Dax: Book Eight in the Galaxy Gladiators Alien Abduction Romance Series

by Alana Khan

  Nudity is second nature to most of these guys. Gladiators consider clothing as optional. Which means all of us Earth girls got used to it months ago —it was that or spend half our time being scandalized and offended. So it’s only now that I realize Dax is naked. Oh well, it will make it easier to help him shower.

  “Come on, big guy.” I help him into the little attached bathroom and turn on the water. He sags against me. It suddenly strikes me he’d be on the floor right now if he wasn’t leaning on me. We either skip the shower, or I get in there with him.

  I choose door number two. I’m not a prude and would take my clothes off right now, but if I let go for a minute to pull off my t-shirt, I think Dax will crumple onto the floor. After kicking off my flip-flops, I waltz us into the shower stall.

  Dax

  Kryton’s punch to my jaw gave me a concussion. I’m nauseous, weak, and seeing double. That, combined with the damage he did to my abdomen makes me want to lie down and take a nap. Which I’ve done when I was filthy a thousand times in the past. But I have a feeling little Dahlia will join me in my bed if I’m clean. So yes, I agreed to a shower.

  I didn’t realize she’d join me. Clothed. But here we are. Her shirt is plastered to her beautiful breasts. I have a front-row seat, because we’re not even an ince apart. Her nipples are hard, all four of them. I shake my head, trying to turn my double vision back to single with no success.

  “Put your hands over your head, face the back wall, and lean against it,” she orders.

  This is new. I’ve never heard this commanding tone in Dahlia’s voice before.

  I do as I’m told and Dahlia sprays me with warm water from hair to toes. Red-tinged water sluices down my abs and thighs. I’m not sure where I’m bleeding from, but it doesn’t look too bad.

  She reaches around me and sprays blindly from my neck downward. I hope she hurries, I’m feeling weaker by the minima.

  “I’m skipping the soap, Dax. Just hosing off the sand and getting you into bed.”

  She turns off the water and tucks herself under my shoulder. I put too much weight on her as she leads me back to bed. I hit the mattress with a thump and can barely stay upright as she towels me dry, patting gently on my face and front where the worst of the damage is.

  She eases me down and covers me with a sheet. My vision may be double, but I catch a look of tender concern as she presses her palm to my cheek so lightly it’s barely a touch at all.

  I close my eyes and my stomach rolls a hundred times worse than when we launch into hyperspace.

  “I’ll get you some food.”

  “Not hungry. Stay.”

  Dahlia

  Big guy looks bad. Dr. Drayke said not to worry about the concussion unless he throws up, so there’s nothing to do but keep him comfortable.

  Our cabins are utilitarian affairs equipped with a double bed, dresser/closet, tiny desk, and comfortable chair. Each room connects to a modest no-frills bathroom. I don’t want to sleep in the chair, and besides, it’s not like we’ve never shared a bed before.

  Me and my wet clothes are dripping all over the floor so I squelch to the bathroom and shuck down to my skin. After drying off, I pad into the room and tiptoe to the other side of the bed.

  I thought he was out of it, but Dax scoots toward the middle of the bed and pats the mattress in front of him. I dutifully lie down, my back to his front, then grumble, “Opportunist,” loud enough for him to hear.

  “Just for an hoara or two,” he rumbles into my ear. After he slings his arm around my waist, I feel his muscles relax, hear his breathing slow, and recognize the second he falls asleep.

  My mind races in a thousand anxious directions. For a moment I replay the scene in the shower. I know I should focus on his health, but the picture of that big, hard, muscled body leaning against the wall, his hands above his head, resting on the metal, every one of his solid muscles standing out like it was airbrushed? That will stay in the front of my mental photo album for a while.

  When I first met him, he was so big and foreign I had trouble appreciating how handsome he was. Now, my attraction to him looms large over every interaction. His trimmed beard, peridot green eyes, and kissable lips are endlessly attractive. Don’t even get me started on the way my fingers itch to follow the trail of the long scar that crosses his belly and curves toward his cock.

  My nipples prick and I lick my lips. Why does my body respond to him like this? I guess I’m just a mammal like Pavlov’s dog. Instead of salivating for food, my core drips for hot, chiseled gladiator man.

  I don’t want to dwell on this. I order myself to match the calm, slow rhythm of his breathing. This puts me to sleep.

  Chapter Two

  Dahlia

  Waking with a start, it takes the span of a few heartbeats to recognize where I am and remember why I’m here.

  I flip over and inspect Dax. He’s breathing rhythmically. I don’t think I need to call the doc, but crap, his face looks like shit from that prodigious punch he took. I lift the sheet and a soft, “Fuck,” escapes my lips. There are hundreds of small, red bruises dotting his abdomen. A mass of angry red welts covers his chest.

  I skip my fingertips over his damaged skin. It’s hot to the touch. My chest tightens in concern for him. I wish I didn’t care for the guy. My life would be easier. Maybe your life would be easier, the back of my mind argues with me, or perhaps you’d just be lonelier and more bitter. That’s funny, I argue back, I don’t think I could be more bitter. I’m already at one hundred percent on the bitter-meter.

