Unexpected Prize

by Stone, Layla

  Unexpected Prize

  Unexpected Series

  Book .5

  Layla Stone

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Copyright © 2018 Layla Stone. All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Prompt Penworks

  ISBN-13: 9780996704168

  Cover design by Croco Designs

  Table of Contents

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Prologue

  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

  Epilogue

  Teaser

  About the Author

  To my patient family, I love you.

  Acknowledgements

  I’d like to thank all the readers who have bought this book and took a chance on a new author and my debut novella. I can’t tell you how much your support means to me. I hope you enjoy Jarr-o and Cara’s story, and I hope you’ll also look forward to reading all the rest of the stories in this Unexpected Series starting with Sci and Sasha’s book. Thank you Matthew, Christopher and Annalise who remind me that family is the most important part of my life. I love you all so much.

  Thank you to my wonderful editors, Randi Gause and Chelle - Literally Addicted to Detail. Thank you Michelle and Jennifer for beta reading and fleshing out all the holes in my plot. Thank you to my critique reader Wendy and Janice Hall who read my story when it was still raw. And thanks also to my constant support system: Aubrie, Gail, Sarah and my girl Melissa for all the sage advice.

  Prologue

  One Year Ago

  Gus-ng slapped his newly acquired slave. Not because she was talking back or crying like the other slaves did. No, this one was special; Garr-n was the only sister to Jarr-o, his nemesis. She, like her brother, had internal strength like a metal forge.

  When the time was right, Gus-ng would deliver a message to Jarr-o that not only was his sister alive, but that if he didn’t accept Gus-ng’s challenge, Gus-ng would kill his sibling.

  It was a flawless plan.

  Gus-ng pulled his arm back slowly, watching Garr-n’s eyes, hoping for a subtle hint of fear before he slapped her again. Garr-n didn’t look away, or at his hand. No, the female stared him down as if she were disgusted by him. He admired and hated her for her insolence. He put all his strength into the next slap.

  Her head rocked to the side at the impact. Gus-ng smiled slowly, feeling the beginning of arousal as he watched her pain.

  “My brother will come for me,” the slave whispered, so quietly he almost didn’t hear.

  The blood and damage that were splattered around Jarr-o’s home would leave no doubt that Garr-n had been attacked and hurt. Her bloody clothes and the clumps of hair left near the house would ensure that Jarr-o believed his sister dead.

  Gus-ng looked down at Garr-n’s swollen cheek and brushed his thumb over it softly. “Perhaps he will, but do you think you will still be alive when he arrives?”

  Garr-n turned her face to look directly at Gus-ng. Dark brown eyes daring him. “He’ll come, and he will gut you, and I’ll make sure to watch.”

  “Not before I have my way with you. When your bother does come, which I’m looking forward to, he won’t recognize you. No one is ever the same after me,” said Gus-ng, right before he slapped her again, this time causing her skin to break and fresh blood to coat his hand.

  Chapter One

  Pre-Morning

  Jarr-o was lying face down in his nine-by-nine-foot, extra-large bed. He rubbed his face into the pillow, his right tusk snagging the material, ripping another hole. He sighed heavily, annoyed at how easily the fabric ripped from his protruding, ivory lower-canines. Jarr-o’s dark grey skin was a stark contrast to the white linens he lay on. Regardless of how many times he ripped the pillowcases, he always bought the same sinfully soft bed coverings because they felt good against his rough and sun-battered skin.

  Rolling to his side, he had to pause at the sharp pain that shot up from his lower back, reminding him that he was still recovering from his last fight in the gladiator arena. His body was rounded with hardened muscles, each one thick and honed, making him a six-foot wall of stone. A monolith that had overused his body. At thirty-three years old, he felt a hundred years older. His knees and back throbbed all the way through the muscles and tissues to the core of his bones, making him uncomfortable enough that he couldn’t sleep it off.

  Fighting bare-knuckled five to six times a week was bound to wear him down.

  It was time.

  He had heard about older gladiators who suffered the same plight. All but one had died in the fighting arenas over the past year. The young, upcoming gladiators regularly challenged the more mature fighters, hoping to use the death of the battle-scarred, high-ranking warriors to promote their skills and agility. Thus allowing them to leap to the top of the prestigious winners’ circle.

  That’s where Jarr-o was now. At the top. He had been fighting since he was old enough to walk. Jarr-o knew his career would soon end; if he didn’t retire, he would die in the dusty and empty fighting arena.

  Jarr-o opened his round, brown eyes and stared at the numerous challenges scattered on the floor of his studio apartment. He had received them every day since he defeated the highest-ranked gladiator—over a year ago. The messages came from fighters from all over the Angnire planet. Most of the challenges were from non-ranked gladiators, but even if the Chancellor allowed it, he wouldn’t fight someone without formal experience. Jarr-o knew the unranked fighters usually ran in the underground arenas where the rule of anything goes was commonplace. Unregulated fights followed the old gladiator victory laws that allowed the winner to claim anything of value from the fallen challenger.

