by Alana Khan
She wiggles to see my face and smiles at me. In that position, she looks younger, and happy.
“So why do I have to tell you any stories? You already know I’m the kindest male in the galaxy,” I snipe.
Rolling on her side, she snuggles against me, her bent leg slung over my hips. She’s wearing her t-shirt and panties. I’m down to my loincloth. We’re in dangerous territory if we want to keep talking.
A memory bubbles to the surface of my mind. It’s not a good one.
“I was young, maybe five or six. It’s hard to keep track as a slave. My owner wasn’t wealthy, he had me training in the ludus during the day and helping in the house at night. I fetched things and cleaned.
“He had a daughter about my age, Larana. Whenever I was in the house, she lurked nearby and watched me. Her skin was blue and shaggy, maybe that’s why I fascinated her—my smooth, green skin.
“Over time, she developed a habit of catching me alone in a room I was cleaning. One time she brought a ball and played catch with me. A few weeks later she gave me a piece of fabric that was swirled with beautiful colors and was the softest thing I’d ever touched.
“I took it from her, thanked her, then hid it in her toybox. She had no way of knowing that I’d be thrashed within an ince of my life for having such a thing. Even though she gave it to me, my master would assume I stole it.”
I tuck Aerie’s head under my chin. I don’t want to watch her watching me.
“One evening I was dusting just the way the mistress had instructed, lifting each item up and then setting it back exactly as it had been. I learned quickly that returning it to the wrong spot warranted punishment.
“Larana grabbed one of her mother’s scarves and mimicked my every move, except she wasn’t being careful. When she picked up her mother’s favorite glass vase, I whispered to her to stop. My mistress forbade me to touch it, she said it was far too valuable. She dusted that herself.
“Despite my warnings, Larana picked it up and immediately dropped it, breaking it into a thousand pieces. She stayed rooted in place, eyes wide in fright. She had heard her mother forbid anyone to touch it.
“Mistress pounded into the room and saw the evidence. I was ten fiertos away, Larana stood over the broken fragments of glass.
“‘Did you do this, Larana?’” her mother asked.
“As Larana said ‘yes’, I said, ‘Larana, you don’t have to take the blame for something I did. I’m sorry, Mistress’.
“It had to have been obvious what the truth was, but Mistress was more than happy to place the blame on someone other than her precious child.
“She beat me with a wooden rod she kept in the house for just such a purpose. She made Larana watch, I assume, to ensure her child followed the rules in the future.
“The beating went on longer than I could track. I’d found that counting the strokes allowed me to maintain my sanity, but I stopped at some point. The pain was too intense to pay attention to anything but my breathing. She was taking all her anger out on me, even though I’m certain she knew I hadn’t done it.
“At some point, I crumpled to the floor and was lying in a pool of my own blood. Mistress had to call another servant to carry me to my barracks. I bear the marks to this day.”
When I started talking, Aerie was stroking my chest. A moment into my story, though, she stilled and simply listened.
Now she rolls a few inces away from me and gently nudges me onto my side, to face away from her. Why would she want to see my back? To prove the truth of my words? To see the damage?
I almost push her aside, but Beast-Evolving rolls onto his stomach—waiting.
It’s dark. Perhaps she can’t see the marks. They’ve faded over time. But I feel them when I reach around to put a scabbard on my back. I know they’re still there.
One dainty finger starts at my shoulder, then trails down my back. I know the moment she encounters one of the thick, raised scars. A doctor once called it a keloid.
She traces, wordlessly, crisscrossing my back with the lightest touch.
I try to read her mind. I haven’t felt humiliated by these scars in decades, but I feel humble now. Judged by her. Why did I have to tell her this memory out of all the things in my head?
She shifts next to me, and I feel her lips trace along the same lines her finger just abandoned. From shoulder to waist, and back up again. Over and over. Leaving no mark untouched.
Did I think she was judging? No. This is tenderness. Compassion.
Leaning up, her lips brushing my ear, she says, “The mighty Beast of Tramachor, feared among even the toughest gladiators in the galaxy, carries a secret. Under his skin he bears the marks that document the kindest thing he ever did. Here it is . . .” she kisses the thick keloid just below my shoulder blade, “for anyone with eyes to see. It proclaims his secret—his kind heart, hidden to protect him.”
She leans over me, her gaze commanding me to look at her. “Are you male enough, Beast? Are you male enough to bare your kind heart to me? Maybe just for this trip, in the tight confines of this pod? And I, I can try to bare mine to you.”
Her eyes are shining, luminous in the scant light thrown by the instrument panel. We both learned young how to hide our kind hearts for self-protection.
“Mine is buried deep, Aerie. Maybe too deep to excavate. But I’ll try if you will.”
Perhaps the moment is too emotional to prolong, because she presses me onto my back, slides down my body, and pulls my loincloth low enough to grip my cock in her palm. Then her mouth is on me and the past fades back into the steel casket I keep it in.
