by Abel, Regine
“Thank you, my son,” I answered, my chest filling with affection for this miracle of a boy that had blessed my bloodline.
“I’m afraid I must go. Business never stops,” Anton said with an apologetic expression. “I’ve always wanted a baby sister,” Anton continued with a taunting look in his eyes. “I will set up an activity for you and your females in the next couple of days. Enjoy.”
I glared at him, which made him chuckle, but didn’t argue his comment.
“And, Father, do not let my mother ruin your chances of a happy future like Braxia almost did to me. You are a good man.”
Silence hung for a few seconds between us. I snorted again and gave him a smile.
“Goodbye, Anton,” I said in a falsely severe tone, when in truth I’d wanted to say: ‘I love you, son.’
Anton smiled back, which I hoped meant he’d understood my true meaning.
“Goodbye, Father.”
* * *
After a pleasant meal with my woman in one of Lilith Hive’s overly fancy restaurants, I headed to the Gladiator Arena on the station, Hope’s arm possessively hooked around mine. That pleased me… a lot. I loved the way she always publicly claimed me without even seeming to be aware of it.
My little Vaya liked touching me, as if to reassure herself of my presence. Unlike my daughter-in-law Grace—who was an exhibitionist and loved attention—Hope didn’t flaunt us being together or revel in other people’s envy. In fact, she was disturbingly oblivious of her surroundings and anything that wasn’t me. While that certainly stroked my ego and catered to my possessive nature, it also concerned me. Once I brought her to Braxia—and there was no question I would—my female would need to develop a greater sense of environmental awareness. For all its beauty, Braxia was a harsh world, with everything always eagerly trying to kill you.
“We will only be here for an hour or two,” I said to Hope as the large doors of the fighters’ entrance parted for us. “This is one of seven arenas operated by Elder Pattel’s clan—one on each of my son’s seven Hive pleasure barges. Pattel sits with me on Ravik’s close Council. He’s a good man, still a formidable fighter and hunter for his older age. He had my respect before, as both a clan leader and loyal defender of our Magnar, but he has earned my eternal friendship by protecting my son when Gerwyn, the firstborn of one of our formerly rival clans, tried to kill Anton.”
Hope’s lips parted in shock, her green eyes widening. “What happened to Gerwyn? Did he flee?”
“He faced the Magnar’s justice, and I carried out the sentence,” I said with a cruel smile that made my woman shudder.
Ancestors, how I had enjoyed it, too. Gerwyn had personified all the cruelty, narrow-mindedness, and suffering that had been inflicted on my firstborn for the mere sin of being a hybrid. And I had made Gerwyn pay, for both his sins and those of all who had abused, beaten, terrified, and vilified my son from the day he was born. I had a sadistic side that couldn’t be denied. For the first time, I had made no effort to keep it in check.
“Pattel is rather displeased with his warriors’ recent performances in the Gladiator tournaments,” I explained, chasing away the thought of Gerwyn to avoid needlessly traumatizing my woman. “He has asked me to come have a look at their training to assess the source of the problem.” I stopped to face her, cupping her face in my hands. “We are a brutal people, Hope. Braxians overflow with testosterone and aggression that we vent by picking fights with each other, sparring in our training rooms, and hunting savage, wild beasts. Do not be alarmed if things get heated or if a brawl ensues. A few bruises, a little blood, and fractured bones won’t kill us.”
I groaned inwardly at the even greater shock on her face, wishing I could take back the last part that had utterly failed to reassure her.
“Come on, my Vaya. All will be well,” I said, before gently kissing her lips.
The doors opened onto a long, arched corridor made of dark stone and duralium metals both mined from Braxia. A series of doors on each side gave access to the gladiators’ locker rooms and waiting areas, and another corridor at the far end of the right wall gave access to the main building through which patrons entered, including a large reception, souvenir shop, ticket booth, a full bar which also offered light snacks, and a VIP lounge.
But we walked straight ahead to the metal barred door that currently stood open. Hope’s eyes flicked this way and that, taking in our surroundings with awe.
