Sold to the Alien Smugglers: A Fated Mates Romance (Captive Mates Book 4)

by Corin Cain

  At the front of the procession, the leader of the Toads gives us a look – one that wordlessly questions if we have any more stupid questions to ask of him.

  My lips tighten involuntarily. Likewise, the rest of the prisoners remain resolutely silent.

  Behind us, the two subservient Toads gurgle and chuckle. Their wet, rasping laugh sounds eerily like the death-rattle that emerged from Ling’s blood-flooded lungs the moment she’d died.

  It makes my skin crawl.

  The chain rattles, and we obediently start walking again. One by one, we slosh through the swampy water, the sound of our heaving breathing and the buzzing of flies and mosquitos filling the air.

  The only other noise are stifled sobs. Behind me, one particular woman chokes as the fate that awaits her finally sinks home.

  Wherever we’re going? It’s going to be much, much worse than anything we’ve yet experienced.

  I’m too scared to feel panic myself. In fact, I just feel dead inside – helpless to stop the inexorable march towards our grim destiny.

  As I shuffle forward, I’m filled with shame. I’m being pathetic – obeying, like a frightened child.

  If Ling was alive, she’d do something. Ling would probably have killed those three Toads by now and gotten us free. I’ll never be like my old mentor – my best friend – but I still wish I had even a fraction of her courage and audacity.

  But then a chill washes over me. Even Ling couldn’t beat the odds forever.

  Perhaps, out of the two of us, she was the lucky one. Her death spared her from this fate.

  The Toad in the lead suddenly grunts and stops. His stance widens – like he’s suddenly ready for a fight.

  His halt was so dramatic, I nearly walked right into Tessa’s back – and the woman behind does exactly that, bumping into me and almost knocking me off my feet.

  I steady myself and crane my head around Tessa to see what caused the sudden, dramatic interruption.

  Oh, Gods!

  Standing before the leader of the Toads are Aurelians.

  Aurelians? Here?

  Should I be happy? Or terrified?

  Aurelians are the polar opposite of the greedy, ugly Toads. They’re noble, where Toads are craven. They’re fearless, where Toads cower and squirm. They’re honorable, where Toads would betray their own spawn-brethren for a scrap of lucre.

  Three of them stand there – their pure, ivory skin such a contrast of beauty within this evil swamp. I’m not sure why they’re here – but, for a moment, they’ve rendered me incapable of processing such a question anyway.

  The three of them look like the statues of Greek Gods from Old-Earth. The three of them stand stock-still, as if they were chiseled out of marble to represent the ideal of masculine perfection. Seven-feet-tall, with body-builder physiques, and their bodies so lean that the grains of their swollen muscles are visible through that alabaster skin.

  I gasp. What they say about Aurelians is true. They’re stunning. Compared to humanity, this warrior species is populated by Gods…

  …although, if the rumors are true, they have the ego and pride to match.

  I stare in disbelief at the sight of the three Aurelians. I thought they were sworn to protect the humans who lived under their Empire’s ‘protection.’

  But, if that’s the case – why are they here?

  The moment I’d seen the Aurelians, hope had swelled inside me. Now, it suddenly drops.

  I feel like I got to the fiftieth floor of a skyscraper - and then suddenly the cables of the elevator were cut. My stomach plunges, and my knees nearly give way.

  If this triad of Aurelians is on a Toad ship, it can only mean one thing – that these three are Rogue Aurelians. If that’s the case, then all bets are off. Rogue Aurelians don’t respect the rules of the Empire, or the standards of basic morality. If they’re working with Toad slavers, it means they view human women as property. It means they probably have a vast harem of leashed women in their own quarters; forced to serve their endless needs.

  If these three Aurelians are here, it means they won’t save us.

  The Aurelians stand three abreast, in the traditional stance of a full battle triad.

  All Aurelians operate within a triad – the three of them connected through a psychic link even more powerful than blood relation. I’ve read enough scandalous articles to know that Aurelians do everything together as a triad – wage war, conduct business, and even fuck all the women in their shared harem – forcing those poor little things to take them one-by-one, or all at once.

