Claimed

by Presley Hall

  I am very, very desperate now too.

  It’s been months since I’ve been inside of a woman, and the thought of sinking into Roz’s wet, enveloping heat makes me nearly lose control of myself. I want to hear her cry out my name, to feel her body clench around mine, and the very thought of it makes me ache, the need nearly painful in its intensity.

  I’m tempted to go off to the showers and take care of it myself, but I don’t want to leave her. I want to watch her sleep, to be certain that she doesn’t somehow disappear. My body screams for me to wake her, or to take her in her sleep, but I resist the urges pounding through my blood.

  No. Not yet. I have to be sure of the mate bond first.

  If it is the true bond of our people, it is a fragile thing. The existence of the bond is not infallible—just because it is there doesn’t mean that it will come to fulfillment. I’ve heard stories of one partner refusing the bond, or resisting it. The pull is strong, but it must be the wish of both parties for it to take. And if it is forced, there is little chance of offspring coming from it. The bond must exist by choice, not in coercion. We may be the perfect complement for each other, a match created by the will of the universe, a fated pair—but that means nothing if she does not want me.

  There is no question in my mind that I will embrace her as my mate, if she is willing.

  My mate.

  Mine.

  Watching her sleep, I think of how very fragile she looks. Our women are sturdier, and for the first time, the idea of mating with her fully brings me some anxiety. I don’t wish to hurt her. I will have to be careful, at first. I reach out gently to stroke her cheek; she stirs slightly, but doesn’t wake.

  Her hair is an odd color—a pale honey shade that looks beautiful against her rosy cheeks, covered in light spots that I brush the pad of one finger over. She is so very different from any female I have ever seen, even the human females I have encountered from time to time. And I have never lain with a human female before.

  To my disappointment, the coms device that I took from the Orkun control room beeps. A message appears on the screen letting me know I’m needed on the captain’s deck.

  Krax. I don’t want to leave Roz, but I can’t let this consume me. I still have to command my men, as well, and be the leader that they need.

  I touch her face once more, wishing I could speak to her—communicate with her in some way. There are Orkun multi-language implants on this ship, but they may need to be modified to be safe for either our own use, or use on Roz. Until they are inspected more closely, there’s no way to be certain that they are safe for any creature not of Orkun blood.

  Something in my chest seems to tear as I rise from the bed, and I rub my oiled pectorals absently as I make my way down the corridor. I’m not used to the intensity of the feelings Roz elicits in me. It’s almost unnerving how deeply she affects me, even when she is doing nothing but sleeping peacefully.

  Several of the men are gathered on the deck when I reach it, including Malav and Druxik. The first thing I do is order Vuuthrax to deliver some food and drink from the mess hall to my room. Roz must be exhausted, but she’ll be hungry when she wakes.

  “We’re nearing Norix,” Druxik says calmly as Vuuthrax departs. “So far, there have been no difficulties. Still, we should avoid well-traveled areas as much as possible. We don’t know who might report us to the Orkun, or where we might encounter them. Our men are not ready for another fight—there were multiple injuries, although our losses were comparatively small. Once we refuel and restock, the hope is that we can avoid stopping on any other planet for some time.”

  “It will take longer,” Malav adds. “It will add a considerable amount of time before we are able to return to Kalix, but better we take longer and arrive with all of our men than be drawn into another fight with the Orkun.”

  “I agree.” I turn toward M’Xelni, who is hanging back from the others. He looks nervous—he’s one of the younger warriors, barely older than Vrexen, and in the old days, would more likely have been a scholar or a technician than a fighter. He has little taste for fighting, and would rather tinker with the electronics on the ship than be in the middle of battle. “You have studied Orkun technology, yes?”

