by Lynn Best
The floor was tacky like it hadn’t been washed in a while. The windows grimy with soot. The main feature was an old-school boxing ring with sagging ropes. Around the ring were various other workout items—speed bags, punching bags, jump ropes, and a rack of weights. There were gray dented lockers in the back and dressing rooms around the side.
After sealing the wall, Tork made his way to the weight bench, loaded it up with flat black disks of various weights, and started bench-pressing. Brandy watched his muscles flex, wondering what in the hell she was supposed to do here.
She’d never been one to work out. Her agency, which was a nice way of saying her pimp, wanted her to be waifish—with enhanced breasts, of course. So she’d worked on her skills in bulimia and then calorie counting when throwing up proved to be bad on her system.
The clank of the weights hitting the rack drew her attention. Tork was sweating. He drew his shirt off, revealing glistening pecs and abs that any male on Earth would’ve killed for. He also had tribal tattoos on one arm, though she had no idea the meaning. Averting her eyes, she felt her pulse speed up. She should not be ogling his amazing body. Tork would get her in trouble. And if Drake claimed her, she could get Tork in trouble, too. Best to avoid him and stay quiet.
“If you aren’t going to work out, then you can spot me.” He waved her over as he situated himself underneath the heavy bar again.
“Spot you?”
“Yeah. Over here. Don’t let the bar crush my spine. Simple. You can handle that. Right, puppy?”
God, she wanted to deck him. Or maybe let the bar crush his spine. Instead, she walked over and put her hands under the bar as he pushed out something like twelve more reps. He didn’t need her help, moving the bar up and down like it weighed nothing. Cartharians were naturally strong, so she didn’t was why she didn’t understand why he pumped weights.
He got up, using his shirt to wipe the sweat from his torso. The glistening muscles would’ve put Conan the Barbarian to shame.
“Your turn.” He gestured at the bench with his balled-up T-shirt.
Her eyes popped. “My turn?”
“Yeah. Bench or squat? Or maybe you’d rather do some bag training.”
“Bag training? How can you think any of this is my thing?” She gestured to her very non-muscular body.
He wiped his face with the shirt again before tossing it on the floor. “Look, sweetheart, I was told to get you some exercise and that is what I plan to do. Now, don’t give me a hard time about it. We can finish here and go on our merry way. I know that’s what we all want.”
Back to her cell. She wasn’t sure which was worse, being here with him or being locked up alone.
“Fine, I’ll work out, but don’t you have a treadmill around here somewhere?” She scanned the room.
“You don’t need that shit. Waste of time.” He took her hand, dragging her toward the center of the gym and the large boxing ring that occupied it.
“What are you doing?” she asked, trying to tug away, but his grip was strong.
When they got to the base of the ring, Tork started handing her sparing pads. Thick headgear, gloves, and a mouthpiece. She stared at them with a growing sense of horror. “What are these for?”
“Jesus, you ask a lot of questions. Does Han put up with that mouth? Get the gear on. Put the mouthpiece in first so I can’t hear your yammering.” He got a bandage out and started to unwind it. Then he took her wrist and began to wrap it.
She was expecting him to be rough, but his touch was gentle. His fingers brushed against the skin on her wrist as he expertly bound it. His eyes flicked up to hers and then down at his work. “So you don’t break your bones when you hit me,” he said, reaching for the other one.
“What about you?” she asked.
“Can’t break my bones, puppy. At least you can’t. But thanks for the concern.”
“Han could break your bones.”
His eyes shot up, narrowing. “Yeah, your precious Han could. If he could catch me.”
“He’s not my precious Han.” She pressed her lips together, realizing she shouldn’t have said anything. She wanted them to think she was worth something to Han, so they would keep her alive. But the words were already out, and Tork pounced on them.
“Eyes only for his pregnant bride now, eh? Tossed you aside? Jilted lover?” he mocked, one eyebrow arching.
“It’s none of your business.”