  I can’t understand why women flock to join Aurelian harems in such numbers, knowing that. How could any self-respecting woman volunteer herself to submit to the dominance of a brutal, misogynistic warrior species? Aurelians are all haughty and arrogant, as if they almost believe the hushed whispers comparing them to Gods.

  My mind is suddenly filled with the image of a poor, naked woman – caught helplessly between three huge, voracious Aurelians. This brutish triad take her all together – one of them rutting her from behind, while her mouth is stretched full by the second Aurelian’s massive cock. I shudder at the filthy thought.

  It’s difficult to imagine that even that debauchery isn’t enough for some Aurelians – the ones who go Rogue. Those who embrace the Old Ways take a sick pleasure in owning women. They turn women into their property – showing them off, parading them like livestock, and punishing them harshly when they don’t serve their masters eagerly enough.

  The three towering figures looming over the Toads right now are Rogue Aurelians – there’s no other explanation. They stand there, in the mothership of their mortal enemies, without a trace of fear on their hard-lined, masculine faces.

  The three of them wear light armor over what looks like workout clothing – tight shirts that cling to their rippling, sinewy muscles, and tight pants that bulge from something I don’t even want to think about.

  The armor on top is thin and black – covering only their most vital vulnerabilities, making it smaller than the workout clothes worn underneath. The cynical side of me suspects this armor was designed more to show off the wearer’s physique than offer any practical protection.

  All three of them sport nearly identical buzz cuts.

  Either they’re fresh from the military, or they must have done business on this ship before.

  The only reason I can imagine that three such gorgeous specimens of this notoriously vain species would chop off their flowing locks is if they expected to deal with the constant humidity of a Toad mothership for any length of time.

  The towering creatures seem so incongruent with this dank, fetid environment. Their broad chins, high cheekbones and Romanesque noses exude refined tastes and classic masculinity – an effortless sense of dominance.

  Yet I know the truth. Behind that refined mask is nothing but brutality. All Aurelians serve through a hundred years of military service for the Aurelian Empire before they’re allowed to join their people’s society – and only the strongest ever make it out.

  That much is enough to show caution around any Aurelian Warriors – but these three are a step beyond even that. After a century of service – when they could have been lounging in the lavish estates awarded to them upon entering Aurelian society – they chose instead to be here on a Toad ship.

  How they got here is a mystery, but these three stand on this vessel as if they own it – not just the ship, but all the goods and cargo aboard her, too; including myself and the other human captives.

  Even though they appear to be here by invitation, the lead Toad raises his electro-rod instinctively the moment his bulbous, glistening eyes fall upon the three Aurelians.

  He keeps the weapon raised – the serrated, carbo-steel tip pointed towards the three, towering warriors. There’s clearly no love lost between these two species – and no measure of trust between them, either.

  The irony is that the razor-sharp weapon – even with those thousands of volts that crackle
through its tip – would be about as effective as a pool noodle if the Aurelians decided to confront these three Toads. All the warriors would have to do is reach for their Orb-Blades, hanging at their waist. The Toads are big, warty and strong – but these Aurelians are well over seven-feet-tall, built from slabs of powerful muscle, and that’s even before they activate the humming, blue-black blades of their lethal Orb-powered weaponry.

  A hush falls as the two groups of aliens eye each other warily. It’s a heavy silence – one that weighs down on all of us. I feel my stomach churning as I wait for one of the aliens to make a move.

  Like predatory wolves, the Aurelians test the air. Their nostrils flare as they breathe in the heady, humid air.

  For me, the stench of this fetid ship is stomach-churning, but it’s like the Aurelians don’t even acknowledge the myriad of foul odors permeating the air. Instead, a look of confusion passes across all three of their marble-white faces, and their slate-grey eyes turn glassy and dazed.

  It’s as if they isolated one scent among the hundreds of smells: The scent of us prisoners.

  “Marcel! Gub-na goora!”

