Alien Rogue's Captive

by Viki Storm

  Contents

  Title Page

  Also by Viki Storm

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  About the Author

  ALIEN ROGUE'S CAPTIVE

  Kenorian Warriors Book 1

  VIKI STORM

  © Viki Storm 2019. All Rights Reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form by any means without the prior written consent of the author, except in the case of brief quotations for critical reviews and certain noncommercial uses permitted by law.

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, locations, and events portrayed in this work are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously.

  Also by Viki Storm

  Sold to the Alien Prince (Zalaryn Raiders Book 1)

  Captured by the Alien Warrior (Zalaryn Raiders Book 2)

  Claimed by the Alien Mercenary (Zalaryn Raiders Book 3)

  Conquering His Queen (Zalaryn Conquerors Book 1)

  Kidnapping His Rebel (Zalaryn Conquerors Book 2)

  Taking His Captive (Zalaryn Conquerors Book 3)

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  Chapter 1

  Brooke

  No one’s going to rape you at 7:35 a.m. It’s too early in the morning.

  At least, that’s what I keep telling myself.

  Of course, they can bash you over the head at seven in the morning. They can drag you into the back of a van and stuff a dirty sock in your mouth at seven in the morning. They can drive you up to a secluded bunker in the woods at seven in the morning.

  Then they can have a cup of coffee, check their stocks, catch up on emails… and then at about noon…

  But this is stupid. I’m just being paranoid.

  There’s a guy following me... I think. I usually have a healthy dose of paranoia, hearing the paranoid words of my paranoid father whenever I’m out alone in the city. Which is always.

  Keep your head on a swivel.

  Be aware of your surroundings.

  Park your car underneath a streetlight.

  Don’t be afraid to fight.

  Great advice, except it’s hard when you’re trying to get to work before eight and you’re clomping down the sidewalk in high heels, coffee sloshing up through the little plastic spout on your travel mug lid. What am I going to do if this creep really is following me? Turn around and toss a cup of lukewarm homemade coffee at him? Maybe he’ll be allergic to the hazelnut extract in the creamer? Or he’ll stop to read the witty Garfield comic on the mug and forget all about the chloroform and the van and the secluded forest bunker?

  I risk a glance over my shoulder. He’s still there. Maybe twelve or fifteen feet back. A nice, inconspicuous distance away. Probably just a coincidence.

  Except he’s been trailing me for the last nine blocks.

  And there’s nothing inconspicuous about him. He blends in to the city crowd about as seamlessly as grandma’s old rag quilt.

  First of all, he’s hot. Perfect face, tall, strapping. I don’t have to see him shirtless to know he’s ripped. Like, should be on a paperback book cover at the airport, oiled up and wearing a kilt with a sword at one shoulder and a bosomy damsel held tightly to his side. He’s got that perfect bone structure—perfect everything—that male models have. He’s downright beautiful but not in that wispy, feminine, hairless look that a lot of guys my age seem to cultivate.

  Ugh. Guys my age. Twenty-six. Either they’re willowy and delicate fans of minimalist music and performance art or they’re doughy and over-bearded fans of anything with a cape that saves the universe while delivering unfunny one-liners.

  But this hottie who’s been on my trail, even with his gorgeous, almost supernatural good looks and godlike physique… you can tell he’s a weirdo. And this is saying a lot. I mean, I’m in downtown Los Angeles—the streets are positively overflowing with weirdos.

  His clothes are all wrong. He’s wearing bargain-bin Costco jeans, the sort that are too blue, too high-waisted, too baggy at the thigh and too tight at the ankle. You can’t even call them dad jeans, because even dads are savvier than that. His shirt is a button-up, kind of like those faux bowling shirts, canary yellow with a dark brown yoke and gaudy piping.

  He could be homeless—God knows there’s plenty of them wandering the streets. Or thrift-store shopping could be making a comeback with the hipsters. But there’s more than that; it’s not just his clothes.

  He could be a tourist, I think, a sightseer from Estonia or Greenland, woefully lost on his way to the La Brea Tar Pits or Universal Studios. He definitely gives off a vibe of not being from here. And by here I don’t even mean L.A. or California. He’s probably not from an English-speaking country. That could explain it.

  Except…

  There’s more. He’s weird and not just because of his outdated, frumpy clothes or his foreigner demeanor.

  He just seems like he doesn’t belong. I can’t put it better than that.

  Probably high out of his mind, I think. Schizophrenic and beaked up on meth and prescription pills. An insensitive thought, I know, but you get desensitized pretty fast around here. And if my choices are staying safe and thinking something mean or else thinking nice thoughts and getting thrown in the back of a van, then I’ll take being mean every time.

  A combination of drugs and mental illness might explain his odd demeanor. It would account for that space-cadet vibe I’m getting. But his good looks just don’t fit. Again, sorry for the mean thoughts, but there’s no way a drug-addled transient could look this good. Life on the streets takes its toll and would not leave him looking so damned sexy.

