by Alison Aimes
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STOLEN Excerpt
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Earth 9079
“You’re not supposed to be here, DaKar. Go away.” DaKar Volkan, disgraced firstborn Executive to the Starlight estate, Warlord of nothing, didn’t move. Dirty feet planted on the cool balcony tiles that overlooked the ballroom, he let his half-brother’s voice roll right over him. His hands gripped the railing as his gaze locked on the gathering below— and one tiny, delicate figure in particular.
Despite his calm appearance, his heart slammed against his chest.
“This party is for full élithe only.” Unfortunately, ignoring his younger half-brother, Peller, did not make him disappear. Instead, he shuffled closer, his nose barely reaching the top of the railing, his narrow chest puffing out and making the rich fibers of his skintight jacket shimmer and pulse with different shades of purple. “It’s not for heathen half-Martian freaks like yourself. Mother said so, and Father agreed. You’re to stay out of sight.”
The festivity below was your typical excessive élithe event. A reminder, DaKar supposed, of how far they’d come. Earth had been a bleak, dying planet after the Great Wars, useless and used up, its air toxic. Until six wily survivors coaxed the United Federation into using Outer Worlder technology to slap a dome on a large swath of the place and turn it into a trading post. Over centuries, the dome had exploded in importance—thanks to the ruthlessness of those at its helm—transforming into a thriving, anachronistic mini-fiefdom, ruled with an iron fist by the shareholders of the Earther Corporation and their grasping male offspring. His father’s family had been one of the original six, but DaKar wasn’t nearly as impressed with the legacy as the rest of his relatives.
“Mother said this is my chance to represent the family and make Father proud. To show him I can handle the title of High Executive when he is ready to pass it down.” His half-brother rarely gave up. “You will ruin everything.”
DaKar didn’t bother responding. At moments like this, he almost felt sorry for Peller. There was no making their father proud. And the older male would never give up the esteemed élithe title or the power that came with it unless they were pried from his cold, dead hands.
“This is my event.” His half-brother prattled on. “Mother has done this for me.”
DaKar had to admit his stepmother had outdone herself tonight. A thousand flickering candles cast shadows over the Outer World performers from beyond Orion’s belt, their green scales glowing as they climbed the walls and astonished with acrobatics an Earther’s body could never do. In another section of the giant room, musicians from Saturn’s moons played haunting tunes through their trunks as élithe guests pretended to sway to the music while looking to see who they could suck up to next. To top it all off, colorful neon lights flashed in random bursts from the ceiling, sparking to life the gems and danashe stones sewn into the clothes or worn as accessories around the neck, wrists, or hair of the guests. There was nothing the élithe loved more than to show off their wealth, and danashe stones, prized for their beauty, rarity, and stunning color shifts in the light, were a staple of élithe couture.
But none sparkled quite as bright as the tiny one’s golden hair.
“I’ll tell Mother.” His half-brother was relentless—and unimaginative. His insults and threats always the same.
“Bleek off, Peller.” DaKar’s voice dipped to a growl and then cracked, ruining the effect. His grip on the railing tightened. Thanks to his Martian blood, he’d always been bigger than his full élithe peers, but at ten, his voice and body were changing, and suddenly unreliable. His horns, usually tucked to the side of his head, popped out when he least expected. His skin, already golden and nothing like the creamy pink color of his élithe peers, was deepening in hue, while his fangs lengthened and his shoulders, chest, and legs grew by the lunar rotation.
That last development was the only thing he liked. Because maybe soon he’d be able to do something besides taste dirt beneath the fists of the grown-ups who ruled his life. Maybe he’d even be able to stop following his sire’s directives and finally accept his mother’s uncles’ repeated invitations to come visit them on Mars. He didn’t know if things on the Outer World would be as rough as here, but he wanted to find out.
He leaned farther over the balcony railing, rising to his tiptoes, the strange heat rippling beneath his skin weird, but not unpleasant.
