Wrage: Book Eleven in the Galaxy Gladiators Alien Abduction Romance Series Read online

  Wrage

  Galaxy Gladiators Alien Abduction Romance Series

  Book 11

  By

  Alana Khan

  Copyright

  Wrage: Book 11 in the Galaxy Gladiators Alien Abduction Romance Series

  www. Alanakhan.com

  © 2020 Alana Khan

  All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

  The story, all names, characters, and incidents portrayed in this production are fictitious. No identification with actual persons (living or deceased), places, buildings, and products is intended or should be inferred.

  Cover by Elle Arden

  For permissions contact: [email protected]

  Acknowledgements

  Special thanks to Dr. Lee, my developmental editor who comes up with great feedback from big ideas to the minutiae that makes the manuscript so much better. Also to Lady Susan C. whose kickass ideas are always good and always ups the heat factor. As always thanks to my daughter, who helps me plot every single book and tolerates my late night and early morning phone calls (well, tolerates it most of the time). My Alpha, Beta, and ARC teams let me know when things work, and when they don’t. Special thanks to: Jacqueline, Kaye S., Lori L., Karen H., Anne-Marie S., Linda P., Katie F., Kathleen H., Corda A., Anuschka-Marie W.

  Table of Contents

  Copyright

  Acknowledgements

  Up to Now . . .

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Epilogue

  Sneak Peek of Slag

  Who’s Who

  Glossary

  Up to Now . . .

  Need a refresher on Who’s Who? Click this link to review your favorite heroes and heroines.

  Chapter One

  Wrage

  “She’s ugly and has no talent. Why would they hire her?” I ask, not trying to keep my voice down even though we’re only a few fiertos from the stage.

  “She’s got a nice voice,” my friend Justus says as he pours himself another glass of the local fermented havaché the waitress just set on our table.

  “You only say that because you’ve been a slave all your life, what would you know of talent?” I goad. “I wasn’t enslaved in a gladiator training school until I was fifteen. I know how a good vocalist should sound.”

  “You’re just angry, Wrage. Everyone at this table knows you fell hard for the female who tricked you out of the credits you were saving to buy your freedom. She looked a lot like the singer you’re insulting. Don’t hold it against her. Her voice is pretty.”

  “Pretty as my ass,” I gripe as I refill my glass and inspect the performer more closely. Justus is right, she reminds me of Sibyl, the bitch my owner sent to my bunk night after night. She and my owner conspired against me, got me to fall in love with her, then tricked me into buying her freedom at the cost of all the credits I’d saved with the hope of buying my own. I never saw her again after the day I handed over all my money.

  Too bad someone else killed him during the slave revolt; I wish I could have done it with my bare hands. That was two lunars ago. After that, I was welcomed aboard a ship of escaped gladiators running from the law. I’m glad to be free, but I’m not ready to return to my home planet. I don’t know if I ever want to go back there.

  I don’t know where I belong, but I don’t think it’s onboard the ship with the others. I’m restless. Trained as a gladiator for the last fifteen annums, I’m not even certain I want to fight. I don’t know what to do with my newfound freedom—it makes me irritable.

  “You need singing lessons,” I shout, then take a long swig of havaché.

  “You need lessons in good manners,” she snips back immediately, looking down her nose at me from the stage.

  Anger flares from my belly then races to heat my face. Dracking bitch is mocking me?

  “Who’d you drack to get this job?” I stab her with an angry stare from under my brows.

  She had turned to the other side of the audience to sing her next song, ignoring me, but her eyes snap to mine because of my question. Despite her anger, she says nothing, just keeps singing.

  “Wrage, brother, she wears a slave collar. It’s only been two lunars since you’ve worn one. Why would you provoke the female? She’s just doing her job.”

  “Because she’s irritating the drack out of me.”

  “Don’t get us kicked out of here. I like watching the pretty little thing. Go have fun in the gaming room next door.” He waves toward the arched doorway into the casino.

  “Pretty little things can rip you apart, my friend. Have at her.” I’m surprised when I lean to one side as I rise. I didn’t think I drank that much. Weaving a little, I make my way into the casino, fascinated by the lights and noises of the machines. Those don’t interest me, though. I head for the klempto tables.

  Elyse

  The galaxy has no shortage of assholes, I think as I watch the big blue male stagger out of the bar. I thought I’d met my share of assholes before I was abducted. It wasn’t more than two hours after my abduction to outer space before I realized I hadn’t seen anything yet. Earth assholes don’t hold a candle to space assholes.

  It’s been a demanding four years since I left Earth. I’m a completely different person. Hard. Bitter. Angry.