  He nods nervously. “Yes, sir… commander… sir. I know a good bit. Only what I’ve read in books, but I think…”

  “I want you to take a look at the multi-language implants left on this ship,” I say sternly but kindly. “Whatever modifications they require in order to be used by other species, Kalixian or human, do what you can to achieve that.” I keep my tone even, trying not to betray my excitement at the thought of being able to actually communicate with Roz—to speak to her.

  Malav gives me a sharp look, and I avoid his gaze. I can tell he suspects the truth of what is going on, or has some idea of it, at least.

  I’ll tell him soon, I promise myself. As soon as I’m certain of it. I don’t want to raise false hope in my men.

  In myself?

  It’s already too late for that.

  The remainder of the day is spent in taking care of my people. I visit the infirmary to see the men who were injured badly enough to be on bed rest, speaking encouragingly with them and sharing the details of our plan. With the help of Vrexen and Malav, I make a few rooms ready for the women left on the ship—there are sixteen of the human females in total, and enough private sleeping cabins for them to share two or three to a room if the men crowd a little more tightly in their own quarters. There are some complaints, but I silence them quickly.

  “These women did not ask to be captured,” I say sternly. “And I’ll remind all of you again that while you may take your pleasure with them if they are interested, there will be no coercion.”

  “What are we going to do with them?” Druxik speaks up. “We can’t return them to Terra, not anytime soon.”

  “We’ll figure that out later. Our first and highest priority is to return to Kalix and regroup there. We will determine what to do with these women at that time. But they are our guests, not our prisoners, and will be treated with as much care and gentleness as you would treat any of the women on Kalix.”

  Only a few females of our race still live, and they are viewed with reverence and respect. As I hoped, invoking their name draws nods of understanding from my men.

  Privately, I hope that one or more of the Terran women will have the same bond with members of my force as Roz and I have formed. Not only would it be further evidence that it is in fact the Irisa bond, but it would be more chances for offspring, more opportunities to continue our species. I don’t dare set my hopes too high though. Better to restrain myself and not face bitter disappointment if these things don’t come to pass.

  The women are, understandably, nervous around us. They whisper and shrink back when we approach, and none of them want us to touch them, as far as we can tell. There is no means of communication outside of gestures and noises, but we manage to convey that we have accommodations ready for them.

  I watch them and the men carefully, looking for any sign of a mate bond, but I’ve yet to see anything.

  The last thing we have to attend to is the variety of animal species on board. The Orkun took more than just brides from the planets they visited, it seems, and there are a number of exotic animals meant for zoos or private collectors that I don’t recognize. I set Vuuthrax, who studies such things as a hobby, to researching and cataloging them.

  All this time, the thought of Roz has been hovering in the back of my mind, urging me to get back to the room—and to her. I think of her peaceful face as she lay asleep in the bed, and of the way it had looked only moments before that as she convulsed with pleasure under my touch. I want to see her awake again, to try to get to know her better with the limited means available to us, and everything I’ve done between when I was called away and now feels like an eternity.

  I’ve never wanted to be around anyone else so much. I have always preferred solitude and silence when not instruc
ting my men; the peace of being alone is usually a respite after the endless responsibilities, stresses, and pressures of my everyday life.

  But I miss her.

  Something in me craves her presence, beyond the physical need that I feel constantly for her body. For the first time in my life, I wish that our species wore more clothing, because it’s becoming more and more inconvenient to hide the evidence of my body’s deprivation, and how I react to the thought of her.

  It took some digging, but I managed to find some clothing for Roz. It’s clear from the way she wrapped the sheet around her body before I came back that she prefers to be covered, and although I couldn’t find whatever clothing she was wearing before the Orkun stripped the women bare—they seem to have disposed of it—I did find some other garments. I’m not sure how much she will like them, but I hope it will be better than nothing.

  Once the day’s duties are complete, I head back to my quarters eagerly, dodging questions from Malav and Druxik about whether I’ll be dining with the men tonight and if I want to sample some of the liquor that they found in the kitchens. All I can think about is getting back to her and seeing that she is safe.

