by Alana Khan
Galaxy Gladiator Series
Book Three
By
Alana Khan
Tyree
Present Day
Somewhere in space on the bridge of the spaceship Sweet Deliverance.
Prologue
23 days ago
Grace
Tyree’s handsome face thrashes against the pillow of his hospital bed as he tosses and turns in agony. Sometimes he just lies there, completely out of it and comatose, but for the past hour he’s been restless. He’s shifting wildly under his covers, moaning in pain and talking gibberish. My subdural translator is having trouble deciphering his words—maybe because they’re only fragments. Whatever he’s saying, he sounds frantic and terrified.
I smooth a wet washcloth over his forehead, trying to calm him.
“It’s okay, Tyree. It will be alright,” I croon. But I’m lying. I’ve watched him over the last few days, and he doesn’t seem to be getting any better. If anything, he gets weaker and less tied to reality with every passing hour.
He groans again. His exposed arms over the covers are cramping so tightly I can actually see the muscles spasm under his skin. My God, he must be in excruciating pain.
I glance at the readout above his head. I’m no nurse, but Dr. Drayke taught me how to decipher the numbers. His temperature’s spiked again.
“Medbot, administer four ligulas of Tri-cam Nine,” I instruct, just like the doctor taught me.
But the meds don’t seem to help. Nothing seems to help. The doctor’s twenty feet away in his adjoining lab, up late again tonight, scouring the Intergalactic Database looking for a cure.
A little over two weeks ago myself and nine other females were kidnapped from Earth and brought aboard this spaceship as breeding stock. We were each chipped with a subdural translator, placed in a pain/kill slave collar, and thrown into a cell with an alien gladiator. I didn’t yet know my cellmate’s name when we were forced to mate under threat of death. Shadow was physically harsh and emotionally distant.
One week later we overthrew our captors and took over this ship. Getting my own cabin and not having to interact with Shadow was a huge relief. It was only then that I began to come to terms with the fact that I’d never see Earth again.
Tyree and I became friends after the insurrection. He was three feet tall and non-threatening. I was comfortable with him, and despite the fact we were from different planets, it felt like we’d known each other for years. He wasn’t just small, we all thought of “him” as “her.” We now know he didn’t have a gender.
Two days ago with no warning, he transformed into the huge, muscular alien lying on the bed in front of me. I imagine his declining condition is the result of the stress on his system from morphing in the span of half an hour from a Keebler elf to Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson.
In the few days between our escape and his illness, he and I had been building a friendship. In fact, we had a couple “sleepovers” when we watched vids together in bed and played a gambling game he taught me. I felt closer to Tyree than anyone on board.
I’ve been watching him 24/7 in this medbay since his change—I haven’t left his side. I want to make certain his vitals don’t crash if the doctor is preoccupied or leaves for a moment.
I’ve learned some basics on how to care for him. Dr. Drayke can’t be here constantly, but I can. I have no nursing training, but keeping his brow sponged and filling his feeding reservoir with nutri-food isn’t rocket science.
Tyree settles for a moment, his massive body quiet and still. This scares me as much as when he’s thrashing. I glance at his vitals on the screen. His blood pressure is approaching the dangerously low numbers that indicate he’ll need a shot of adramine. The doc taught me how to administer that, too.
With one eye on the medscreen, I pick up my instrument. I bought it recently on planet Numa and dubbed it “String Thing.” My music is the only thing that seems to calm him.
Since we won our freedom, new tunes flow out of my fingers almost without effort. At this moment, I improvise a lilting melody that sounds like an ancient Irish folk tune. It makes me picture happy people converging toward a medieval fair. The chords are festive and inviting.
This seems to have a calming effect on Tyree, and his huge frame relaxes, the tense muscles in his face loosen. I stop playing long enough to smooth his sheets and tuck them around him. He grabs my hand, opens his luminous emerald eyes, and pierces me with a penetrating stare.
“Grace,” his voice is no louder than a sigh. Then he closes his lids, groans, and flails his arms.
His violent movements heave the covers off his bed and onto the floor. I reach over to pull the bedrails up before he falls.
“Doc!” I call, but he doesn’t answer. Maybe he hurried to his cabin for a quick nap.
Tyree’s now back in his unconscious state, so I bend to retrieve the sheets, then turn to cover him. I’m caught off guard by his nude, flawless, masculine body. I’m paralyzed in mid-motion. How could any being possess such perfection?
I quickly cover him, pulling the sheets all the way up under his chin. But the image I just glimpsed is now burned into my brain. I picture him from tousled blond hair to strong brow, to aquiline nose. His lips are full and inviting. The lean muscles sculpted under his skin belong on the statue of a Greek god.
My mouth is parched just from that brief flash of bronze flesh and hard muscle. I position his arms on top of the blanket and smooth a nonexistent wrinkle. Why do my fingers itch to trace the strong veins that run from inner elbow to wrist?