  In the Chancellor’s arena, both parties put up their payment and then, after agreement, the fight was set. Jarr-o had accepted the very few challengers that were ranked, and won. Each note left carelessly on the floor was either from rejected challengers or warriors he had already fought.

  Lately, Jarr-o had noticed that his challenge requests were getting darker. Instead of the childish bravado or formal letters, there were threats. The notes warned that if he left the protection of the Chancellor’s coliseums and the fair fighting rules, he would discover that being the top-ranked gladiator meant nothing to the underground fighters.

  Jarr-o didn’t give a moment’s thought to the faceless challengers who wrote the notes. He had no reason to leave the coliseum. Especially since he planned to talk to the Chancellor about retiring and becoming a trainer. The only thing stopping him was finding time for the Chancellor to talk to him. He was the owner of not only the coliseum but also all the fighters he employed—Jarr-o included.

  A pounding reverberated from the front door. He couldn’t think of a soul who would be stupid enough to wake him before the sun rose. Deciding to be the better male and let the idiot live, Jarr-o pulled the heavy covering over his shoulder and rubbed his face in his now-ripped pillow, determine
d to ignore the intrusion.

  The pounding continued, louder and more insistent, like a hammer banging against a wooden bar. Jarr-o groaned, thinking that killing someone early in the morning was probably bad for his daily routine. He would have to shower again to remove all the blood that would get on his fists and clothes, and then complete his three hours of strength training. That would disrupt his plans. So, he decided that instead of killing whoever was at his door, he was going to ignore them.

  “Jarr-o! Open up.”

  With a curse, Jarr-o set his jaw. His father knew better than to come to his dorm room. This must be a dream—no, a nightmare—because only in his nightmares would he hear that voice again.

  “Jarr-o, I know you’re in there. Open this door, or I will break it down.”

  Jarr-o threw off the bed covering and rolled to sit on the edge of his mattress. The bed was stationed in the middle of the open room. From his position, he could take three steps to the door, or the table, or the shower, or even the sink and the foul pile of clothes that had been bloodied and ripped to shreds two weeks before. They had been set aside so he could take them to be trashed—a job on his to-do list.

  “Go away.” He drew out the words.

  Rubbing his knee and checking his other injuries before slowly standing up, he walked towards the heavy wooden door that had a metal latch at the top and bottom to keep it secure as he slept. It would keep out the child thieves that lived around the grand coliseum, but it would only give another gladiator pause. It would give him enough time to react to the attack, though, which was why he’d had it installed.

  “Jarr-o, open the door, I got you an in-kit.”

  Jarr-o’s lips pressed into a tight line as he shook his head. An in-kit was the last thing he needed right now. Even though no gladiator would turn down the easy fight and winnings, he had no intention of fighting so soon after his last battle.

  At the insistent banging at his apartment door, Jarr-o knew he had to confront his uninvited company. At the entryway, he listened as creaks in the wood floor told him that his father, Karr-o, was preparing to ram the door off the hinges.

  Silently, Jarr-o slid the metal slats back into place and waited until the last second to pull the door open. Karr-o lunged forward and, having built up too much momentum, couldn’t stop when the entryway was cleared. Jarr-o kicked out one of his boots resting by the door, making it land at Karr-o’s feet and causing him to trip. The old gladiator tumbled onto the cold, stone floor, sputtering up the fine layer of sand that was a constant consequence of living in a desert city.

  As a feature of the Angny race, their lower canines grew in thicker and longer than the rest of their teeth. They were sensitive to the touch, and if hit hard enough, it could incapacitate an adversary for several minutes. The older the male, the longer the lower tusks. Mostly, Jarr-o believed them to be a hindrance when drinking or eating softer foods. Jarr-o noticed that his father’s tusks had grown two inches in the past several years. His medium grey, leathered skin had started to sag, giving Karr-o jowls.

  Jarr-o felt no remorse as Karr-o took extra time brushing off the dust—an odd attempt at being old and awkward. He didn’t find it pleasant to see Karr-o on the ground in his room, either. His father refused to stay out of his life, regardless of how many times Jarr-o threatened him with bodily harm if he kept turning up.

  “I found two Angnies who capture and kill young females. They are probably the ones who killed her. And if not, it’ll be two less rotten fighters to drink our fresh water supplies. I signed you up to fight the two. Today. In three hours. They are an easy in-kit.”

  Jarr-o left the door ajar and rubbed his face as he returned to his bed. “Father. Her name was Garr-n. She was your daughter. My sister. The least you could do is call her by name.”

  Karr-o shook his head, remaining impassive. “She’s not a fighter. She’s nothing to me.”

  Jarr-o sneered. “And these young females you mentioned, are they fighters? Or are they young, helpless girls like Garr-n was?”

  Karr-o hesitated a moment as if he’d just realized the how contradictive he was. Jarr-o watched as his father thought for a moment and then replied, “You always accept challenges from gladiators who are known to abuse females and children.”

  That he did. And, of course, Karr-o would know because he never missed a fight. But still, his father was wrong in his assumption. “It’s not my responsibility to seek vengeance for these females you mentioned. It’s their families’ responsibility. But maybe you forget that because you didn’t lift a finger to defend yours.”