  Deciding we both need food, I ease out of bed and pad to the little standalone closet next to the dresser. Dax is the opposite of a clothes horse. He’s a nude kind of guy who grudgingly wears a loincloth to wander around the ship. But somewhere in our travels, he wound up with three black t-shirts and three pairs of black cargoesque pants. Since my clothes won’t finish drip-drying for hours, I shrug into his t-shirt, which hits me at mid-thigh.

  Considering we all started this journey being forced to mate in barred cells in one long hallway, it will shock no one on this vessel to see me padding around the ship wearing one of Dax’s huge shirts. All the guys have some kind of superhuman olfactory sense and will probably be able to smell my panty-less state. Oh well.

  I hadn’t checked the time; I wouldn’t have come if I had. Everyone’s finishing dinner. Sandwiches. Maddy, our fabulous chef, must be with her guy Stryker, who fought today. Steele and Zoey aren’t here either.

  “Dahlia, how’s Dax?” Anya, the alien Captain’s human mate, asks as she gets up to empty the remnants of her meal into the garbage.

  “Sleeping. Looks like shit. How did Stryker and Steele do in their matches? Are they okay?”

  “They both won. Easy peasy. I stayed on the ship, but they told me about the gloves those bastards forced Dax to use. They said their matches were the regular kind —no gloves.”

  “Lucky. Dax has a concussion.” Why do I bother to tell her? We’re like one big happy, dysfunctional family. News travels fast on the Fool’s Errand. I’m certain everyone already knows this pleasant little piece of info.

  “I heard. I was so pissed! How could they break the rules like that? We should never return to that planet. Is he okay?”

  “He wasn’t interested in food.”

  “Whoa!” Her eyes round in her head. “He must really be in pain. That boy can eat.”

  “I’m bringing him some sandwiches. He’ll probably be hungry when he wakes.”

  “Can you excuse me? I have an announcement.” Anya turns to the others and raises her voice, “Although everyone’s not here, I wanted to catch you all before you left. This might mean nothing to the males, but you women may be interested.

  “We’ve all been too busy with being abducted and fighting for our lives and roaming the galaxy to notice the passage of time. Fall and winter holidays came and went without notice because none of us knew what day it was, but Callie did some hard math in her spare time and now we
know.

  “Tomorrow is Valentine’s day! Although Dax was injured, there’s still a lot to celebrate. Everyone won their matches today, and we bought this brand new beautiful ship, so neither the Feds nor the cartel have any idea where we are. We’re all basically healthy. I say we have a party tomorrow. Anyone interested in helping plan please stay after dinner and we’ll get this party organized.” She eagerly rubs her hands together like an evil criminal mastermind.

  I barely notice the hubbub as all the Earth girls laugh and tease and start gushing about fun ideas for the party. Everything closes in on me and I feel like I’m under water. Sounds become muffled and my peripheral vision grows hazy.

  My legs are rubbery and I’m not sure I’ll make it back to my room. I don’t know where I find the presence of mind to snag a plate full of sandwiches, or how I convince my legs to take me to my room. Then I realize the food’s for Dax, so I retrace my steps and head to his cabin.

  Lucky me, he’s still asleep when I slip into his room, set the plate down on the desk, and slap my hand on the doorplate to close it. I put my back to the door and slide down it until my butt hits the floor.

  If I could, I’d leave the food here and make my way back to my room to have a meltdown in private, but that’s not possible. My legs aren’t taking orders from my brain at the moment.

  In fact, no part of me is taking orders from my brain. I’m on autopilot, and evidently, my pre-existing programming is telling me to cry, because that’s what I’m doing. I wish I was alone because it’s taking monumental effort not to sob and wail, so I press my face into my hands and weep.

  My face is flushed and there’s a heavy ball of energy squeezing my stomach like it wants to explode. My thoughts have seized up, like a computer that keeps looping one message over and over and over.

  The message is: wedding.

  Tomorrow was supposed to be my wedding day. Wedding. Larry. Flowers. Dress. Family. Happy. Toasts. Maid of Honor. Best Man. Father of the Bride. Mother of the Bride. Honeymoon.

  I had tickets to be in Cancun the day after tomorrow. Instead, I’m on the other side of the Milky Way, never to return.

  Oh, that last thought pushes me over the edge even farther and I clamp my teeth on the side of my hand so I don’t wail loud enough for everyone on the ship to hear me.

  The biting was a good strategy because the pain brings me back to reality. Oh my God. Tomorrow. Valentine’s Day. I was supposed to marry Larry. And I’m here in outer space instead.

  I was just sleeping naked with a huge alien gladiator. I’ll never get back to Earth. Never see Larry again. Never get married.

  Snot. I’m aware that snot is pouring down my face. The level of grossness snaps me out of my crazy sadness enough that I dart to the bathroom to get toilet paper.

  “Dahl?” Dax calls me that instead of Dahlia sometimes. Normally I think it’s sweet. Today I want to punch him for it. But he’s been punched enough.

  One glance in the mirror and I know I can’t come out. It will take hours to camouflage the red, blotchy, puffy mess that is my face. Dax isn’t an idiot. He’ll ask questions I don’t want to answer.