I focus on her warm lips and the suction of her mouth and the tiny grunts of pleasure that escape her as she gives me release. I’m very careful to let nothing depart my mouth but sounds of bliss.
Chapter Eight
Aerie
My eyes fly open as I awaken, completely disoriented. I soon realize I’m in the pod with Beast, nestled with my back to his front. His heavy arm is slung across my waist. I’m smashed against the curved outer wall of the ship.
Using my patented ‘flip’ move, I turn in his arms without waking him. I could look at that beautiful, strange, alien face for the next fifty years and never tire of it. My eyes are captured by the interesting rings that bind his nose. The tip of my tongue sneaks between my lips, as if waiting for the sound of a starter pistol.
I’m probably imagining it, but I think I can still taste the earthy tang of his come from last night. Perhaps he’ll wake up tasting me as well. He promised we’d ‘play’ on this trip. That we did.
My wrist-comm lights up, alerting me of a comm from Plenum. The asshole is checking that I’m on my way. I’ll respond later.
Maybe it was the muted buzz of my comm that woke him, but when I glance over, Beast is looking at me. His face looks softer than I’ve ever seen it, and his eyes have a warm glow.
“What should we do today?” he asks. “I hear mronck-back riding is fun this time of year.”
“Mmm, sounds delightful. First, let me whip you up something from my gourmet kitchen. Let’s see . . . we’ll start with pancakes and sausages, and I could make us pineapple-mango smoothies. Sound good?”
“I don’t know. I have a craving for a nutrition bar.”
“Breakfast in bed?” I ask.
He leans over and rummages under the bed for a couple bars, giving me the opportunity to sneak a peek at that fine gladiator ass of his. There’s certainly something to be said for working out ten hours a day.
My eyes inspect his back from this angle. I can see the scars, they’re a dark emerald against his lighter jade. The metallic shine is duller. I must have noticed them before and just thought they were part of his coloration.
Now that I know what they are, I feel a knot of anger coil in my belly. In the past I’ve certainly known hate. It started with some of Mom’s boyfriends and didn’t end until I ran away from my last foster placement. But I’ve never before felt it on behalf of someo
ne else.
I hate Beast’s mistress. After the story he told me, I’d kill her if she was standing here.
“Do you want the one with fake berries?” he asks with a smile as he holds up two bars, “or the synthetic citrus one?”
“So little time, so many choices. You pick.”
“I think the berries taste better,” he says as he tosses it to me. “I’ll take the citrus.”
“Ever the gentlemale.” I unwrap it and after one horrid bite, I wolf it down without tasting. I’ve had worse, although I can’t recall when.
He leans over, the smell of citrus on his breath, and kisses my forehead. After rolling out of bed, he hits the floor and starts exercising.
I’ve never been that girl. Unless I’m under a time crunch, I like to lie in bed for at least a few minutes, then mosey to the kitchen for a cup of coffee. I’m a workaholic, no doubt about it, but I do require a cup of joe to start my engine.
Not the Beast of Tramachor. I sit up and sling my legs over the edge of the bed to get a better look. He’s already in the middle of a set of pushups, I have no idea how many he’s done. I think the most I’ve ever done was ten, and that was under the threat of punishment. And they were girl’s pushups.
Now he begins one-handed pushups. One hundred on each side. I’m already far past awe-territory when he repositions himself, his toes on the bed frame next to me, and begins a set from this new, harder angle.
Seriously? One hundred of these?
It’s only now that I hear his breathing quicken and see a thin sheen of sweat on his shimmering green skin.
I watch as he continues his routine, which seems endless. Situps, kicks from an all fours position, kicks while standing, body-lifts from a crab position with one leg in the air, his repertoire is endless. And I get to watch as I’m treated to seeing that beautiful body activating every muscle group.
And he’s naked. Dahlia warned me these guys are more at home nude than clothed. Beast certainly doesn’t seem shy about letting everything hang out. Me? I’ve already found my t-shirt, which was tossed to the foot of the bed in a frenzy last night, and pulled it over my head. Locating my panties, though, will take a more concerted effort.
I must have been watching, mesmerized, for at least an hour when he stands, breathing heavily but in no way could it be called panting, and smiles at me. As he grabs a washcloth, moistens it, and wipes off, he asks, “Want me to show you a routine?”
Heinous! Talk about abrupt. One moment I’m basking in the visual nirvana that is Beast exercising nude, and the next I’m unceremoniously shoved into hell. He wants me to what? Exercise?
“Kind of you to offer, but no. The most exercise I intend to do—ever—is walk on my expensive stilts. I’ll understand if this is deal-breaker. But the answer is ‘not no but hell no’.”
“You don’t . . .” he pauses, his head slightly tilted—genuinely amazed, “want to exercise?”