“I’ve never attended a gladiator battle,” Hope confessed sheepishly. “Back home, it was deemed inappropriate for a female.”
“On Braxia, our females greatly enjoy watching us fight, especially when we beat each other bloody,” I said with a taunting glimmer in my eyes. “They say it makes up for all the times they wished they could knock some sense into us.”
Hope’s flabbergasted expression melted away as she burst out laughing. “Right, I see their point,” she said teasingly.
We stepped into the oval arena covered in packed dirt—just like back home—surrounded by bleachers. A few VIP boxes surrounded the lower levels of the seating areas for those who liked a close up view of the action, and a few more were located much higher for those who preferred to get a broader view of all that was happening in the large space. Strategically placed giant screens ensured every patron could get a good view of the battle regardless of their position. Above us, a soundproof dome simulated the shimmering silver sky of my home world: the dark planet Braxia.
Hope’s wonder quickly turned to worry when she noticed half a dozen Braxians engaged in a rather heated discussion near the center of the arena. I frowned, seeing so few of them present at this time of the day, little equipment out, not a lick of sweat on any of them, and no reddened skin from a few well-placed blows.
“You can go up here to take a seat,” I said, opening the hidden door granting access to the bleachers. “The door to the VIP box is unlocked. The seats are more comfortable and there is a mini-bar with cold beverages and snacks if you want.”
“Okay,” she said with a soft voice.
I cupped her neck with my hands and lifted her chin with my thumbs, trying to ignore the hated feel of Luther’s collar beneath my palms. Leaning forward, I captured her lips in a gentle kiss, a tender emotion burning in my chest for the delicate female.
“Go,” I said, reluctantly releasing her.
Hope gave me a timid smile then gracefully climbed the few steps up to the fifth row where the lower level VIP boxes were located. My gaze lingered on my woman’s beautiful legs exposed by her thigh-length black and blue patterned dress and enhanced by shiny black stilettos. I loved Hope’s sense of fashion; sexy but not slutty, revealing just enough to give you a glimpse of her perfection, but sufficiently demure to require your imagination to fill in the blanks and make you ache for more.
“Clan Leader Krygor!” Torog exclaimed, noticing me at last.
Tearing my eyes away from my female, I looked at Pattel’s young cousin, firstborn son of his second brother Woltar. Of an age with Anton, Torog had just turned thirty-eight a week ago. But where my son was a true pioneer, constantly challenging himself and pushing the boundaries of success, Torog was content to merely meet expectations, keep the boat afloat, and not make waves. However, putting Torog in charge of the Lilith Hive Arena had been a last-ditch effort by Woltar to whip his son into being a bit more responsible and proactive.
Torog approached, followed by the five other Braxian warriors from various clans. Stopping a few feet in front of me, he slapped his chest with his fist in greeting, imitated seconds later by the others.
“You should have warned me of your imminent visit,” Torog said cordially. “We would have welcomed you properly, as deserved by your rank.”
His smile quickly faded at my failure to reciprocate the greeting and the stern expression on my face. He swallowed hard before casting an uncertain glance at his companions, who eyed him warily.
“Where are the others?” I asked without preamble.<
br />
Torog’s broad, flat nose twitched in a nervous response, and he stretched his neck. “It is their day off.”
“Their day off?” I repeated in a dangerously soft voice.
Torog shifted uncomfortably but had the courage to hold my gaze. “We cannot spar every day, or the men are too bruised for competition. They need at least one complete day to fully recover.”
“Recovering from bruises doesn’t mean sitting idle on your ass,” I said in a clipped tone. “They could be building their strength weight-lifting, improving their technique through lectures and simulations, increasing their dexterity and flexibility through exercise and stretching, improving their battle focus through meditation, reflex response, and so on. Is any of that even in your program?”
“With all due respect, Clan Leader Krygor,” said Hagmar, another of the warriors coming to Torog’s rescue, who clearly seemed unable to find an appropriate response, “we have found these techniques to be of no particular benefit to us.”
“Of no benefit?” I asked, advancing towards him threateningly. “You have been getting your butts handed to you at an embarrassingly high rate. If you were of my clan, you’d be doing the walk of shame through the compound, and then I’d put you through your paces to show you why, without those benefits, you are pathetic brawlers instead of warriors.”