  “Dahl? What’s wrong?”

  How does he know something’s wrong? Why doesn’t he just think I’m taking a long crap in here?

  I hear the quietest “Oof” as he sits up and his feet hit the floor. I’m not cruel. I won’t make him come in here after me.

  “Sit down. I’ll come out.”

  Okay. I meant that, I really did. But now that I have to get up off the toilet where I’ve been sitting since my legs gave out from under me, I can’t find the strength.

  “Coming,” I call when I realize I should have finished my alleged business and emerged long ago.

  But I’m not coming. My muscles still aren’t responding. In fact, my hands are trembling, or maybe I should call it convulsing.

  I’m having an out-of-body experience because my hands don’t look or feel like they belong to me. It’s surreal.

  “Dahlia?” His voice has lost that sleepy quality and now sounds worried.

  “Sit back down,” I order through numb lips. “I’ll be out in a moment.”

  Breathe, Dahlia, I order myself. I imagine shoving all my wedding thoughts behind a heavy door and then slamming it shut. Okay, they’re out of sight, and the shouting they were doing is muffled. I can go out, flash Dax a smile and hand him the plate of sandwiches. Then I can make my way to my cabin before the ‘wedding door’ pops open like an evil jack-in-the-box and all the shitty reminders of the life that was stolen from me come flying out to bombard me.

  I leave the john and make a beeline to the food, my head studiously tipped as far from Dax as possible. I grab the plate and set it on the far edge of the bed from him. He’s looking the other way.

  “Sounds like you’re doing better,” I say as I head for the door. “I’ll check on you tomorrow.”

  But Dax is up, out of bed, and grabbing my wrist before I can place my hand on the palm plate.

  “I heard you crying, Dahl. Come talk to me,” his voice is rough with concern.

  He gently pulls me back to the foot of the bed and sits me down next to him. I glance at his face, which looks worse than it did an hour ago. It’s puffier, and the red is now scarlet.

  His big, strong hand cups my chin with impossible tenderness as he peers at me.

  I should tell him. Actually, I want to tell him —he deserves to know. It would explain so much. I should have revealed everything months ago. But my mouth just opens and closes silently, like a fish.

  He lifts me up and nestles me under the covers, then slips in behind me and cuddles. I’m on my side and focus on his hand’s lazy glide from my shoulder to my hip. Sliding closer from behind, he arranges my head on his bicep.

  He doesn’t say a word, just gives me space. I’ve known him for three, maybe four months; time is jumbled in space. But he never ceases to amaze me. He’s so big and strong and… alien. But he can be so gentle and kind.

  I breathe in rhythm to his stroking, noticing the pounding on the other side of the ‘wedding door’ I erected has gotten quieter.

  I flip around to look him in the eye. And there he is, misshapen, puffy red face and all. Yet his serious expression focuses on me as if I’m the only concern in his universe.

  “I know you like me, Dax.” I realize that was presumptuous. “You do, don’t you?” I spear him with a serious look.

  “I voted to name the ship the Lovely Dahlia. I recited the most beautiful love poem ever written in front of every member of the ship at the talent show. My feelings for you weren’t meant to be a secret. I didn’t want them to be,” his voice is deep and sincere.

  “Right.” I nod. “You’ve made yourself perfectly clear. And I haven’t.” I pause, searching for the right words.

  “But you have, Dahlia. You’ve made it clear you don’t care for me like that. I consider myself lucky that you share sex with me sometimes.”

  His huge, damaged face conveys the sweetest desire. If it wouldn’t be painful, I’d touch his handsome cheek. Not only would that hurt, it would give a double message.

  “I was supposed to get married, uh mated. Tomorrow,” I blurt.

  “You had a male? You were to be mated?” His eyebrows furrow.

  “Yes. We planned our ceremony far in advance; it was scheduled for tomorrow.”

  The room is quiet for a long time as he absorbs the information. His face has hardened into stone. Except for one lone muscle leaping in his jaw, I can’t read any emotion.

  “I don’t know why I didn’t tell you, Dax. At first, there was no reason to mention it; we were too busy with the rebellion. Then I didn’t want to sound whiny —all the other women were moving on with their new lives. I knew I should be, too. Then… I didn’t want to hurt you. But I realize how badly I’ve fucked this up. I’m sorry.”

  “You loved him?”

  I nod.

  “You still love him?”

 
I nod.

  “And this.” He points at himself, then me, then back at himself. “Isn’t what you want.” That isn’t a question, it’s a statement of fact. “I confuse you?”

  I shrug. Does he? I don’t know.

  “I repel you?”

  “No, Dax. Of course not, I —”

  “I see your looks sometimes, all the females’ looks. Dax is too big and too loud and too coarse. I understand. I can be slow. I should have picked up on your repulsion lunar cycles ago.

  “My apologies if I embarrassed you. I imagined my open admiration would impress you. I thought you might soften toward me if I wasn’t afraid to let everyone on board see how smitten I am with you. Instead, I embarrassed you when I voted to name the ship after you. You probably hated me when I recited that emotional poem in such a public way.”