“Is there a food you really hate?” is my answer.
“Dremanga,” he says with obvious distaste.
“Exercise is like dremanga to me. You actually enjoy it?”
“It makes me feel good. Almost as good as dracking.” His eyebrow lifts in interest.
“Speaking of which, we agreed—at your suggestion I might add—that there would be no dracking on this trip.”
“Right. But there will be playing. I have many creative ideas.”
“I have a feeling I’ll love your creative ideas.”
And now we’re just staring at each other. Smiling and mooning like two teenagers. I don’t know what he sees from his end, but through my eyes he looks adorable, and good enough to eat.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see something flash outside the window. I have no frame-of-reference for what I see. Hundreds or thousands of massive objects are bearing down on us.
“Belt!” Beast yells as he slides into the chair.
I pile on top of him and he has us strapped in within a second.
“Ah!” I can’t help but yell as one of the things, I’ll call it a meteor, comes barreling at us so fast and so close I’m certain we’ll be crushed. It whizzes by, much to my relief.
“Do you know what’s happening?” I ask.
“The first time I was able to look out the window of a spaceship was only a few days ago. I have no idea, but I think we’re going to die.”
I want to scold him, to tell him not to say that again, but he’s a straight talker—and he’s right.
The meteors are rushing at us nonstop. Some look like they’re going to collide with us, but when they pass it’s obvious they’re miles away—maybe thousands of miles away. Distance loses its perspective in the darkness of space. Then others come so close it’s a miracle they don’t bash into us and blast us to bits.
Beast’s arms are around my waist as he crushes me against his chest.
“I wish I knew how to pilot this thing,” he murmurs into my hair. “I’m useless.”
“As am I.”
What were we thinking? Climbing into this tiny ten by ten ball of metal and glass and trusting in Braxxus’s coordinates to fly us to another planet? Did any of us take even a moment to think this through?
Putting two civilians in this sphere, pushing a button, and hoping fifty hours later it would land exactly where it was supposed to? No thought to pirates, or mechanical failure, or meteors for fuck’s sake?
He pushes the button to comm Braxxus, just as we were instructed. All we hear is fuzz. After trying ten more times, he gives up. Perhaps the meteor storm has interfered with the electronics, or maybe the equipment never worked properly in the first place.
“Beast? If those meteors don’t kill us, I’m going to die of a heart attack. Every time one comes close, I think my heart is going to seize. Can we swivel to look the other way?”
He hesitates a moment, then turns us around. Perhaps he had to think for one more moment to realize there’s nothing either of us can do whether we’re looking at our approaching doom or oblivious to it.
I relax immediately. Not seeing your impending death rushing at you faster than the speed of light is a relief.
We’re silent a moment, both of us allowing our racing hearts to stand down. Then I feel his lips on the top of my head.
“You’ve been a surprise, Aerie. I didn’t expect to find . . .” he pauses as if he’s searching for the right word, then our little craft shudders.
He swivels us back to look out the window. I’ve closed my eyes, but peek out, like a child at a scary movie. Ridiculous, I know. Finally, I pry my eyes open, but I see nothing.
Beast turns us to face the rear again.
“I think one of those things came so close the draft shook us.”
Close. Close enough to knock us off course. Even if we actually live through this—survive flying through a minefield of hurtling rocks each half as big as a planet—now we’re off course. Great.
I don’t say anything. If he hasn’t worried about this yet, far be it from me to put one new fear into his head.
I don’t want to think about any of this anymore. My heart is still racing, I’m sweating—I can feel it beading on my upper lip and moistening my armpits. I understand the ostrich now. Just stick your head in the sand and whistle a happy tune and ignore reality. Frankly, it’s the best strategy I have at my disposal.
What’s that saying? ‘God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change?’ Okay, I admit it. I’m powerless. Might as well change the subject.
“I didn't expect this either, Beast.” I don’t have the courage to name it, but I can dance around the subject a bit more. “I never expected to be kidnapped by aliens, or to fly among the stars, or to meet a handsome green gladiator who turned out to be a surprisingly kind male.”
Okay. I’ve said enough.
“Mmm,” is his response. Except he hugs me tighter and then pets me wherever he can reach. My shoulder, my thigh, my hair. I like that the best—it’s soothing.
&
nbsp; Finally, he cups his hand over my eyes and swivels us back to face the windows.
“I think it’s slowing,” he says. “Do you want to look?”
“Yeah.”
When he pulls his hand away, I have to agree. We’re not being bombarded as fast and as furious as we had been.
“I have no idea what this is, but I wonder if somehow we transected the tail end of a meteor shower,” I say.
The damn things are still whizzing by, but they’re not as numerous or dense as they had been.
“Hungry?” he asks.
“No, but I think this scared the crap out of me. I’m going to go behind curtain number one and you are not going to sing or make up songs or mention any smells or noises—either good or bad. Got it?”