“Or is there something else you’re not telling us? Maybe you aren’t the prize you’ve been pretending to be?” His eyes zeroed in on hers.
Did he know she hadn’t been able to produce heirs for Han and his brothers? If he suspected, then it was all over. They’d toss her out of the airlock. Or worse, they’d use her for pleasure and throw her away. There was that broken-toy feeling in the pit of her stomach again, making her sick.
But Tork didn’t press the idea any further. He finished wrapping her wrists, and then helped her put on the boxing gloves. After jamming the headgear on her head, he slipped the mouthpiece between her teeth. “In the ring,” he commanded.
She wanted to punch him right there, but thought she might get in more hits while in the ring. Once she crawled under the ropes, she stood with her hands up, ready for anything. The board creaked beneath her feet like she really was in an old boxing ring and not some simulation in space.
Tork climbed up with much more grace than she had, the ropes barely moving. He raised his own fists, adopting a boxer stance that could only come from experience. When he saw her form, he dropped his fists and shook his head.
“Not like that. Here.” He walked over and began moving her arms. “Elbows in to protect the ribs. Fists up to protect the face. Most of boxing is trying not to get hit. Or at least, not getting hit anywhere important.”
“What about punching?” she asked, feeling pent up. “I want to get to the punching.”
“Oh, really?” His eyebrows went up in an amused smile. “Fine. Hit me.” He stepped back around and positioned himself across from her in the ring.
“Hit you?”
“Hit me.”
“Anywhere?”
“Not in the jewels. Aim for the head or chest. The best shots are under the chin with an uppercut or the kidneys. If you turn the head far enough, the brain will hit the side of the skull, making them black out.”
“That’s brutal.”
His face darkened. “The world is brutal. Or haven’t you figured that out yet?”
She gritted her teeth and punched him.
It was like hitting a brick wall. Her hand instantly hurt. Tork didn’t flinch.
“You need to follow through with your shoulder. Turn your body. Like this.” He reached out and tilted her arm, extending her body. She moved awkwardly, but he did it again, telling her this time to take a step forward and put her weight into it. Then he stood there and let her hit him again. This time, the punch still hurt like hell, but at least he flinched a little when she connected.
“Do it again.”
She hit him several more times. Each time, he stopped to correct her. By the time a half an hour had passed on the caged clock on the wall, she was sweaty, tired, and much better at boxing. She felt herself almost smiling.
He smiled, too. And not in that smug, self-satisfied way he had. A real smile. It looked nice on him. He helped her out of her gloves, unwinding the bandages and letting his fingers linger a bit longer than necessary on the skin of her wrists. Brandy felt the thrill of it, the heat beginning like it always did when a man she found very attractive seemed to like her, too. But then she reminded herself that not only was Tork dangerous, he was also her captor. Munchhausen Syndrome anyone?
She pulled her hands back, flexing them, and stepped away to pull off her headgear and shake out her hair. A sweaty mess, she thought about asking for a shower, but then she wondered if he would think she was indicating she wanted to take one with him. And part of her did. She told that part to shut the hell up.
“That was okay. Decent,” he said, sitting on a battered bench and squeezing a water bottle in his mouth before dumping it on his head and chest. Topless, he glistened. Lord.
“I’m not much of a boxer,” she demurred as he handed the water bottle to her. She shook her head before heading over to a water fountain and drinking from there instead. She could practically feel his eyes on her backside as she bent over.
When she stood up, he was there standing behind her. “We could do this again. If you want to learn more.” One eyebrow arched.
“Sure.” Her heart pounded.
Reaching out, he took a strand of loose hair and tucked it behind her ear. The tension between them was palpable. She gripped her hands together and waited for him to kiss her, tried not to think about what she would do if he did.
You’d give in. You’d let him do whatever he wanted because you find him so attractive. And you’d be a fool.
A voice sounded from above. “Tork?”
He jumped a little and then took a step back. “Yeah?”