I finally force myself back to my chair, grab String Thing, and return to my music. But this isn’t the happy tune that could be played at a Renaissance county fair. This is a tune of longing—a woman pining for a lover who was conscripted and forced to march off to war. A woman who desires her man.
No one knows I was a virgin when I was thrown into a cell and forced to mate. A virgin by choice. I’ve never considered myself a sexual being. At twenty-five, I was very comfortable with the idea of being single forever. But right now, this minute, I question that decision with every fiber of my being. Because this alien male who I was becoming friends with awakens feelings in me I’ve never had before. There’s a deep, long-hidden part of me that wants to be more than friends. Much more.
Chapter One
Grace
As I hurry to the bridge at Captain Zar’s request, I don’t know why my thoughts have turned to that day three weeks ago when I was caring for Tyree. Those were dark days when we all feared he would die. Thankfully, Shadow cured him through their psychic connection a few days later.
It’s hard to even think of how close to death Tyree was, how worried I was for him. Now he’s healthy and putting on even more muscle every day. He’s happy and seems to be figuring out how to step into his new role. He’s even training to help pilot this vessel.
“Thanks for coming, Grace. I have great news,” Captain Zar excitedly greets me as I step through the doors to the bridge.
I take a moment to glimpse out the expansive floor-to-ceiling windows that encircle most of the bullet-shaped room. In the weeks since we fought for our freedom I’ve come to love this view.
I glance at the endless array of stars and purple nebulae in the vast expanse of velvet black space. It usually relaxes me, but I’m on high alert because Zar’s never called me to the bridge before and despite his upbeat words, my naturally paranoid self is thinking whatever’s coming can’t be good.
Zar beams at me expectantly. I usually enjoy his calm strength, having learned weeks ago how to ignore our physical differences—he’s a huge feline humanoid. Tyree’s sitting casually in his first mate’s chair, his ankle crossed over his knee. Between his handsome face and what’s almost hanging out of his well-packe
d loincloth, I feel awkward under his warm gaze. I’ve been avoiding him lately—as attracted as I am to him, his obvious masculine interest makes me nervous.
“Sit down, Grace,” Zar motions me into the empty seat at the comms panel, then sits in his wide captain’s chair.
“You must be wondering why I called you here. Were you aware that Callista got bored one night at her comms post and put your music out over the Intergalactic Database?”
I shake my head, not even sure what to do with this piece of information, and certainly not sure why this is such “great news.”
“She told me to tell you...let me check my notes…she put your ‘greatest hits’ on a channel that ’went viral.’ I’m not sure what that means. Do you understand?”
“Kind of,” I hedge even as my mind starts quickly calculating possible catastrophic outcomes that might result from this information.
“She said millions of beings heard it and began sharing it with others and giving it accolades.”
“Okaaay.” My spidey senses tell me something’s coming that I’m not going to like. My stomach clenches and my palms start to sweat.
“In addition to all sorts of messages praising your music and your performance, you also received an invitation to play on planet Emirus—from the Emperor himself.” He’s grinning at me. His golden feline features look more fearsome than happy with his face lifted in a smile, possibly because of the inch-long canines peeking out beneath his cat-like lips.
“They’re going to pay you three hundred thousand credits! Just to sit in a beautiful dress on a fancy stage in a huge symphony hall, and play the music you’ve already composed. This is a fantastic opportunity for us all. It will keep us in fuel and much-needed mechanical updates for an entire lunar cycle. What a lucky break.”
There are twenty-three souls on board this vessel. In the last weeks since we overthrew our slave masters and commandeered this ship, we’ve been roaming the underbelly of the galaxy. Our males have been making money in gladiatorial matches—some state-sponsored, some in sketchy underground venues.
It’s been clear since the beginning of our adventure that credits are in short supply, but this? My hands begin trembling.
“Lucky break,” I repeat Zar’s words dully. My mind finally catches up with what he just told me and now it’s not just my hands that are quaking—anxious tremors are shooting through my entire body.
“A two-hour concert on three consecutive days,” Tyree chimes in happily. “Those three concerts will net more credits than ten gladiator matches. And no one has to risk their life!” He spears me with a proud, encouraging look.
My traitorous body responds before my thoughts catch up. I’m nauseous, complete with a rumble and tightness in my belly. I press the soles of my feet to the floor in an effort to counteract the dizziness that’s making the room spin. Gripping the arms of my chair, I try to stay put as I order my body to stand down, but I soon realize the nausea is more powerful than I am.
I bolt out of my chair with no explanation. My lips are tightly clamped to make sure I don’t hurl in front of my shipmates. Running down the hall to the nearest restroom, I try to choke back the acid making its fiery climb up my throat and threatening to propel out of my mouth.