  I received my two-year degree in culinary school, but when I turned twenty-one, I took up my real love—singing. I began making decent money in high-end bars, singing and playing piano. I specialized in torch songs throughout the decades. I loved belting out the heart-wrenching songs of unrequited desire. From “The Man I Love” Billie Holiday style, to some of Adele’s most soulful renderings.

  I loved my life.

  Then I was abducted by squat, tusky alien bastards, Urluts. They sold me to a reptilian male who discovered my talent and sent me all over this sector to sing. I’ve had three other owners since then, all of whom treated me as shitty as their predecessor.

  Yeah, I’ve thought of ending my life. Things have been rough. Real rough. But there’s something deep in my spirit that keeps pushing me to hang in there, promising me things will get better.

  I’m still waiting.

  Back home, I sang forty minutes an hour then had a twenty-minute break. Human vocal cords need time to recover. Here in space? Breaks are unheard of. I just keep pushing through my shift, trying to lose myself in the music so I don’t focus on the shitstorm that is my life.

  At least the blue asshole quit heckling me and went elsewhere.

  Two hours later I’m on the homestretch. I have about an hour left, and, miracle of miracles, my owner found a prostitute and has given me a room of my own for the night. It’s been a while since I’ve had that luxury.

  The blue jerk is back. I’m certain he’s a gladiator, you can spot one at fifty paces. I imagine it's because they live in barracks like a bunch of unruly frat boys their entire lives. He’s weaving and squinting and is having trouble finding his rowdy friends even though they’re loudly enjoying themselves in the front row.

  He plops into his seat, roaring drunkenly to his friends about how much he won at the klempto tables. I have to admit, if he won even a tenth of what he’s bragging about, he’s a hell of a player.

  “You should get a new line of work,” he yells.

  I finger my slave collar and retort, “I do what I’m told.” It wasn’t a good response. He obviously doesn’t care that I’m not doing this for fun.

  “Your owner should put you in a job where you don’t have to open your mouth except to suck cock.”

  Motherfucker! That was the worst thing anyone’s ever heckled me with, and in the dive bars I sing at, that’s saying a lot.

  “Boys,” I say to the group he’s with, “why don’t you take the blue devil to his room? He can’t sleep off his ugly, but he can sleep off his booze.”

  They try in vain to get him to shut up, but he keeps peppering me with insults. After a while, his friends get tired of fighting him and leave, but he stays put, glaring at me. I have no idea why he’s got it in for me, but he won’t stop.

  Finally, my owner approaches him—that’s a first—he’s never been proactive about protecting me before. I assume it will be a quick exchange that will result in the ugly blue asshole leaving. Instead, their discussion gets serious as pink, round, play-dohey Drenken sits down at the table with him. Their conversation gets so quiet, my shit detector starts screaming warnings.

  Something’s going on between them and it involves me. My sense of self-preservation tells me the outcome is going to wind up making this day a lot worse.

  It’s time for my last song, and I belt it out, but I could be singing the lyrics to “Old MacDonald” for all the emotion I put into it. I’m still trying to figure out what’s going on between Drenken and the Devil.

  Before the last word is out of my mouth, Drenken calls me over. “Eel,” he says. The fat pink piece of shit is too lazy to say the two syllables of my name. “Eel, come over here. Meet your new owner.”

  No! This can’t be happening. I’ve had four owners, all of whom were grabby bastards who treated me heinously. But this? Blue Devil hates me. He’s going to abuse me worse than all four of them combined.

  “Eel. Your new owner,” Drenken says in a careless attempt at introductions.

  “Eel,” Blue Devil says drunkenly. His lips keep moving, but even my translator can’t make sense of his inebriated gibberish. I do, however, catch the word ‘room’.

  Great. Time to get intimately acquainted. I can only hope he passes out or his junk doesn’t work.

  Drenken unceremoniously gives my pain/kill collar controller to Devil and slogs off in his characteristic rolling, chubby gait. My table companion is about to nod off, so I have a moment to inventory him.

  Between his craggy horns and his gold-green eyes with the snake-like pupils, you’d think he’d look hideous. The description sounds like something out of a horror flick when you add in black shoulder-length dreadlocks and some suede buttons on his face and collarbones. Somehow, though, everything pulls together into an almost handsome, albeit alien, look. It’s his personality and perpetual scowl that tip the scales to make you think he’s ugly as sin.

  Devil seems to come back to his senses and lurches out of his chair, obviously wanting me to follow, which I dutifully do. I learned quickly that no matter how odious, mean, slovenly, or disgusting the master, the bite of the shock collar is the same—painful.

  I spent the first three months of my captivity nursing the aftermath of repeated shocks. I thought my nervous system would never recover. The skin under the collar turned light brown and has stayed discolored to this day.