  Karr-o snorted out of his large nostrils. “My family turned against me, or don’t you remember throwing me out of my own home? I forgave you, but you can’t seem to forgive me my one mistake.”

  One mistake? More like a lifetime of poor choices. But he wasn’t going to get into any of that now. Jarr-o no longer gave his father any of his time. “Get out of my room. And stay out of my life. I won’t tell you again.”

  Pushing up from the ground, Karr-o stood. “Not every family has someone like you to stand up for them like Garr-n had. You should reconsider.”

  How dare he! Jarr-o grabbed his father by his shirt and lifted him, getting into his face. “I will crush your skull if I ever see you again. It’s your fault, too, that she’s dead.” Jarr-o discarded Karr-o through the open door.

  He watched his father shake off the fall and turn back with an odd look of pride. “I would have been a better father if I’d had two sons instead of one.”

  That was the crux of the issue. His father had never claimed his sister because she was a female who wouldn’t fight. Not that she wasn’t allowed. No, if she had tried, Jarr-o’s father would have trained her as a spar-fighter and taught her how to build up a gladiator’s endurance and fight unpredictably. The better the spar-fighter, the better the gladiator. Instead, his sister had, from a very young age, refused.

  What made it worse for Karr-o was that Garr-n was odd. She played pranks on other gladiators in training—hiding their weapons, putting sand in their water pouches, just having fun and being carefree and lively. Jarr-o wasn’t envious of her, he felt bad that she didn’t have a purpose. He knew what was expected of him, and he did his part well—better than others his age. Garr-n didn’t listen, work, or learn well. Her behavior led the other parents to condemn how she was being raised. Reputation meant a lot in and out of the ring, and Karr-o didn’t take the mocking well. Jarr-o did admire one thing about his sister, she didn’t let anyone control her life.

  Usually, his father took Garr-n away from the house to lecture her on how she’d embarrassed the family and herself. After training, Jarr-o would often noticed his sister gone after Karr-o had punished her further by making her do harder chores, Jarr-o sympathized with his father. Accepting that it sometimes took an unwanted activity to help curb poor behavior—at least that’s how his trainers adjusted their young gladiators’ bad form.

  His sister needed to learn that her actions had consequences. But her antics didn’t stop, and one day, another parent challenged Karr-o because Garr-n stole his son’s matching axes. Weapons that had just been forged, shaped, and customized as a gift for completing the gladiator’s training.

  That night, Jarr-o came home, and his sister was gone. His father was in the kitchen grilling meat, but he didn’t greet Jarr-o or ask about his day. He didn’t say anything. Jarr-o found his sister curled up in a ball a mile away from the house. At first glance, he’d thought she was dead. Her face was beaten so severely that her eyes were swollen shut, blood leaking out of her eyes, nose, and mouth. One wrist was broken, and one ankle sprained.

  Jarr-o had been sixteen, Garr-n eleven. Returning to the house, Jarr-o coldcocked Karr-o with a wooden plank and then dragged his pathetic body to the outskirts of their property, leaving him there while he returned to Garr-n to address her wounds. Each and every one.

  That’s why Jarr-o was so regimented. He
had no room for frivolity like his peers. His shoulders were weighed down with unacknowledged responsibility. He would train, fight, and then walk home from the city to ensure that his sister was protected at night. Not to mention all the times he’d spent mending the old clay and stone home. He still had to deal with the constant exasperation of Karr-o watching his fights then finding him after to tell him what he should have done to improve his fighting styles.

  Jarr-o missed out on victory parties, drinking with peers, and nights with all the females who offered their beds to him. Many times, he wished he didn’t have to return home to take care of the careless sister who had become the nosey neighbor doing nothing but chattering all day and night instead of getting a job and helping support the house.

  Every time he’d thought about bringing it up, he ended up shutting himself down. He couldn’t protect her if he wasn’t around. Which was why the pain of her death stung so badly. The one time he’d turned to Karr-o to watch over his sister while he was healing after a particularly brutal fight, his father had declined.

  And that night was when his sister had been kidnapped and killed.

  “One more fight and then I’m done.”

  No one set up his fights except him, but killing two males who abused those weaker was hard to turn down. And Karr-o knew it.

  Chapter Two

  After the Fight

  The in-kit was over. The two male Angnies had illegally snuck in sumblen dust that slowed down your reflexes and messed up coordination. The fighters were experienced, Jarr-o had to admit that. But in the end, he’d still decapitated one and broke the other’s neck.

  Back in his dorm, he cleaned the dirt from the open cut that ran from his scalp to his jaw. Patting the side of his face after washing it with soap and water, he took a large needle and threaded it with butcher string, peering at the mirror above the wash bin to push the needle’s point through the loose flesh. His right hand shook from overexertion, and it slowed closing the wound, which he wanted to do before he bled out too much. He took in a deep breath and punctured the needle through one side of the cut, and then out the other. Pulling the thread through, he exhaled a shaky breath.