  I turn right at the corner, my office building almost in sight. I take the metro downtown every morning and walk the twenty minutes to work. Beats sitting slumped over in traffic for an hour. Between the metro and the downtown L.A. bustle, I am no stranger to weirdos—and this guy is definitely a weirdo.

  And what makes him so weird is that he’s not even like other weirdos.

  I pick up my pace, trying to get as much distance as I can before I risk another glance over my shoulder. If he turns right at the corner, too, I tell myself, then it’s no coincidence. I’ll call in to my office and have someone send a security guard down the street to meet me. But who would I call? The main reception? There’s no one there half the time. And the receptionist in our office is probably not in yet.

  Should I call the cops? Hi, 911, there’s a guy I think is following me. Describe him? Well, he’s fucking hot, but he’s also suspicious because he’s wearing Costco jeans and a Big Lebowski bowling shirt. Hello? Hello? Are you going to send the SWAT team or what? Then when the cops arrive thirty-nine minutes from now, they can photograph the sticky coffee stain on the sidewalk and the shards of my Garfield travel mug, a thought bubble expressing the cat’s distinct distaste for mornings.

  I grip the strap of my purse and look over my shoulder.

  He’s there. And not only that, he’s closed the gap. Was he fifteen feet away before? Christ almighty, he’s just
a few quick strides away, maybe five or six feet behind me. Close enough that I smelled his cologne through the smog and diesel exhaust hanging in the streets. Cologne? Then he’s definitely not a transient. It’s spicy, almost floral, but not flowery. The way a pinecone and clean work sweat and raw iron ore would smell. Elemental. Primal.

  God help me, I want another sniff.

  Hello, police? Yeah, it’s me again. This guy’s been following me, but he smells pretty good, so maybe can you just run a background check on him for me—let me know if he’s okay to date or if he’s a serial killer or something.

  “Brooke Naughton?” I spin around involuntarily.

  It’s him, of course, and everyone else on the street seems to have vanished. It’s almost eight in the morning on a Tuesday in the middle of God-damned Olive Street, and there’s no one else around. That’s the first law of Los Angeles: you’re never more than an arm’s length away from another human being. On the road, on the sidewalk, in the grocery store—there are people everywhere.

  I guess the rule technically still applies because the weirdo is even closer, no more than a foot away from me. Definitely within an arm’s length. I get a flash again, the shirtless Highlander clutching his stolen maiden against the tanned, hard plane of his torso. And that smell. It’s intoxicating. Literally. It’s as appealing as the smell of baking cookies, inspiring the same sort of visceral craving and… impatience. Impatience for what? I’m not sure.

  My cell phone is in my purse, and I dip my hand in the opening, rooting around the folded papers and receipts and Chapsticks trying to find the reassuring smooth glass screen.

  Police? It’s Brooke again, yeah, the Fabio guy is still after me. But I think I changed my mind about filing a report.

  I shake my head, really feeling like I’m under some sort of spell. Can’t cobras hypnotize their prey, or is that some oft-repeated urban legend? My fingers brush against my phone and I seize on it, pulling it out and unlocking the screen with a quick swipe of my thumb. Call the LAPD non-emergency line? Call 911? I start to tap the little green phone icon in the corner when his hand grabs my wrist.

  “You have to come with me,” he says. And even his voice is odd. His cadence is strange, and he emphasized the wrong syllables, like a text-to-speech reader that’s improperly programmed. The physical sound of his voice, however, is pleasant, like smooth butter on warm, soft French bread. It’s rich and velvety and full of depth. Again, that craving for more. Or maybe I’m hungry and shouldn’t have skipped breakfast.

  Either way, there’s no way in hell I’m going with him. I yank my hand away—or at least I try. It’s like trying to get my hand out of a hardened block of cement.

  I dart my head around (keep your head on a swivel, I think, as my father always recommended, be ready to fight) and there’s still no one around. Fucking bizarre. I swing my foot backwards, teetering on my other leg, hoping I can balance in these heels. I know I probably don’t have a chance of landing a kick to the balls without toppling over myself, so I settle for the shins. He yowls in pain as the heel connects with the bony part of his leg.

  He’s momentarily stunned, and I use that moment to run. The street is still eerily empty, but I scream, “Help!” anyway. My feet are working some sort of autopilot synchronized miracle, flying across the sidewalk in perfect timing, perfect balance. No one ever ran so perfectly in heels in the history of running or high heels.

  I’m approaching the corner of Third Street, and there’s bound to be more people. But right as I get closer and can see the crowds of morning workers walking down Third, he appears before me.

  And I do mean appears. As in out of thin air. Like, one second the sidewalk was clear for the ten or so yards to the corner. Then, boom. Brick wall of muscle man in my path. It was like a corny effect in old movies, where they make someone appear or disappear by stopping the camera.

  I bash right into him, stumbling backwards, my adrenaline-fueled grace and speed now completely gone—replaced with jittery terror. I’m about to land flat on my ass, but he reaches out and grabs my flailing arms, steadying me.

  But he doesn’t let go. The grip on my wrists is unyielding.

  “You must come with me,” he says again. “We will leave now.”