She’d been standing next to a nervous-looking female and smug Executive male who looked like a typical élithe asht-hole. The two adults had recently entered into a breeding contract by the looks of the bright, metallic sashes around their shoulders, and the girl had been crowded out by a steady stream of well-wishers. Until she hovered at the outskirts, her head cast downward, her tiny shoulders hunched. Alone. Like him.
He gripped the railing tighter, the bruises on his jaw and ribs throbbing a little less. He didn’t know how he knew, but she was the cause of the strange sensations. He was certain of it.
He’d been tinkering with his junk of a transpo floater, no intention of coming here, when the burn had snaked down his spine and propelled his feet forward, tugging him along until he’d stood at the edge of the balcony and his gaze had unerringly locked on her, everything else dropping to silence.
He had no clue why. Her hair was pretty, but there was little else of mention. She was skinny with big eyes and a large mouth that took up her whole face. She was also no more than seven, right around the same age as his annoying half-brother. And she was full élithe, like his stepmother, dressed in the same shimmering ornate white gowns required of all unbred females.
Svette, the eighteen-year-old girl from Orion’s belt who came with her father to deliver supplies and giggled and winked at him the whole time, was a far more attractive female. But his skin had never once hummed for her like it did for the golden-haired one.
His stepmother would probably say it was some disgusting Martian thing. She blamed everything she didn’t like on his Outer World blood. And maybe she was right, maybe whatever this was—
His breath left in a rush as the blonde’s head snapped up and bright green, defiant eyes zeroed in on him. Her fiery spirit, fury, and confusion slamming into him as if he’d stepped inside her mind. As if they were one. As if he knew this strange girl as well as he knew himself. And, for an instant he wasn’t alone, the heat inside him swirling and changing, snaking in golden tendrils that stretched towards her even as they wound tighter and tighter around his chest. Binding them together, two jagged pieces snap- ping into place. Inevitable. Right. Fated. Fused into one perfect whole. Filling the empty, bleak sky of his soul with a million sparkling stars more beautiful than any danashe stones.
Minel. The Martian word for “mine” ricocheted through his brain, a silent roar. Ancient. Primal. Out of context in the élithe world and his ten-year-old boy mind. And yet so right. As if he was finally slipping into the skin he was meant to wear, his chest expanding as the golden shimmer of his skin glittered brighter. Minel. He who’d had nothing he could call his, not even the clothes on his back, suddenly had everything he’d ever wanted. Minel. Her anger, fear, and loneliness pulsed in his chest as if she’d whispered her feelings straight into his ear, and a protectiveness he’d never known roared through him. His horns jutted from his head, his fangs lengthening. Keeping her safe, making her happy, suddenly all that mattered.
The railing bent under the force of his grip.
“Oh, look what you’ve done,” gasped Peller. “Mother will b
e furious.”
The humming beneath DaKar’s skin increased in tempo. The girl’s eyes crinkled at the edges as if she was trying hard to make him out and he realized she couldn’t see him nearly as well as he could her. Élithe sight wasn’t as strong as Martian sight and he was positioned far across the other side of the room, high above. And yet she still looked his way...her brow wrinkled, her expression uncertain, but curious.
Then, her face scrunched up, her tongue came out, and she made a silly face totally out of place with her fancy dress and proper bearing.
He locked his knees to stay upright. She was perfect. Minel.
The wild, uncivilized urge built inside. He needed to plant himself in front of the girl who’d tried to make him laugh and rip apart anyone who attempted to hurt her or take her from him.
He moved along the balcony edge toward the stairs, his stare never wavering from her.
“You can’t go down there. L-look at you. You know how Mother feels about keeping up appearances.” Peller had lost his smug tone. Now, he just sounded shocked—and a little scared. “Why are you growling like that? A-and why are your chest and fangs bigger than before? What’s that glowy thing around your body? You...you look even more like one of those savage Martians than usual. Father will be furious.”
