by Presley Hall
Stolen
Fated Mates of the Kalixian Warriors #2
Presley Hall
Copyright © 2020 by Presley Hall
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
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Contents
1. Harper
2. Malav
3. Harper
4. Malav
5. Harper
6. Harper
7. Malav
8. Harper
9. Malav
10. Harper
11. Malav
12. Harper
13. Malav
14. Harper
15. Harper
16. Malav
17. Harper
18. Malav
19. Harper
20. Malav
21. Harper
22. Malav
23. Harper
24. Harper
25. Harper
Epilogue
Also by Presley Hall
1
Harper
The heat in Monri is sweltering. For a planet that only gets four hours of sunlight a day, Wauru is one of the hottest places I’ve ever been—and I’ve visited Florida in the dead of summer.
I brush beads of sweat off my forehead and glance toward the vendor stalls that line the market. A cup of water would be good, but I’m hesitant to eat or drink much here. The other women might be starting to acclimate, but I’m not. Everything is alien, strange and disconcerting, and while not much has ever thrown me off balance, I’m not ready to start accepting food and drink from strange open-air markets on a world I’d never even heard of until a few weeks ago.
A few weeks ago, when I was abducted from Earth by a race of aliens called the Orkun.
Yup. Still trying to process that.
It’s hard to wrap my head around the reality of it sometimes. To accept that all of this is real. That I went from being a work-addicted CEO to the promised “tribute bride” of an Orkun warlord.
Thank god their other captives, a warrior race called Kalixians, staged a rebellion before the Orkun mating ceremony could be completed. The Kalixians took over the ship and sent the remaining Orkun running, freeing us from captivity and promising us safety.
It’s a promise they’ve mostly kept—well, except for the part where we crash landed on a trading planet called Wauru, but that wasn’t really the Kalixians’ fault. The ship was damaged in the fight against the Orkun, and we had no choice.
So here I am, in the city of Monri on the planet Wauru, surrounded by about two dozen human women, nearly as many Kalixians, and a whole shit ton of other alien species.
Seriously. What is my life?
As I drag myself from my thoughts, Rose and Emma peel off from our group and head toward one of those stands, talking quietly to each other. A vendor next to the stall they stop at is selling something to a customer—some particularly disgusting-looking juice that he pours into a glass. It’s slimy-looking and has chunks, presumably of some kind of fruit, but who can be sure?
I see Tordax and one of the other warriors hovering near Rose and Emma, and a frown tugs at my lips. The Kalixian warriors are with us everywhere we go—we’re not supposed to be out on our own. It’s not expressly forbidden, I suppose, but we’ve definitely been told in no uncertain terms that we shouldn’t go out unless we take at least one of the men with us. It’s dangerous, but I also just think they don’t want to risk losing any of us.
Despite Rose and Tordax’s sweeping romance, I don’t entirely trust the Kalixians. They might not have been the ones who abducted us from earth—and that particular event made me hate the alien Orkun race every bit as much as the Kalixians do—but that doesn’t mean we’re not valuable to them.
Rose insists Tordax and his men are honorable, but I’m still aware of our value as slaves, or as a ransom to the Orkun if they get truly desperate, or even just because of this mate bond that the Kalixians believe in so strongly.
If it happened with Rose and Tordax, why couldn’t it happen again?
I’d venture to say some of the women are even hoping for it. And I can’t entirely blame them—hell, I’m not blind. These alien men are hot as fuck. But I’m not interested. I have no plans to acclimate to the Kalixian way of life or any of these strange surroundings, or to become one of their treasured “mates.”
I want to go home. Plain and simple. And I’m going to find a way to accomplish it. Not only because I want to be back in my own apartment, with my own things, where it’s familiar—but because I don’t plan to let the people back on Earth who were responsible for selling us off get away with it.
I had a life back on my home planet. And even if I can’t reclaim everything I lost, I can make the people responsible sorry that they ever took it away.
Or at the very least, I can try.
I catch Rose and Tordax embracing out of the corner of my eye, her arms wrapping around his neck as he whispers something to her. Several of the men are fighting in the arena again today, and Tordax is almost always one of them. I know Rose worries about him, but she never says anything. She only kisses him goodbye and waits for him to come back.
If we were back on Earth, I might sneer at it or think she’s being a doormat, the little woman at home waiting on her man. But here on Wauru… it seems different somehow. I don’t like it, but I can’t argue with the fact that Tordax seems to adore her every bit as much as she does him. He’s certainly not keeping her as some submissive little wife.
As I see him kiss her passionately, clasping her tightly as if she’s everything to him, his world narrowing down to just the two of them, I can’t help a flash of jealousy.
No man has ever looked at me or touched me like that. Never kissed me as if he’d die without me, as if it were as necessary as food or water or air. I can’t even imagine what that might be like.
