Claimed by the Alien Mercenary: A Sci-Fi Alien Romance (Zalaryn Raiders Book 3)

by Viki Storm

  She is owned by another man. His property. His plaything.

  And it was I who handed her over.

  All so I could do my duty, sure. The Kraxx and all. But I’d be a liar if I said that was even the second or third biggest priority at the forefront of my mind. I want to do my part to curry favor with Xalax. I want to curry favor with this very rich Imperator of Fenda. I want to please these rulers so I can clear my debt and start over on a new planet.

  That has been my primary objective from the beginning. After all, I’m a mercenary—I look out for myself first and foremost.

  “I shall escort you back to your chambers,” I tell her, taking Jula’s smooth hand in mine. She yanks it free and begins to walk down the hall.

  “You shall not,” she says, the bitterness palpable in her voice. “I’m not yours to protect anymore.”

  At least the Fendans have excellent sewing equipment.

  After I requisitioned some fabric and the Queen saw me laboring with a needle and thread, she laughed gently and told me, “We have machines to do that.”

  I have a sewing machine on Earth—had one, I suppose is more accurate—but it was heavy and often broke down. I was always having to take it apart and fix broken parts. The thread was finicky too. The tension always seemed too tight or too loose—causing breaks and tangles that also required takedowns, oilings and cleanings to repair.

  And if you were at the machine too long, you got paralyzing foot cramps that gripped your muscles from the big toe all the way to the calf—working the pedal was exhausting after more than an hour.

  But this Fendan machine? Smooth as silk, quiet, and the best part is that it’s operated by a pedal you just press down lightly with your foot—no pumping required.

  I was getting the fabric to make myself a proper set of clothes when that Fendan brute cornered me. The Queen had come to my tower bedroom and asked if there was anything I needed. When I told her I needed clothes, she said she’d send the royal dressmaker up and I’d have something suitable in a few weeks.

  A few weeks? I could whip something up myself faster than that—and it would be good for my mind to be occupied with a task.

  The Queen showed me where they had stocks of fabrics and gave me leave to help myself.

  I was getting a different fabric when the brutes started giving me a bad time. These males—they’re all the same, across the entire universe. The sole male prerogative is to find a female opening and thrust. They’re concerned with little else. It’s amazing that anything gets done at all.

  As much as I hate to admit it, it was a good thing Ayvinx happened by at just the right time to give the Fendans a thrashing. Glad though I was for his help, I still can’t believe I almost let myself think he was any different from the other males. After all, it was his damned idea to offer my virginity as a prize to the most bloodthirsty warrior on the planet.

  Is that some sick Zalaryn custom? Or is it a cunning ploy? After all, the odds are quite good that Ayvinx is the most bloodthirsty warrior on the planet. Unless the Fendans improve miraculously at their swordwork, Ayvinx is going to win the prize.

  Win me. Win my virginity.

  And I have to admit—while I don’t want any of these creatures to get on top of me and rut like a farm animal—if it has to be one of them, I’d prefer Ayvinx.

  He’s tall and strong, but it’s much more than that. He’s self-possessed. Confident. As if he knows he can easily clobber any challenger, and that gives him peace of mind—an easygoing outlook on life. That’s the most attractive thing about him: his cocksure attitude. It would be nice to be in the care of a male like that—especially after a lifetime of scrabbling to take care of myself. To just let go—abandon everything, and let someone competent take care of me.

  It sure would be a heavy burden lifted—and Ayvinx is more than strong enough to shoulder the weight.

  Yes, he seems different somehow. He’s the first male I’ve thought about like that since… Since I was first arrested all those years ago. That sort of soured my whole attitude towards men. I can’t deny that I feel safe around Ayvinx. He rescued me from Tarlou. He chose to take me even though it was obvious that I’d give him more than his fair share of trouble.

  And he hasn’t tried anything—other than sweet talk, that is. In the hallway earlier, Ayvinx hoisted me over his shoulders like I was a sack of potatoes, but I felt no panic, no fear—only calm relief at not being harassed by the Fendans any longer.