  It didn’t matter how rebellious my spirit was, or how much I fought back—the collar always won. After a while, I quit fighting. So I’m scurrying behind the Devil, hoping to stay out of his eyesight and avoid his wrath.

  As wasted as he is, he’s moving pretty swiftly until he stops in the hallway between the casino and the hotel.

  I’ve been on so many different planets, it’s hard to remember where I am at any given moment. It’s only this minute that I remember I’m on planet Paragon, aka the Pleasure Planet. As a slave, no place provides pleasure to me.

  But this place is designed to provide all amenities and all types of pleasure. Respectable couples stay in the main part of the huge resort. However, I was booked to sing in the area where the single males congregate. I’ve heard it called Intercourse Island, Cum City, Love Lagoon, Fornication Island, Dick’s Delight—the lewd names are endless. I’ve chosen to call it the Bang District, and I call this hotel the Hump Hostel.

  So I’m surprised in this swamp of testosterone and sport-fucking that there would be a wedding chapel so prominently featured in the casino. More surprising, though, is the interest Devil is showing in the window display.

  The fact that he owns me is one thing. As I’ve observed, ownership comes and goes on a whim. But marriage? This takes things to a whole new level.

  “Bad idea, Blue,” I say, stepping into his line of sight so his feeble brain can register my serious-as-a-heart-attack expression and my shaking head. “You need to sleep this off.”

  He mumbles something unintelligible as he pulls me into the small shop. This place doesn’t even pretend to be romantic. No Elvis packages or plastic rental flowers. There’s a shaggy red guy behind the counter who points to the price.

  “You just looking?” he asks.

  “No,” Blue says as his eyes try to focus.

  Perhaps because he smells a sale, Shaggy Red elaborates on his product. “This isn’t the most lavish mating chapel on the planet, but you’ll be legally mated all the same.” Quite the persuasive sales pitch.

  He looks pointedly at my slave collar, frowns, and says, “Slaves can’t wed.”

  “Wha?” Blue mumbles.

  “She can’t be mated as a slave. For a nominal fee, I can write up her papers of manumission.”

  Holy shit. Really? Manumission. That means freedom, right? Could this be the answer to my prayers? The price of freedom will be enduring one evening of world-class heckling and perhaps a night in bed with the devil himself. Then as a free woman, I can get a divorce and live out my life on a safe planet where I can make a living singing torch songs? Where do I sign?

  “Come on honey,” I have the balls to say as I lovingly slip my arm around Blue’s waist. “I’ve always dreamed of getting married in the Cum Quadrant. Let’s do it,” I urge with a straight face.

  “Mmm.” He cocks his head.

  “Do you want to get mated, Sir?” Red Guy asks Blue.

  “Mmm.”

  “Now you realize that although this isn’t the fanciest facility, the vows are serious? When you sign these papers you are mated for life.” His chartreuse eyes spear into me to underscore his sincerity.

  “Forever and always,” I say, my hand over my heart as I nod my head compliantly. I watched my mom swear ‘until death do us part’ before God and the state of Ohio three times. None of those unions lasted more than four years. I can almost taste my freedom.

  “Sir, are you in agreement?” he asks.

  Big Blue is swaying on his feet. I have a feeling if we don’t get this over in a hurry he’s going to pass out before the nuptials are over.

  “Of course, he’s in agreement. Although we’ve talked about a big wedding for years, we decided tonight’s the night.” I cozy up next to him and cradle my arm around his waist hoping I can hold up the huge pillar of muscle if he topples.

  “Sir?”

  “Yes,” he says, clear as a bell. I think he was just answering ‘yes’ to ‘sir’ and not the question of his buy-in to the marriage, but Red Guy takes his ‘yes’ as a yes.

  “I’ll prepare the manumission papers,” he says. I never thought I’d love a word as much as I love ‘manumission’. “While you two decide on a brand.”

  What the fuck? My head snaps to him.

  “Brand?” Certainly I didn’t hear that correctly.

  “Didn’t you say you’d dreamed of an official Paragon mating ceremony? The reason people come from all over the galaxy is the branding ceremony. I have a wide variety to choose from. By the size of you two, I’ d suggest you look for a pair with bigger and smaller matching brands. Over there.” He points vaguely to the wall to my right.

  How’d I miss this? It reminds me of the Medieval Torture Museum I toured back on Earth. There must be over a hundred brands of all sizes and designs hanging neatly from metal racks.

  “Perhaps I missed this in the brochure,” I say, hesitant to interrupt his completion of the papers of manumission—I still love that word. “The branding involves actual heat? Actual pain?”

  “Why yes. That’s the beauty of it. It signifies your deep connection, commitment, and that nothing will tear your bond asunder.”

  “How about we just do the mini-ceremony? The one without the brand. Don’t worry. We’ll pay the full price. No problem.”