I shove the thought away.
No man has ever kissed me like that because I don’t need one to.
I’m my own woman, strong and independent, and men like Tordax are usually the kind who can’t handle it when a woman has her own life, her own wealth, her own opinions and ideas. Men like him don’t like stubbornness.
Rose can be stubborn and feisty, I think, but I shove that thought away too. I don’t want to think of him, or any of them, as anything but domineering, controlling alpha men. They don’t even let us go out alone.
And they’re not even men, I remind myself as we walk back toward our dwelling. They’re aliens. It doesn’t matter if they’re humanoid, if they look like men in every respect but their horns, color-changing eyes, and beautiful but otherworldly bronze skin. They’re still not men, not the way I’m used to.
And I shouldn’t trust them. Not even for a second.
With Tordax and several other men heading off to the fights, we each go back to our individual rooms, or “pods,” as they call them here. They’re basic and utilitarian—a bed and a small pool for washing with soap, and a shelf for clothing or any other small items. It’s as charming as a cell, and I can’t help but think wistfully of my apartment back home, of my king-sized bed with its soft sheets and plush pillows, the photos and souvenirs from my travels displayed everywhere, shelves full of books, and all the comforts I could want.
And wine. G
od, I miss wine. And delivery. Fuck, I would kill for some Chinese takeout.
There’s not really anything to occupy myself with. I’ve refolded the clothing that I bought shortly after our arrival a hundred times—pants and multilayered wrap tops that I want to hate on principle, but can’t quite bring myself to—done yoga, and re-watched my favorite movies in my head a dozen times. It’s going to drive me insane if we don’t get off this planet soon.
A knock at the door makes me look up, and a flash of relief rises inside me. I don’t even care who it is at this point; I just don’t want to be alone with my thoughts.
Rachel pokes her head in. “Harper?”
“Come in.” I perch on the edge of the bed, toying with the woven blanket thrown over the end of it. “What is it?”
“A group of us are going to watch the fights. Do you want to come?”
“Are the Kalixians going with us?” I purse my lips in a distasteful frown. We’re all adult women, and the fact that they think we need bodyguards grates on me to no end.
“You know they don’t let us out on our own.” Rachel’s expression tells me that she thinks the exact same thing that I do. “The ones that aren’t fighting tonight are going with us.”
It’s Tordax that made the rule that we shouldn’t go out alone, and it makes me dislike him even more. He’s overprotective of Rose to a fault, and since he’s apparently decided that we’re her friends, or at least her compatriots, that protectiveness extends to all of us. Or at least, that’s his explanation. Like I mentioned before, I have other suspicions. I tend to think Rachel agrees with me.
“Come on,” she says, smiling encouragingly at me. “It might be fun.”
I want to say no, but honestly, anything is better than sitting alone in my room all night. And if most of the women are going—all except for Rose, who rarely seems to venture out—it’s either sit alone or spend the evening talking with Rose and whoever else might be staying in. And I could use the sort-of-fresh air. At least when I was a CEO and spent most of my time indoors, I was too busy to notice how claustrophobic it could be.
“Fine.” I nod. “I’ll come along.”
“Good!” Rachel says enthusiastically, and I follow her out to the hallway.
It really is almost all of the women going. When we step out of the building where we rent our pods, they all look as eager to be outside as I am. Guess I’m not the only one getting cabin fever.
Rose isn’t among them, as usual, and I wonder why she so often stays back when Tordax isn’t with us. I tend to want to blame him, but maybe she really prefers being alone. Or maybe the planet frightens her. Although thinking back to her feat on the ship when the Orkun attacked and tried to recapture us—I’d venture to say she isn’t afraid of anything. So she must have some other reason.
The fighting rings are on the far side of the city of Monri, on the other side of the markets, and I’m glad that by the time we leave it’s cooled down some. Like any other desert town, Monri starts to get chilly at night, and I shiver a little, wishing I’d bought a shawl at the market.
The women are chattering excitedly amongst themselves about the fights, and I can’t help but roll my eyes as I listen to them. Several of them seem impressed that the men fight to earn money for a ship to get back to Kalix, as if it’s some kind of grand gesture.
It doesn’t matter to me. I’m not going with them. Before they earn that money and get that ship, I plan to find a way off of this sandy rock. And I’m going alone.
If the other women have decided that they like the Kalixians so much, they can stay with them, I think grimly to myself.
I’m jolted out of my thoughts by the sounds and smell that tells me we’ve reached the fighting rings. The smell is unmistakable. Dirt and sweat—the sweat of drunk bodies crammed together and the richer scent of sweating, fighting men—and the coppery tang of blood over it all.