  My instincts kept me alive in the violent and hard ruins of New York City. I can always sense danger—always sense when to take a risk, and when to cut bait and run away.

  Can I trust my instincts now? Can I trust him?

  Is Ayvinx really going to take me off-planet and help me start over somewhere new? Or is this all a ploy to string me along and go to bed with him? I want to trust him—but I know what happened last time I trusted a man who said he was going to keep me safe. What happened the last time I believed a man who told me everything I wanted to hear.

  I ended up in handcuffs. Covered in blood.

  Maybe that’s all I need to do to stop that hungry look in Ayvinx’s eyes when he looks at me. Just tell him about what I did. Ayvinx might then think twice before offering to take me off-planet with him.

  Then again, do I want him to lose that ravenous look of uncontrolled desire?

  The way he was looking at me in the ship, when I was naked and bound in the seat. The way he leered at me. I like to see you squirm, he whispered in my ear. Especially when it’s back and forth, rubbing your wet little cunt all over the passenger seat.

  I feel that little tingle again between my legs. I shift my legs and my thighs squeezing together puts pressure on my clit. I’m getting that feeling again—that feeling like I need to slide my hand inside my robe and start stroking. The idea makes my cheeks burn hot. What the holy hell is this? This weird desire? For an alien bastard like Ayvinx? It must be some biological reaction. I’m a grown woman, after all, and the life force and drive to procreate is strong in all species. That’s all it is. But it is annoying, that throb between my legs. I feel like I won’t be able to concentrate on anything.

  I take my arm and pull it inside the big sleeve on my makeshift robe. I trail my hand down, stopping at my breast to roll my nipple between my fingers. I suck in air as that feeling between my legs intensifies. This is so bothersome, feeling like this. Is this what it’s like to be a male? Aroused and pent-up all the time? How terrible.

  I put my finger between my lips and let out a soft moan. I close my eyes and lean back in my chair. This feels pretty good—I think I just need a little bit of release. It’s purely a physical thing, like lancing a boil.

  I begin to rub my finger up and down along my clit a little faster. I’m breathing heavier now, already close to orgasm. I do this sort of thing periodically—like I said, just a physical release. I pull my other hand inside my robe and play with my breasts, softly pinching one nipple, then the other. I’m rubbing myself faster, that fluttery feeling starting to well up in my stomach. I’m close—almost ready. I stop for a moment, dipping my finger downward by my opening to feel the slippery fluids. I can’t believe I’m so wet—just from thinking about Ayvinx and his cocky attitude. His broad shoulders and thickly muscled thighs. Getting on top of me, parting my legs with his huge hands. Unlacing his breeches and unveiling what would undoubtedly be a long and thick cock. Using it to spread open my lips—to pierce through and claim my virginity.

  “Fuck,” I whisper and then the spasms wrack my body. I tense up, every muscle shuddering from the waves of pleasure. My fingers speed over my clit, feeling the hard little nub slide easily and slippery beneath my fingers.

  What the hell was that about? Now that the fit of madness has passed, I’m more than a little ashamed of myself. I’m supposed to be working on an outfit to wear so I don’t have to go around wrapped in a bed sheet. Working was supposed to take my mind off of things.

  I put my hands back
through the sleeves and lean forward, starting at my work again. I notice that my fingers are shiny with my fluids and I have to wipe them off before I start sewing again. That wouldn’t be proper at all, I think. Wearing garments stained with my perverted secretions is not at all proper for the Fendan court. That’s quite gauche. I suddenly burst out in a fit of giggles.

  Maybe I’m just losing my mind. Maybe the strain of everything is just too much and this laughter is the sound of my sanity slipping away.

  “What’s so funny?”

  I sit bolt-upright in my chair and twist my head around. The Queen is standing in the doorway, an amused smile on her face.

  “Nothing,” I say. But her kind eyes are fixed on me, as if awaiting explanation of some joke so she can laugh too. “I just was thinking that I’ve been going around in a bed sheet, and it’s not exactly up to the high fashion standards of your planet.”

  “Oh,” the Queens says, obviously disappointed with my explanation. “But it is a rather nice bed sheet.” She enters my room and sits on the edge of my bed.