Neither of them liked their father furious.
DaKar hesitated, but not because of his father. The pull to go to the girl, to find out why she was sad, built like a storm inside his gut, the pressure immense, almost painful. Except...Peller was right. He’d never been more aware of his ragged, worn clothes, castoffs from his half-brother that looked ridiculous on his too-big frame. Or his horns, fangs, wild hair, and dirty face and hands. Or the bruises that throbbed beneath his clothes. The élithe below were everything he was not, and she was one of them.
“You need to leave. Look what you did to the railing.” His half-brother’s constant whine buzzed like an irritating insect in the background. “I told you. You will embarrass us all.”
“Peller, shut up before I show you what a true savage can do.” The little shanus was a constant pain in his side, but he wasn’t the real cause of DaKar’s anger. That was reserved for himself.
He shouldn’t even hesitate. She needed him.
All his life he’d heard his blood was tainted, that his mother’s Martian Warlord heritage was barbaric and not befitting of their family—and neither was he. He’d pretended not to care, but up until tonight, he’d done his best to prove them wrong.
Tonight, he needed to put ego aside and gladly prove them right. She was what mattered.
He prowled forward once more, following the railing that led to the stairs, his gaze still locked on her.
“Stop right there.” Another voice, higher-pitched and far more dangerous. “You were told not to show your face tonight and you will do as you’re bid for once. Turn around and crawl back to your hole. You are not welcome here. I have a reputation to uphold.”
He didn’t have to turn around to know his stepmother loomed behind, her streaked gold and black hair piled high on her head like a coiled snake and laden with glittering danashe stones while her meticulously maintained body was draped in the finest of iridescent red fabrics that fastened tight to her body and billowed out behind her like the echoes of a scream. Nor did he have to look to know her face was pinched in a sour expression. Or that she was surrounded by the same four burly, blank-faced guards with thick forearms and brutish knuckles that followed her every command.
Most of the servants were kind to him, sneaking him food or patching up his injuries on the sly, sharing what they had, despite having very little. But not these four. They served his stepmother with pleasure, and her pleasure was his pain.
She hated him for having Martian blood and golden skin. She hated him for his father’s refusal to remove him from her home. Mostly, she hated him because he was his father’s firstborn, and élithe rules were very clear on lines of inheritance. Her younger son Peller would never inherit the full title, lands, and shares of the Starlight estate. Half-breed or not, freak or not, that right belonged to DaKar.
“I may not be welcome, but I am still going.” His stare still on the girl, he suddenly felt far older than his ten planetary rotations, his blood pumping with an ancient impulse that gave him the wisdom of a thousand Martian Warlord ancestors. “This does not concern you or your precious reputation.”
“Everything you do concerns me.” A slight pause, her voice sharp with excitement as she issued her next directive. “Teach this half-breed some respect.”
It hurt to turn away from the girl, his soul ripping like shredded fabric as the connection severed, but he couldn’t protect her if he was dead. His fangs lengthened. His chest expanded, the seams of Peller’s old clothes giving way.
He ducked, air hissing against his cheek as he barely dodged the meaty fist slamming toward his jaw. He was not so lucky with the next kick to his stomach. His bigger body was unfamiliar and awkward, making it harder to avoid the blows, while the roar of possession and protectiveness in his blood made focusing difficult. He had the instincts, but not the skills or understanding— and despite the ancient drive throbbing through his veins, he was still only ten. Smaller and weaker than the handful of grown males closing in.
He went down hard, the railing and half wall hiding him from the ballroom below. His palms slammed into the tiles, along with his chin. His fangs punched into his lower lip. Blood splattered. Fists and boots battered him.
“Not here.” His stepmother’s hiss cut through the haze of pain. “Take him to his room. Make sure there’s no chance he can make another unwanted appearance tonight.”