  “No,” is all I can manage to choke out.

  “You are under arrest,” he says.

  Under arrest? Oh, shit. I didn’t do anything wrong. Did I? They say everyone breaks at least three federal laws a day, but that’s probably one of those urban legends, too, like cobras hypnotizing their prey. I don’t even download music illegally, smoke weed or use my phone when I drive. The worst thing I do is speed on the freeway (which, in L.A., is not possible very often) or take a chocolate-covered gummy bear from the bulk food bins at Whole Foods.

  “What for?” I say. I feel a ray of hope; I can clear this up. After all, the law is my specialty. Most importantly, I didn’t do anything. Worst case scenario, I get a lawyer to talk some sense into these people, but I’m not guilty of anything.

  That’s not the worst case, an evil and paranoid voice inside me argues. The worst case is that this guy is a violent pervert who’s using The Oldest Trick in the Book to get you to go with him: trust me lady, I’m a cop. He’s probably got a badge and handcuffs he ordered online.

  “We leave now,” he says. I’m struck again by how off his voice is. His rhythm and enunciations are just wrong. It’s not an accent or speech impediment. It’s like he’s reading a string of random words, not trying to meaningfully engage in spoken communication with another member of society.

  Because he doesn’t get a lot of company in his forest bunker, I think. He only emerges to capture a girl…

  “No,” I say. “What am I under arrest for? What do you think I’ve done?”

  “Murder,” he says coldly. “You must stand trial for your crimes.”

  Now he’s really talking like an insane person. And I know for sure he’s one of those really deranged sickos, thinks he’s on a mission from God or something to cleanse the world of filth.

  “Murder?” I say. “You have the wrong person. I didn’t kill anyone. Do I look like a murderer?”

  “Yes,” he says. He takes out his phone and shows me the screen. That’s my picture alright, the one from my driver’s license.

  That’s when I realize two things. The first is that he hasn’t tried to read me the Miranda warning. You have the right to remain silent, anything you say can and will be used against you… Everyone knows about that, especially crazy serial killers pretending to be cops. The second thing is that his phone is not a phone, at least not a phone I’ve ever seen.

  But before I have a chance to process these two terrible new pieces of information, I realize I have to be dreaming.

  Because he starts to change.

  Actually change. Like more bad special effects from a 1970s movie.

  His skin darkens until it’s brown, then the pigments shift and he’s a shade of red like a Craftsman toolbox, then his skin sort of settles on a dark grey-purple color, like a wilting lavender flower. His face morphs, too, nothing I can pinpoint because the color change is too distracting. But when he’s done, he’s like some sort of monster.

  But he’s still, somehow, sorta hot. That basic male model essence hasn’t changed.

  His skin has toughened, the entire surface looking like one keratinized callus. It looks like the little pad on the bottom of your big toe, like you could cut into it a quarter-inch and it wouldn’t hurt or bleed. Like protective armor, I think, but not scales. Flexible, squishy, dead skin. How charming.

  He does have hair, a thick black patch on the crown of his head, but the sides are shaved bare. He’s got eyebrows and eyelashes, but his chin and arms are bare. He wears a tight vest that has metal plates in the front and back but leaves his arms exposed. His pants are made out of the same dark, metallic-looking material, form-fitting and flexible.

  He’s got two long claws on his pinky and ring fingers, black
and shiny, about an inch long and curved at a 180-degree bend, like a cat’s. Made for unzipping guts. A droplet of something greenish descends from the one on his left pinky, and I can only hope it’s not a deadly neurotoxin.

  Something slaps down on my wrists, but when I look, they’re not handcuffs. They’re glowing red, but not hot. And I can’t even move anything below the elbow; my arms and hands are completely paralyzed, invisible pins and needles stabbing into me.

  “You are hereby arrested for the crime of murder. You are to be remanded to the custody of the Phurusians for judgement and sentencing.”

  Holy. Screaming. Fuck. The custody of the Phurusians? Did I think he was crazy? He’s in the ‘needs a personalized team of psychiatrists flown in from the Mayo Clinic’ type of crazy.

  “I didn’t do anything,” I say in my defense.

  “I know you didn’t,” he says.

  “If you know I didn’t,” I can’t help but say, “then why are you arresting me?”

  “You are charged with murder, to be committed on the planet Vargos in a period of time no more than thirty days hence.”

  “Thirty days?” I almost scream. “I’m arrested for a murder that I’m supposed to commit a month from now? On the planet Vargos?”

  “Yes,” he says.

  And I know that I’m fucked. This dude is certifiably insane. When they find my mutilated corpse, he won’t even be judged mentally competent to stand trial. The men in the white coats will come and take him to a nice padded room with all the crayons and lithium he wants.

  “Time to leave,” he says. I look around for his van—because a guy like this needs a van.

  Except I’m not sure he’s really a guy. I’m not sure he’s human.

  There’s too much that doesn’t add up. The empty sidewalk, the complete lack of cars on the road, how he teleported, changed his appearance. Plus his weird paralyzing handcuffs and his phone that’s not really a phone.