigh, Ren releases his lungs, and Vakoro sucks in a strangled breath. He could probably breathe a little better if Ren weren’t crushing his windpipe, but I keep my thoughts to myself. Ren has a particular way of doing things, and no matter how many times I object, the outcome will be the same. He’ll get what he needs whether his target stays alive or not. At this point, my goal is just to keep them breathing.

  The sound of a plasma gun whining to life behind me sends a cold chill down my spine. Lumin begins to creep out of my palms, and I stiffen as I make eye contact with Leandra. Ren’s staring intently at me with his head slightly tilted in a puzzled manner. Still holding Tren, a deep growl rumbles from his throat.

  “Do not move Skara. The male behind the bar is resisting my influence.”

  Leandra gently wraps her hand around my arm in an effort to keep me calm.

  “Let him go,” the bartender demands.

  Oh shit, how does a Metlin speak Meta? I can’t tell if he has balls the size of Jupiter or just a glaring death wish, but either way he’s about to have a rude awakening. The gamblers pick up their table and move it several feet to the left to avoid whatever mess we’re about to make.

  “Does he look like the type that takes orders?” I huff, tucking my chin as he presses the barrel harder against the back of my head.

  “He will if he wants to keep that cunt of yours warm.”

  I see red. There has never been another word in history I despise more. Millions of years of evolution and there’s always some asshat somewhere that thinks it’s okay to use that term to insult a female.

  Fuck this guy.

  Reaching back, I grab his wrist and cover it with enough Lumin to hear a sizzle.

  Ren jumps forward, dragging Tren along with him as the bartender drops the gun and uses his good hand to grab me by the hair. Hot searing pain slices across my scalp as he yanks me backward over the bar. Retrieving a knife sheathed in his boot, he holds it to my throat.

  “Do that again, bitch, and you’re dead.” Leandra is hidden behind Ragar’s huge body, her hands wrapped around his waist. Ren stops, completely still, glaring at the Metlinian jerk holding me.

  I stare at the Metlin’s wrist, confused. I touched him. He shouldn’t still be alive. The flesh continues to sizzle and melt until it burns down to reveal a metallic exoskeleton underneath. That explains why Ren can’t control him. He’s a cyborg—or at least part machine.

  “Do you see it?” I ask silently.

  “I do. I have calculated the odds. The risk is too great to chance your life. I will release him. For now.”

  After his feet hit the floor, Tren takes off for the hallway. The Metlin shoves me forward, and Ren is there, easing me over the bar. He squeezes me tightly for a second before depositing me behind Ragar.

  Making a show of looking around for Tren, the Metlin smirks confidently at the patrons who are watching the scene. The idiot even winks at Ren when he confirms the smuggler is no longer visible.

  Oh, man. He’s so dead.

  “That mind control shit don’t work on me, man.” He taps his forehead with the tip of his blade and then points it at us. “Got an UCom upgrade fifteen years back before they excommunicated my ass. Now take your whore and g—”

  Stopped mid-sentence, the life drains from the Metlin’s orange skin as Ren shoves his knife into the bartender’s open mouth. Launching himself over the bar, Ren advances the weapon deeper, making sure the Metlin feels every inch until it reaches the hilt and he yanks him off his feet.

  Ren lowers his head. “My Aciana, payment for his disrespect.” His black gaze bores into me as he launches the Metlin’s body into the group of relocated gamblers. The table buckles under the dead Metlin’s weight, and the males frantically rush to pick up various pieces and currency sticks.

  Hopping back over the bar to grab me, Ren kisses our joined hands, then guides me forward in the opposite direction the smuggler went.

  “But he went that way…” I point past the bar, to the hallway on the left.

  “Yes, my Aciana. He is no longer there.”

  “How do you know? Wait, don’t answer that. Um, thanks by the way. I really hate that word.”

  Ren squeezes my hand and tilts his head to look at me. “I know.”

  Chapter Nine

  Jayla

  Leandra and Ragar are so far ahead of us, they’re out of sight by the time we get down to the main floor. The bright prism lights and loud music here are a stark contrast to the relaxed, sensual vibe of the second level. Glancing over my shoulder, I make sure we aren’t being followed. Good, all clear. The last thing I need is another idiot challenging Ren.

  It’s so dark outside the building, I nearly run into Leandra as we swing around the corner. Her face is a blank wash of boredom as Ragar holds the smuggler’s arms behind his back. Vakoro struggles to no avail, and the more he wiggles, the lower his pants sag around his hips, revealing his tiny dick. I guess he couldn’t be bothered to zip up his pants before running away.

  “I don’t know if he speaks Meta,” Leandra calls out as we approach. “So far all he’s done is moan and mumble.”

  “Stop addressing him. He does not deserve the honor,” Ragar growls and tightens his grip.

  “What? You just expect me to stand here and wait for them to show up? His squirrely ass needs to hurry up and talk. I’m tired of seeing his dick. That makes like three times now.”

  Vakoro continues to whine in gibberish as Ragar bristles and jerks the prick’s pants up.

  “Ow, shit.”

  “See, there he goes. Seems he does know Meta after all.” I smile, and Ren stoops to his level.

  “What do you know of a recent slave trade involving a human by the name of Sterling?”

  “Who?” His nose scrunches, and his mouth stretches into a wide grimace as Ragar continues to jerk on his arms.

  “Just tell him already. There’s no sense in denying it. We have a human captain on board who gave us your name,” Leandra snaps, then glares as Ragar gives her a look that can only be descr
ibed as murderous. He really doesn’t like her talking to him.

  “Shit. What are you trying to do? Break my arm? Let go. I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

  Ren nods to Ragar, who uses his free hand to dislocate the smuggler’s shoulder. Leandra’s lip curls up in disgust at the popping noise it makes right before he begins to scream.

  “Do you want to die? Just tell him. It will hurt a lot less.” I know Ren, and if this dummy doesn’t give up the goods, he’ll take it by force. He may be a powerful male—with abilities even I haven’t seen—but his gift comes at a cost. He needs to preserve his energy to meditate–or whatever it is they do—to reach out to his people. I don’t want him wasting any more of his reserves on this douchenozzle.

  “Fine! A friend of mine knows a guy who made a private purchase out of the stock...” Ren growls, and Ragar pops the other shoulder out.

  Females aren’t stock, dickhead.

  “God, sorry. The girls, women, whatever. That’s what I told Eugene, the bushy-haired fool looking for his granddaughter.”

  Ragar shoves the smuggler down and digs his knee into his back, forcing his face into the ground. Leandra saunters over, grabs the back of his head, and yanks it up. Ragar looks as if he wants to protest but doesn’t. The way his gaze follows her reminds me of an Earth hawk tracking its prey.

  “And what,” she asks, “does that have to do with Sterling?”

  The smuggler chokes on dirt as he struggles to spit out his answer. “Look, Sterling was the middle man in charge of securing the transports between trader and client. A few of the cargo—females, shit, sorry—were feistier than the rest and needed to be restrained. That’s how I found out about it. A friend of mine arranged for the freighter and brokered a private deal for one with bright green hair.”

  “Who bought the female?” Ren growls between gritted teeth. I squeeze his shoulder to calm him and hopefully help him contain his rage. If this guy doesn’t hurry up, he won’t survive long enough to answer.