After gargling, I splash cool water on my cheeks. I don’t like the face in the mirror that’s looking back at me. My eyes are wide and shiny and full of fear. I’m not this person. I have inner strength. I’ve been in jams before. I lived through kidnap and a bloody insurrection. I can power my way through this.
But I can’t, a weak, whiney voice in my head insists. I’ve had a physical reaction to performing since my first recital. Every music teacher I’ve ever had praised me and told me I was destined to play in front of audiences. But I became a barista instead—I’m not built to perform. When I play in front of people my body reacts as if I’m in a war zone. I’ve gone to therapy, taken meds, had sessions of hypnosis—it never made a dent in this anxiety.
Panic. For some people it’s thunder, for others it’s heights or spiders, for me it’s performing. My body makes an end-run around my mind and reacts like this!
Did Zar say “huge symphony hall”? Really? With just that thought, I heave, missing the toilet and splattering all over the sink and metal walls. Crap!
While I’m cleaning up I do all sorts of positive self-talk and calming breaths, and even some crazy tapping technique therapist number three taught me. My stomach is still rumbling, and hot waves of nausea are flowing through me.
Finally, my gut settles, I’m breathing normally, and the walls are clean—although the bathroom definitely needs to be fumigated.
I think of all the reasons my shipmates need me to perform. We’re now in possession of this ship but no money. Even though some of the gladiators have fought on various planets to make income, credits are still in short supply. And our former owners, the MarZan cartel, are pursuing us. Not only do they still consider us their “property”—they want their ship back. They’ve advertised a hefty price on our heads to every slaver, pirate, and crook in the galaxy.
“Grace,” I order the pale, wide-eyed face looking out at me from the mirror, “you’re going to walk back on that bridge and agree to do it. Every person on this ship will benefit from this. You will figure this out—you have to. Every life on board depends on it.”
After one more splash of water, I throw my shoulders back, lift my chin, and drag my feet back to the bridge with as much dignity as I can muster. The room is quiet, with that “oh no, we weren’t talking about you” vibe as I enter the double doors.
“I’ll do it,” my voice is strong with false bravado. “I’ll figure it out.” I’ve survived worse.
The relief on their faces is palpable.
“I have an idea,” Tyree interjects. “You know what I did before the overthrow, right?”
Yes, I certainly know what he did, we’ve talked about it many times. But right now my brain freeze is so severe all I can do is raise a questioning eyebrow because my mind can’t find the answer to his question.
“I calmed the previous captain. That was my job as a slave. I sat at his feet right there,” he points at the floor near Zar’s chair, “and used my psychic powers to reduce his anxiety. I lay at the foot of his bed every night and calmed him to sleep.
“That was before my Transformation. Since then, my powers have increased.” He spears me with his blazing, emerald gaze. “I could do that for you, Grace. We could begin as soon as you’d like. I can relax you, ease your fears. I can help you get through this.”
He just threw me the only lifeline I’m going to get.
“Thanks, Tyree. That’s generous. I’ll take you up on your offer. Can we meet tomorrow at breakfast?”
Tyree
Grace has such a strong effect on me I usually try to avoid her. And now I’ve promised to meet her tomorrow morning? Right now I’ll embarrass myself if I don’t figure out a way to sneak to the restroom to rearrange my cock in my loincloth.
Why did I offer to spend time alone with her? Stupid question. First, she obviously needs help. Second, it gets me increased access to her—both of us in a room, alone, with no intruders. I crave it and dread it in equal measures.
Ever since my Transformation, I spring erections at least five times a day, usually more. My friend Shadow says I’m going through adolescence even though I’m thirty-five. Whether I’m fifteen or thirty-five, these feelings are overwhelming and all-consuming.
Hustling into the private bathroom in my cabin, I begin what is my most frequent pastime as of late. I practically rip off my loincloth and grab my cock. I’ve read that most people use many different fantasies when they touch themselves. I only have one. Grace.
I visualize her from head to toe. I imagine her shoulder-length blond hair and her large blue eyes—they remind me of the sky on my home planet of Larian. I appreciate that she often wears pretty dresses that accentuate her femininity. I picture the way she walks, so graceful a
nd delicate without trying to call attention to herself.
But my thoughts are pulled to the sensations my hand is producing. In my mind, it’s not my hand that’s caressing me, but Grace’s small, soft, nimble one. Closing my eyes, I feel her slim, cool fingers discovering me, exploring from base to tip and back. My engorged cock throbs in time with my swiftly-beating heart. My blood is like hot lava coursing through my veins.
I picture her nude body, pink-tipped breasts swaying as she works me. I imagine the smell of her arousal.
I’m so close to release I skip to the best part of my fantasy—when her knees slowly descend to the floor, her eyes never leaving mine. She sensually licks her lips, and her warm mouth surrounds my cock.
It’s the labor of a moment, working myself hard, manhandling myself, before I spurt into the toilet. I immediately flush the evidence down the drain before my heart rate returns to normal.