“You’re needed on the bridge. Now.”
“Be there in a minute.” Tork turned from her, walking over to his shirt and tugging it on. She watched his muscles flex as he covered all that deliciousness with fabric. Once he had it settled, he said, “Stay here. Do what you want. Someone will be back to escort you to your room later.” He started to walk away.
“Wait!”
He swiveled to face her.
“What am I supposed to do until then?”
He shrugged. “Work on your uppercut. It sucks.”
4
Brandy waited in the smelly gym, running over every frustrating interaction with Tork.
Wrek was easy to figure out. Or at least she thought. And Tork? He was doing the standard douche-bag-dis routine. Brandy remembered when that book The Game came out and the subsequent TV show after it. For at least a solid year, guys were “peacocking” and “dissing” girls to much-varied effect. It was an infuriating year, and she was glad the fad had mostly petered out.
It was not over in space land, apparently.
She found a refrigerator and stared at the empty shelves. She’d had a meal a while ago, but with no clocks and no sense of time, she had no idea how much time had passed. Would these men let her starve? She didn’t think so, not if they thought she could produce an heir, but who knew if they remembered to feed their pets?
The Cartharian culture was so complicated. From what she understood, Cartharian females were nonexistent. Or at least, they were now. She had no idea what happened to them or where they went, but if the species was going to continue, they needed females from other species to produce their offspring for them. The problem was there weren’t many species that could do it. And not all members of those few species were able to get pregnant with Cartharian babies. So they created scouting ships and began scanning the populous trying to pinpoint females who could.
From everything Brandy had been told, her body was able to conceive and give birth to a Cartharian child, but so far, the proof was in the pudding. Lots of alien sex and no baby. Ergo, she was useless. And now she worried Tork might have figured that out.
But maybe he wouldn’t tell Drake. Or maybe the boys would become so enamored with her they’d beg her to stay on. Rahan had taken a liking to her enough to petition Han to let her stay after she’d proven unable to help with their baby problem. Han had agreed. Maybe these aliens would do the same. Hopefully, they’d agree to leave Charis the hell alone, too.
Right. And aliens were all little green men.
Finally, after a lot of poking through empty lockers and office shelves in the gym, she found a food replicator in a back office and convince it to make her scones and coffee. Normally she’d watch what she ate, but what did it matter? She could be dead tomorrow.
Depression was not her usual viewpoint. She’d been voted best smile and most optimistic in high school for a reason. She chose to think Charis was at her wit’s end right now, begging Han to intercede. And that Han, in his love for Charis, would do anything to get his mate’s best friend back.
“They’re flying here right now,” she said aloud, feeling only a little bit crazy. “Soon, they’ll be calling Drake up with their demands before they blast the shields away, or whatever.”
After eating, she curled up in a ratty armchair in the back office and went to sleep.
Sometime later, she was woken up by approaching footsteps.
When she sat up, Drake was standing in the office, a displeased expression on his face. “Did you seduce my brothers?”
“What?” She sat up further, shaking the sleep away. “What are you talking abou—”
“Did you seduce my brothers?” he said more forcefully. He was pissed.
“No, I…”
“Save it.” He held his hand up. “I should’ve known when I saw you that you would be trouble. And they’re so weak-minded, too. So easily controlled.” He was talking to himself now. She kept quiet, but it didn’t work for long. Drake’s accusatory glare found her. “Get up.”
“Where are we going?”
“What does that matter to you? Our deal is forfeit. You are trouble. I’m going to deal with you my way now.” He kicked the chair, causing the back to vault upright. Brandy nearly fell as she was trying to stand up.
“You don’t have to be so mean,” she said, gripping the desk for stability. “Everyone knows you’re in charge. You don’t have to flex your muscles all the time for people to respect you.”
“Apparently, I do. Both my brothers are asking for your release. They want you to have privileges on the ship like a real citizen. Now, why would they want that? Both claim they haven’t slept with you, but I’m not so sure.”