  “Kind words, my Queen,” I say, bowing my head. “But it is still just a sheet. I want to hold myself to your high standards of dress.”

  “Very well,” the Queen says, nodding in approval. “Let me see what you have done so far.”

  “It’s not quite finished,” I say. I’ve sewn together the basic pieces, but it’s not fitted. I need to try it on and nip it in at the waist, then sew some darts at the bosom and the rear to accommodate my curves. It’s been awhile since I made anything so form-fitting. I usually wrap myself in as many layers of loose fabric as possible. But the Fendan fashion requires me to have something more feminine.

  The Queen takes my dress from the table and inspects it. I imagine she can see every crooked seam—every stray thread, and every puckered wrinkle. I got off to a rocky start using this machine and there are many goofs that serve as evidence.

  “Oh my,” she says solemnly.

  “I know,” I say quickly. “There are many imperfections. I’m not finished.”

  “Imperfections?” she asks, sounding honestly confused. “This is lovely! And you’ve barely been at it for an afternoon!”

  “Well…” I say, not sure how to respond.

  “This is like something you could buy in one of the shops in the city square.”

  “You are too kind,” I say, inwardly thinking that the shops in the city square must be stocked with shabby second and third-hand merchandise if something that I just threw together is just as good.

  “Nonsense,” she says. “You have a true talent for this. I insist that tomorrow afternoon, you take my girls—that’s two daughters and three nieces—and give them lessons. You’re going to have to start from scratch. It’s lamentable that they spend most of their time at their comm-panels. I’ll send a servant and I want you to tell him everything you need. These girls are going to learn something useful. Oh—this is great. What a happy addition to our court!”

  “Yes, my Queen,” I say. Happy addition indeed. Did she forget that every one of those bobble-nosed creatures downstairs is going to get a turn with me? That this tower bedroom will soon become the scene of carnal excess and licentious revelry? All at my expense.

  “We’ll come for you tomorrow afternoon. Be ready!” The Queen leaves and I’m alone again.

  I take a look at my work in progress. I suppose it’s coming along pretty well. I should have it finished by tomorrow morning.

  As I feed the fabric through the machine, pausing only periodically to undo tangled threads, I find that I’m looking forward to tomorrow afternoon. It’ll be nice to get out of this tower.

  After the Queen shut the door behind her, I realized how lonely it is up here. I’ve been on my own since I was twelve years old, living in any hollowed-out ruin I could find. And that’s how I liked it.

  So why is now any different? If anything, I should want more isolation. More privacy.

  Then I realize why. It’s as obvious as the wet spot between my legs. I’m hoping that during tomorrow’s outing, I’ll be able to see Ayvinx again. That he can look at me in my new dress, and see how it clings elegantly to my curves—and that he’ll want to rip it off me.

  Hot damn, these bastards might actually be able to protect their mines after all.

  And then, as if the universe is punishing me for such a foolish thought, one of the Fendans swings his sword so hard—spinning too fast from the feet instead of pivoting at the hips as instructed—that it flies out of his hands. It clangs to the ground in an embarrassing cacophony.

  I’m starting to think we’d all be better off if we just stuffed the qizo mines full of explosive powder, lit the fuse, and put the ships into warp-drive to get into the void before the explosion. Void take the qizo. More trouble than it’s worth. We can go back to the old ways, staying sequestered in our local group of planets.

  The embarrassed Fendan waddles to his sword and picks it up, inspecting it for signs of damage. Just then, my comm-panel beeps. I don’t need to look at the screen—there’s only one person in the void-damned quadrant that knows where I am right now. I tell the Fendans to take a break while I receive the communication.

  “My liege, I pledge my fealty and bravery to you. Both my weapon and the hand that wields it are yours to command,” I say, after I establish the connection and set the panel for audio-visual transmission.

  “Anything in your oath about sarcasm?” King Xalax asks. “In the days of the founders, the King would have a wretch such as you hung from the Magneto Spire for such a flippant tone.”