I can hear the audience loudly shouting, and I see the alien equivalent of bookies on the edge of the ring, taking bets. This entire planet is full of that sort of thing: gambling, drinking, illicit drugs, gladiator fights, black markets. The only thing they don’t seem to go in for is slavery, which means every man fighting in that ring tonight is getting paid for his trouble. I’m glad for the lack of a slave trade here—especially since I still don’t entirely trust the Kalixian’s intentions, however honorable they may seem.
Being a woman at the top of a business back on earth taught me to never trust anyone. My abduction only solidified that.
I hang back on the edge of the group of women. I don’t really care about the fights, I just wanted to get out of my pod. But at the sound of their gasps and excited shrieks, I can’t help but start to actually watch what’s going on.
It would be impossible not to be at least a little interested, honestly.
There are two men in the ring—or aliens, rather—but the one fighting the Kalixian is nothing compared to him. The opponent is a tall, green-skinned alien, stringy as a praying mantis, with claws and sinewy muscles, and I can only imagine what he’s thinking as he faces off against Vrexen, who is seven feet of bulging bronzed muscle, with curled black horns and bright blue eyes that have darkened nearly to black in anticipation of the fight.
He looks like a god fighting an insect, and I almost laugh when Vrexen pummels the other alien into the dirt in a matter of minutes, hardly breaking a sweat.
Just enjoy it, I tell myself. There’s nothing wrong with a little harmless entertainment.
The next alien to come out is more humanoid, squat and heavily built with blueish-tinged skin and spiky hair that reminds me of a hedgehog, with cat-shaped eyes. His weapon of choice is an axe, and like the Kalixians, he wears only a loincloth with protective shoulder armor.
Unlike the Kalixians, there’s nothing about him that makes anyone pleased that he’s so flimsily dressed.
The Kalixian fighting him enters the ring, and I realize with a start that it’s Malav.
Malav, who has been the absolute bane of my existence since the first day the Kalixians liberated us from the Orkun.
Malav, who won’t take any of my shit and throws all of my baiting comments right back into my face.
The other men—all of whom are a fair bit younger than Malav and Tordax—tend to treat us carefully, especially after the revelation that Rose is Tordax’s mate. At the very least, we’re objects of desire, which isn’t at all surprising considering that they’re soldiers who probably only get laid when they stop to resupply at a spaceport.
Malav treats all the other women with the same respect that Tordax demands, but with an apathy that grates on my nerves and perversely makes me want to get a rise out of him.
And I always manage to. But still, he never backs down.
He demanded I follow the rules on the ship, and he does the same thing on Wauru too—rules I think are stupid. I purposely got myself into a position back home where I didn’t have to let men tell me what to do. I don’t intend to let some hulking alien barbarian do it.
It’s infuriating.
I certainly don’t care about watching him fight. He’s just about the last person in the universe that I want to cheer on.
But as the match begins, I can’t seem to tear my gaze away. The way he moves—it’s something different than Vrexen or any of the other men, really, except maybe Tordax.
He’s older, more experienced, as befits a second-in-command of an elite warrior force. And it shows in the way he fights. He moves almost like a dancer, every parry and thrust and sidestep graceful. Every movement is calm and precise. It would be zen-like, if it weren’t for the sheer brutality of what they’re doing.
The younger men shout when they strike their opponent, gleeful with every hit, every splash of blood on the sand. Not Malav. His gaze is fixed on the blue-skinned alien’s face as they circle each other with deadly precision, and when his blade hits, he doesn’t make a sound, doesn’t look at the blood, doesn’t even flinch.
When h
is fist connects with the alien’s jaw, sending a tooth flying along with another spurt of blood, he barely seems to notice it. He goes through the motions as if he’s done this a hundred times.
I blink in sudden shock as I realize—he has. In fact, this is probably nothing compared to the battles he’s fought in, the violence he’s both witnessed and meted out. He’s seen combat that makes this look like child’s play.
To him, that’s exactly what it is.
I can’t help but be drawn in by it, to wonder what he’s thinking as he parries and slices and punches, as he brings his opponent down to his knees. What is he remembering when the other alien sinks down to the sand and Malav is declared the victor? This isn’t a fight to the death, but I realize with a start that this is the exception for him.
For him, it’s nearly always a fight to the death.
It almost makes me start to reconsider how I feel about him, about all of those annoying instances when he demanded I listen, obey, and follow the rules on the ship.
Maybe there’s a reason he demands that kind of order and obedience.
He’s gripping his blade tightly as he steps back, not glorying in the shouts and screams of the audience, not doing anything except watching as his opponent is carried away—to have his wounds treated, I hope.
Malav’s bronzed skin is gleaming in the torchlight, and I can’t seem to look away from it. For a brief moment, his muscles ripple as a shudder passes through him, and I wonder if I’m the only one who noticed. Everyone else is too caught up in their bloodlust and shouts of victory or cries over losing their money to care.
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