  The leader of the Toads gurgles an angry statement in his native tongue, waving his gangly, slimy arms. I don’t need to understand his guttural language to translate. The Toad just warned the Aurelians to get the fuck out of their way – although probably with just enough deference to avoid losing his head to one of the warrior’s Orb-Blades. I’ve heard rumors of how proud Aurelians can be – and how lethal their response to disrespect is.

  Of all those guttural words, one word stands apart. ‘Marcel’ doesn’t sound like it’s in the language of the Toads – so I go ahead and assume it’s the name of the too-perfect specimen of masculinity who stands as leader of this alien triad – a towering, marble-skinned angel who’s handsome face is a veneer – one I know masks his rotten, slave-trading core.

  How cruel the Gods are – to give these wicked devils such angelic faces; so that we mere mortals are left utterly confused by them.

  The tension remains between the Aurelians and Toads, and each species keeps their eyes locked on the other. I’m pleased, because I’m standing there with my shirt torn open, and there’s nothing I can do to hide my bare breasts.

  What will happen when one of those marble-skinned Aurelians turn and drink in the sight of them? I’ve heard that Aurelians can descend in the mating frenzy at the mere sight of a human female’s flesh – and, once they do, nothing can stop them from taking what they want from her – seeding her deeply in the frenzied hope that she, at last, is their Fated Mate.

  I shudder. If the sight of a naked body arouses them, then they might turn their slate-grey eyes in my direction and just snap. Those towering bastards could wade through the ankle-deep water and throw me against the wall – tearing the remainder of my clothes from my body, and fucking me right here and now, in front of all the rest of the captive women, and the Toads who guard them.

  My mouth is suddenly dry – which is a contrast to my panties. I shiver, and I’m ashamed to catch myself glancing down at the thick bulges tenting out the front of the Aurelian’s tight workout pants.

  I gulp. There’s no mistaking the thick, forearm-long shafts hardening beneath the tight fabric. The material is already stretched out obscenely by the silhouettes of the Aurelian’s flaccid cocks – and I can’t even imagine how they’d contain those huge cocks when they were fully hard.

  Gods – even flaccid, each of those Aurelians is packing something bigger than any human male is endowed with, and I don’t want to imagine how terrifying these Aurelians would be if they lost themselves to the mating rage.

  I shiver as I imagine it. Those refined, noble features would turn bestial as they ravaged me. Their sensuous lips would stretch into a wolfish snarl - exposing their bright, white teeth like hungry predators. I somehow just know they’d growl and snarl as they lost themselves – and took me with them.

  My pulse is racing. Compared to the three, towering creatures, I’d be like a little toy – unable to do anything to prevent them from fucking me hard and fast in the madness of their primal lust.

  Finally, my fears come true – and the leader of the Aurelians turns his slate-grey eyes towards us. I catch his eyes lingering on my bare breasts, and it’s like electricity crackles between us.

  “That’s a good crop you’ve got there,” the leader of the Aurelians – Marcel – calmly states. He’s utterly ignoring the Toad’s demand for him to get out of the way. In fact, his triad stands three abreast – almost as if they’re deliberately blocking the hallway.

  I sense that there’s more going on here than just a tense exchange. It’s like there’s a power-play in progress; a battle of wills between the repulsive Toads and the haughty, arrogant Aurelians.

  Marcel licks his lips as he surveys us – his slate-grey eyes staring right through me. I find it interesting that he’s speaking in the Common tongue, instead of the Toad’s language – once again, almost like it’s a challenge to the rival species.

  That – and I think Marcel wants us prisoners to understand him. He wants the twelve of us terrified, chained women to know he considers us like livestock. To him, we’re animals to be bought and traded; nothing more.

  He gets off on exerting his control over us.

  The towering Aurelian strides forward, and the leader of the Toads raises his electro-rod defensively. Marcel smiles at the unspoken threat – and that chilling grin sends a shard of ice stabbing through my heart.

  Then, suddenly, the Aurelian moves so fast my eyes can’t even track his movement. He snatches forward with one of those huge hands - grabbing the carbo-steel tip of the electrified prod and closing his fingers around it.