  “I think I might prefer that location to my current one,” I say, not caring one whit if Xalax is serious or not. As soon as all this is over, I’m demanding payment from both these pompous kings. Then I’m going to transfer one payment to Gunga and another payment to my sister so she can finally move out of that tenement and into a little farm outside the city. Then I’ll be off.

  If it wasn’t for Gunga’s ever-present threat to turn my sister into a brothel slave, I’d have been gone already. She says he wants to make her a concubine—that she’ll be his mate—but I know better. I know how men like him do it. She’ll be in one of his brothels before the end of the month, taking several different customers every night. Males like Gunga are experts at sweet talk. They seduce. They promise. And it’s all so you don’t realize that they’re lying.

  Void save me, he did it to me. When I first came to borrow money from him, Gunga told me everything I wanted to hear. Easy payments. Low interest. I’d have the debt squared away before the suns were next in alignment.

  Next thing I knew, I owed him double. Then double that.

  Xalax is talking, but I have no idea what he’s saying. My hatred for Gunga has taken away my attention, that and my hatred for the one who put my sister at that jerk’s mercy—namely, myself.

  “Say again?” I ask. “Transmission cut out for a second.”

  “I should be able to send reinforcements soon,” Xalax says. “But I can’t leave Zalaryx or our other outposts wholly unguarded. If I send every able-bodied Zalaryn warrior to Fenda…”

  “…then the rebels will strike Zalaryx,” I say. “That’s basic military sleight of hand. Noxu wouldn’t expect you to be so dumb. He just expects regular stupidity—like sending one mercenary to Fenda and expecting that he’ll be able to train the Fendans to defend themselves.”

  There is a pause so long that, at first, I think the transmission got cut off. Then, I start to hope that it did get cut off before my little remark. I sometimes forget that I’m talking to the King. But to me, the idea of a ‘king’ is so vague, so intangible…

  What’s real is my debt. What’s real is the promise I made to Jula—to get her off this planet before she has to submit her body to a parade of Fendan warriors.

  “Ayvinx,” the King finally says. “The only person who doesn’t have faith in your abilities is you.”

  “I…” But I can’t finish. He’s right. But
I’m right too. If he only knew the horrible family I came from—a father who only gets out of bed to drink, and a sister eager to turn herself into a whore. If he only knew the bad choices I’ve made. Forgoing honorable service as a properly-anointed Zalaryn Raider. Taking odd jobs for any scumbag with a few extra coins to offer. Spending all my free time in taverns. Heavily, almost irrevocably in debt.

  “You’ll do it,” Xalax says to me, “and I’ll send what warriors I can spare. But remember: to be forewarned is to be forearmed.”

  “Yes, my King,” I say, with no hint of sarcasm in my voice.

  “One last thing,” Xalax says. “The reason that I needed to speak to you: I have been in contact with Orgoc.” This probably isn’t going to be good. Orgoc is one of my contacts, a specialist in communications transmissions and encryption. He was the one who helped Xalax decode the messages that Noxu planted in Xalax’s own comm-panel—the messages that framed Xalax as the traitor.

  “What is it?” I ask.

  “I’ve been having Orgoc monitor communications in the Fendan sector.”

  “Please don’t tell me that someone here has been communicating with New Pallas.” New Pallas is the location of the rebel base.

  “Not quite,” Xalax says, “but there have been a lot of communications sent from Fenda to Aulan.”

  “Aulan?” I ask. That doesn’t make sense. Then again, if it made sense, Xalax wouldn’t be talking to me about it right now. Aulan is a small planet—not much more than an asteroid, really. It used to be the home of a mining operation several decades ago, but they mined copper, if memory serves me correctly, not qizo or any other type of fuel. When they depleted the rich veins of copper, they left the planet alone to its long, cold orbit.

  “There are no camps on Aulan,” Xalax says. “We sent a reconnaissance drone.”

  “Then…?” I start to ask, but then I think I understand. “Someone is using Aulan as a relay point for their message? Rerouting it to disguise its true destination?” Clever bastards.

  “Most likely,” Xalax says. “You have to consider the idea that Noxu has made contact with one of the Fendans—maybe someone high-up. Someone who could—when the time comes—lay down arms and hand over the mines.”