  I enter the room warily. The bump on the back of my head is still sore. I touch it gingerly as I push the door open, smiling wryly. My Roz is a spitfire, that’s certain. It’s a good thing—the Kalixian way of life is not for the faint of heart. I have never wanted a passive female for a mate, and I’m glad that Roz has spirit.

  Considering the fierceness I’ve seen in her, I expect to be greeted with anger and fiery words, or another escape attempt like the last time. Perhaps even accusations of taking advantage of her.

  But instead, when I walk inside, I see her sitting on the edge of the bed, her head bowed and her shoulders shaking with soft sobs.

  It’s not anger that greets me this time, but sadness.

  11

  Rose

  When I woke up, Tordax was gone.

  My first thought upon opening my eyes was how relaxed I felt, loose-limbed and languorous, like I’d gotten the best massage of my life and also slept for hours. The smell of him lingered on the sheets, that addictive scent of sweat and male that makes my heart race and my skin heat.

  When I rolled over and peered at the screens displaying footage from around the ship, I could see Tordax striding confidently down the corridors, speaking to his men and directing them with obvious competence. It made me feel… strangely safe.

  And that sense of safety gave me the courage to poke around at my surroundings after I ate and drank the food that was left on a tray on the small desk, to explore the captain’s quarters more thoroughly than I did in my mad search for a weapon yesterday.

  What I found broke my heart.

  I noticed one screen, smaller than the others, that wasn’t displaying any video feed. Hoping it worked similarly to the touchscreens we have on earth, I swiped my fingers over the smooth surface—and then nearly jumped out of my skin when the screen actually lit up. It was a computer of some sort, and most of what was on it I couldn’t read or decipher.

  Nothing except the communications between human government leaders and the Orkun. Those were in English, translated by the same thing that allowed me to understand the Orkun’s speech, most likely.

  I wasn’t kidnapped—I was sold.

  Me, and all of the other women who ended up here. We were handed over on purpose.

  It seems that some time ago, the Orkun came to earth. Rather than be honest with the people of our planet, or try to defend us against them, the governments of the world came together and made an arrangement with the alien invaders—a promise to sacrifice some of their citizens, women without connections, power, or family, as brides to the Orkun in exchange for peace.

  It prevented the Orkun from invading, but at what cost? Clearly the governments gained not only safety, but also money and tech in exchange for our trade. We were sold because we weren’t rich or special or famous, because we’d been abused or had families who didn’t give a shit, because we were unloved and unlikely to be missed.

  So we were considered disposable.

  Betrayed by our own people and sold to disgusting creatures who wished to rape and breed us, forcing us into slavery.

  Bile rose in my throat as I read the communications between the Orkun and earth’s leaders over and over again. Finally, I shoved away from the bank of monitors, sinking down on the bed and curling in on myself, wrapping my arms around my legs as tears slid down my cheeks.

  I don’t know how long I’ve been sitting like this. Without the sun rising and falling, time seems to slide by in a way that makes no sense, and I swear I can feel the vastness of space outside the walls of the ship.

  The hopelessness of it all washes over me again, the deep sense of betrayal and sorrow. There are very few people who will have noticed my absence, and those who have won’t care all that much. I expect my mother will give up looking for me pretty quickly, and no one else will really care.

  I bury my face in my hands as more tears burn my eyes. I’m all alone in a strange place, so far from my home that I might as well be dead for all the chance that I’ll ever get back there. All I have is this unfamiliar man, this alien warrior who has been kind to me—but I can’t even speak with him. I don’t know what he wants from me. I don’t know what will happen.

  The door gives a little click and a hiss as it slides open, jerking me from my thoughts. I realize through the haze of grief that I’m still naked, sitting atop the bed with no covering.

  Fuck.