  Instantly, there’s a crackle as the electro-rod activates. Thousands of volts flood through the blade – and every muscle in the Aurelian’s body suddenly tenses up as the surge of electricity floods through them.

  Marcel’s huge biceps bulge and flex – but that smile never waivers. Slowly, as he absorbs the crackling voltage, that smile hardens into a grimace. Marcel squeezes his fingers more tightly against the carbo-steel blade – and then he yanks the electro-rod clean out of the Toad’s slimy fingers – tossing it aside like garbage.

  The weapon is still crackling as it hits the fetid water – until it shorts out with a plume of sparks and a puff of acrid smoke.

  The Toad cowers back against the wall.

  “Please, Marcel!” The foul creature suddenly doesn’t look so terrifying any more – every jiggling jowl of his flabby body quivering like pudding. “These are for the Bullfrog auction!”

  Bullfrog auction.

  Behind me, one of the girls suddenly throws up – spewing the last meal she’d had into the brackish water swilling between her feet. I hear things moving and wriggling in the water and I nearly throw up myself.

  If we’re intended for a Bullfrog auction, that means we’re considered the cream of the crop – the highest quality of slave meat available.

  Tessa, myself, and the ten other female prisoners are going to be auctioned to the formidable warrior caste of the Toad species – the fearsome Bullfrogs.

  Just as repulsive as the others of their species, Bullfrogs stand apart from regular Toads – literally. They can stand over nine-feet-tall, and unlike the flabby bulk of their brethren, Bullfrogs have a leaner, stronger build; as if their gangly bodies are weaved together by ropes of warty muscle.

  Compared to a Bullfrog, even an Aurelian seems dwarfed. I’ve even heard nightmarish stories of women abducted and forced into the harems of a Bullfrog – and getting crushed beneath the creature’s foul-smelling, slimy weight as the Bullfrogs cruelly and greedily rut with them.

  The thought of being a slave in a Toad aquarium is terrifying enough – but of the helpless women recruited to the harems of Bullfrogs…

  …few are ever heard from again.

  The appetites of Bullfrogs are legendary – and their hunger isn’t mere
ly sexual.

  I wish I could dismiss such rumors as the fables of drunken space-farers – but I’ve heard such things directly from the slaves Ling and I once rescued.

  I think of how I used to rescue women in exactly my situation. I’d been so fearless back then – focused and relentless. It feels like a lifetime ago.

  Back then, I’d been a different person – the old me. She’d been a woman brave enough to make a difference. A fighter, like Ling.

  But the old me had died when she did – and despite her ghost guiding me as Tessa and I fought for survival back on the Elnor, I don’t see the ‘old me’ ever finding life within me again. I’d survived by luck alone, panic forcing me forward.

  I’m trembling as I look toward the three Aurelians. They’re towering triumphantly over the three Toads – the undisputable victors in this tense battle for dominance.

  Marcel spits out a mouthful of blood – bright like scarlet on his marble-white lips.

  The towering warrior must have bitten his tongue as he’d endured that crackling voltage. I watch the red glob floating in the water at Marcel’s feet – and my stomach churns as I witness tadpoles eagerly rushing to gobble up his blood. Some even begin fighting with each – thrashing in the water as they squabble over the rare feast.

  Despite the blood, Marcel smiles – and it’s a dangerous smile. He ignores the Toad’s warning and steps forward – as if the three slimy, aliens aren’t even there.

  Marcel strides towards us. The other two members of triad follow in unison – as if they share a single mind.

  The twelve terrified women press ourselves against the slimy walls as they approach – no less terrified of these gorgeous aliens than the slimy, foul-smelling Toads who’d brought us to them.

  Within moments, Marcel is looming over us. I gaze up and feel butterflies churn in my stomach. The leader of the Aurelians exudes an unhinged chaos – such a contrast to the almost statue-like stillness of his too-perfect face.

  As the three warriors approach, I turn my head down – too terrified to meet their slate-grey gaze. When I can, though, I steal glances up at them – studying the three of them with the analytical intensity that Ling taught me.