Brandy glared. “Maybe they want me free because they are decent creatures. It’s clear you have no idea what that feels like.”
He glowered, anger pulsing in the veins around his neck. “Let’s go.” He gestured toward the door.
“Where are we going?”
His icy stare didn’t waver.
She tried not to let her nerves show as he directed her out of the gym and into the hallway. The pace he set for them was brisk, and she was out of breath by the time he stopped in front of a wall and began opening it with his touch.
Brandy didn’t know what she was expecting, but it wasn’t for a gigantic angry beast to tear out of the room.
It all happened so fast. One minute, there was a smooth purple-black wall in front of them. The next, it dissolved and a giant alien beast bursted from it. Long, clawed fingers wrapped around Drake’s neck as it used its momentum to smash the man against the far wall.
Brandy screamed, backpedaling out of the way as a fight broke out in the hallway. The alien was just like the others she’d seen—scaly with a mane, red eyes, slitted nostrils, and elongated fingers ending in claws. With one hand, it had Drake by the throat and was lifting him so his boots scrabbled on the floor. Caught off guard, Drake struggled for air, grasping at the hands that were choking him. As she watched his eyes bulge, Brandy’s panic turned to terror.
Drake kicked the beast in the ribs over and over as he slowly suffocated. One last hard kick made the alien beast curl inward, his hand letting go of Drake’s throat. Drake fell into a crouch, gasping. A few tortured breaths and Drake was up, slamming the beast into the wall so hard it wobbled. It wrapped long arms around Drake’s back and sank its claws deep into his skin and muscles beneath. He let out a howl, his face twisted with pain.
Desperate, Drake’s eyes darted around, landing on Brandy. “Call… for help.”
Brandy stared at him, unable to move.
Leaning around the beast’s snarling head, Drake locked eyes with her. “Call for… back up. Please.”
What should she do? Drake was just about to punish her for her supposed transgressions, but this fight needed to be broken up before someone got hurt.
“What do I do?” she asked.
Drake was con
centrating on keeping the beast pinned while enduring the claws sinking further into his back. Through gritted teeth, he said, “Press your hand… to the wall. Call Wrek.”
Brandy pressed her hand to the wall. Nothing happened. “Drake, it’s not working!”
When she turned, the beast had wrestled out of Drake’s grasp and was trying his best to end his life. The beast slashed out with its claws, cut through Drake’s shirt, and sliced open his chest. Purplish-black blood dripped down his skin as he used his arms to stop the onslaught.
Brandy whirled back to the wall and pressed her hand to it. “Wrek, we need you down here. Hurry!”
A voice crackled overhead. “Brandy? Is that you?”
“Wrek! Please. One of the… aliens is tearing Drake apart.”
“Oh Gods.” The commlink ended.
Brandy turned toward the battle.
Drake was on his back, resembling a piece of shredded beef. Black blood was everywhere—the floors, the wall. The beast stood over Drake’s heaving chest.
It raised its claws to strike.
“Stop!” Brandy screamed.
The beast’s claws stopped in midair. It turned slowly, locking its red eyes on her.
Trembling, she tried her most forceful tone. “Leave him alone. You’ve done enough.”
Nostrils sniffing the air, it left Drake’s body and began to stalk toward her. Blood dripped off its claws and pattered on the floor. Those red eyes locked in like he was seeing his next victim.
Brandy ran.
Heart pounding, she sprinted down the corridor with the beast in pursuit. She could hear it thundering along behind her, footfalls shaking the floors beneath her feet. Breath caught in her throat, she ran with abandon.
Images flashed through her mind as she skidded around a corner—blood on those sharp claws, Drake in a puddle of his own blood. Was that what she’d look like when they found her lifeless body?
She took another corner, her feet slapping against the floor. Tortured sounds were pouring from her throat. Behind her, giant feet pounded on the ground with each lopping step. It was gaining on her.