  I quickly reach out to pull the sheet around me, tugging it up over my breasts as I look up and see Tordax stepping inside. I quickly wipe at my cheeks with the hand not holding up the sheet, not wanting him to see that I’ve been crying. I don’t want to show any weakness, nothing that he might be able to take advantage of.

  You probably should have thought about that last night before you let him give you two orgasms that everyone on the ship probably heard.

  He looks at me as he shuts the door, his brow furrowing in confusion. He walks straight toward the bed, purposefully, and I shrink backward, but he only kneels in front of me so that he’s almost at eye-level.

  I stiffen, but he reaches for my wrists, gently pulling my hands away from my face and chest. The sheet falls, but he doesn’t let go of my wrists or look at my breasts. He’s looking at my face, his own features a study in concern. I don’t know much about these people, but I can tell from his expression that he’s worried. And it confuses me. Why does he care? He doesn’t know me. He doesn’t know anything about me. Why is he doing all of this? Why is this brute of a man kneeling in front of me, concerned about the tears on my face?

  A tear falls from my eye, sliding down my cheek.

  To my utter shock, he leans forward and delicately licks it.

  I jerk backward in surprise—not only from what he’s done, but also from the heat that flares through my body at his touch. All I can think of is his tongue in other places last night, of his hands and mouth on my body, and all of the things it made me feel.

  All of the things it could still make me feel.

  He’s murmuring something to me in his language—I don’t understand the words, but I can understand the tone. It’s comforting, soothing, and I’m struck all over again by the contrast between his physical appearance and the way he touches me. Even when he touches me roughly, it’s out of lust, not violence.

  That thought sends my blood racing through my veins, the memory of him pressing me against the wall still fresh in my mind.

  His lips brush over my cheek, his tongue collecting the tears there, and it’s such an intimate gesture that it makes me feel warm and cherished inside, although I know it shouldn’t. I don’t know anything about him or his species—for all I know, he has a craving for salt, and my tears are satisfying it.

  But my instinct tells me that this is something else. His hands on my wrists soften, his mouth slides from my cheek down to
my jaw, and I feel my skin prickle and shiver under his touch, growing hot as blood rushes through my veins. I want him to keep touching me, and I feel fresh arousal rush through me, the space between my thighs suddenly wet again, the skin there damp and swollen with need.

  I can feel his breathing speed up, feel the tension in him as he leans toward me. I can’t see physical evidence of his arousal—that damned loincloth is still in the way, covering the one part of him I’m more curious about than any other at this point—but I can feel it.

  Somehow, I can feel the ache in him, and my body answers with an intense desire to satisfy it.

  He growls something deep in his throat, his eyes fluttering closed so that I feel his long lashes against my cheek, and then he pushes me backward onto the bed, crawling atop me. He groans, looking down at my face as he pushes my hair away from my face, and his body shudders from shoulders to toes, his muscles bunching as his grasp on my wrist tightens.

  This must be it, I think, and I can’t tell anymore if I feel resignation or excitement. Fear or desperate need. This is where he takes me, makes me his.

  But instead, he bends his head, and his long dark hair falls around my face as his lips touch mine, hesitantly at first. They’re warm, and softer than I expected. The skin of his face is smooth as it brushes against mine, and I realize suddenly that I want to touch him.

  I tug experimentally at his grasp on my wrists, and he stiffens, but he lets one go.

  His lips press against mine with a bit more force, his tongue tracing the edge of my lower lip, and I gasp softly as I reach up and gingerly trace the side of his face. His skin feels warm and smooth, not a hint of stubble, and he groans softly as I press my palm to his cheek.

  My lips part, allowing him to kiss me more deeply, and I can feel how rigidly he holds his body over mine, how much iron restraint is in him as his tongue slides into my mouth, tangling with mine. He tastes like herbs and something sweet, and I can still smell the scent of the oil lingering on his skin. I can feel my legs part, letting him settle between them, and I arch my back as I feel the rough leather of his loincloth scrape between my thighs… and the rigid length beneath it.