Firm hands gripped his arms and jerked him upright and forward, his toes barely skimming the ground. Bucking and thrashing, he tried to escape the males flanking both sides. Minel. He needed to get to her.
“My Lady,” Tom, a hardworking servant in his mid-twenties who’d only recently been promoted from outside work to doorman and floater driver, appeared from behind the column, his expression a mix of nerves and determination, “the boy meant no harm. If you would show him some kindness, I—”
Before DaKar could even open his mouth to warn the man off, his stepmother flicked her fingers. “You’re dismissed.”
Her lackey’s brutal fist plowed into the brave male’s jaw. Eyes rolling back, he crumpled. “No.” DaKar fought harder.
“I do not want a scene.” His stepmother flicked her wrist once more.
A slight hiss of air and something hard punched the back of his head. His neck snapped.
Black dots danced in front of his eyes as his body sagged and his senses shut down one by one. Until all he knew was the grim beat of his heart and the knowledge that he’d failed those he should have protected, her worst of all.
The connection, the heat, the golden tendrils growing fainter with every step they dragged him away, until it was only a mocking echo, until he wasn’t sure it had even been real, and then, there was nothing at all.
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TRAPPED Excerpt
Want more Condemned series heat and fierce warrior convicts? The first three books in the Condemned series are available as well... First up, TRAPPED.
“You can’t just leave them here.” A woman’s furious voice reached prisoner 673 through the rocky canyon. He froze. Cocked his head. Inhaled, but scented nothing except the usual arid scent of dirt and dust.
After so many years alone, the sound of such loud squawking was jarring. And that the voice was a woman’s? His cock twitched and rose, taking notice. Eight years was a long time to go without. The last time the droids had dropped a woman on Dragath25 was five years ago. 223’s pack had gotten hold of her first. She’d lasted five minutes.
It was a good reminder. Fragile things didn’t last here. And nothing, not even long overdue pussy, was worth risking his survival.
“You hear those shrieks? They’re comi
ng.” An equally enraged male’s voice boomed through the canyon, thoughtfully telegraphing his precise location. “Our shuttle streaked through the sky like a clear come-and-get-me invitation for the entire penal population of murderers and psychopaths. We don’t have time to dick around. We don’t have time for those who’ll only slow us down. We’re moving out.”
“You coward. I saved your life. The least you can do is try and return the favor.”
673 cleared the canyon in time to see a bull of a red-haired soldier dressed in fatigues grab a far smaller woman in a torn gray uniform, her boots dragging along the ground as he shook her hard.
673’s whole body went tight. He didn’t like bullies. He dropped into a crouch, instinct taking over as he slunk forward, his gaze absorbing everything: the way the soldier bastard favored his right side, the large firearm strapped to his holster, the second weapon at the man’s back... the way the woman’s ripped uniform clung to her curvy body and the outraged rigidity of her spine even up against a man twice her size. Then, there were the nine other thick-necked, smug soldiers with similar military-issued buzz cuts standing close by, no clue of the danger he represented, their sole attention on the woman.
In the next instant, the woman dropped into the dirt. On a perfect, heart-shaped ass.
Freezing in place, 673 waited to see what happened next.
“Fine,” the woman shouted, stumbling to her feet. “Go. But I’m not leaving. We’ll find a way.”
“Your funeral.” Soldier bastard grabbed a pack off the ground. He slung it onto his shoulder next to a similar one.
“At least leave us one.” She surged forward, grabbing for the pack, but soldier bastard darted out of reach.
“Not so high-and-mighty now, are you, Cadet West? In fact, seems like you and your Council friends might need us after all.” Soldier bastard patted the pack. “These were issued to the military crew, and you know how strict Command Council is about ensuring resources are relegated to the proper department. You survive the night, I’ll be ready to hear just what you’re willing to do to get an unsanctioned taste.” With a final leer in her direction, soldier bastard kicked it into a jog. “Let’s go, men.”