The younger males gasped, outraged expressions descending on their brutish faces.
“Clan Leader K—” Hagmar exclaimed, his face turning red with anger, and his muscles bulging as he fisted his hands.
“What?” I interrupted. “You’re offended?” I asked marching up to him and getting in his face. “Your sire and your entire clan should be offended by your failure. You got spanked by a scrawny human. You know why? Technique. Go fetch your weapon, pup, and see if you can redeem part of your honor against an older man.”
I’d put as much contempt as I could muster in the word while gesturing with my head for him to go ahead.
A sliver of worry—if not fear—crossed the young warrior’s dark eyes. He cast an uncertain glance at his companions who suddenly all seemed highly interested in the packed dirt beneath our feet, or the detailing of the railings around the bleachers.
“You’re still here? Are you too scared, then?” I taunted.
Hagmar growled, then menacingly bared his teeth at me before turning on his heels to go fetch two long staves. He extended one of the staves to me. I looked at the weapon with disdain then stared back at the fool.
“I said to fetch your weapon. I don’t need one to beat your ass, pup,” I said, tilting my head to the side.
Growling with rage, he threw away the second staff while the other warriors quickly backed away. Then, holding his weapon with both hands, Hagmar charged me. It would have been laughable if it hadn’t been so sad and predictable.
Not allowing the taunts of your opponent to make you lose control constituted the most basic training provided to a young male. In the era of the Great Wars, Braxians were the most feared warriors in the galaxy. This new generation had nothing but weaklings, relying on their greater size and brute force alone to defeat their opponents. This worked in a brawl against most species. Against true tactical enemies, they would get obliterated. And if the prophecies about the Veredians held any truth, then we needed to get our young in shape for the even greater war to come.
Waiting until the last minute, I easily dodged his attack, then flowing with the movement, slammed my elbow in the back of his head. He tumbled forward, managing to stay up with some skill, testifying that he had a proper foundation that simply hadn’t been polished due to ego and laziness. Hagmar turned around, waving his staff at me in a flurry. I avoided a few of the blows and blocked the others with my forearms while seeking an opening.
It came quickly enough.
Anticipating his reaction, I pretended to go for a strike. As soon as he defensively raised his staff before him, I grabbed it instead and twisted, forcing him to let go or get his wrists snapped. Shocked to find himself thus disarmed, Hagmar raised his forearms to block my attack, but I brutally struck both of his ankles in quick succession with the staff before spinning around him to smack him a solid one on the rear.
I did say I was going to beat his ass.
To add insult to injury, when Hagmar turned around to face me, his face crimson with outrage, I threw his staff back at him. He instinctively caught it, then gaped at me in confusion. I smirked and gestured with both hands at the younger warrior to come at me again. Infuriated, he charged me once more in the exact same fashion as the first time. Without missing a beat, I yanked the staff right out of his hands, moments from it making contact with my left shoulder. Spinning around again, I smashed the staff twice against his bottom, each blow resounding like a thunderclap.
The pup roared. Using his momentum as he turned around to face me, Hagmar threw a meaty punch that never made contact. The sole of my boot connected solidly with his sternum, sending him flying back. He landed on his ass with a loud thump, slightly winded. I tossed the staff at him, a bored expression on my face as he caught it. A mix of rage, hatred, and humiliation all played on his features.
“I suggest you stay down, pup,” I said in an icy cold voice. “Unless you want to continue the lesson?”
A part of me was hoping he would. Should he be so foolish, Hagmar would have to sit out the next competition because this time I would not hold back. The crazy part of me that craved the blood and pain of my enemies had been awakened but not been sated.
Thankfully—for all our sakes—Hagmar wisely chose to remain where he was. After giving him one last disdainful glance, I turned to Torog, who looked completely discomfited.
“You will put together a proper daily schedule for all the warriors and present it to me tomorrow. No more bullshit days off,” I snarled. “You will not bring shame and dishonor to your clans and your Ancestors with your laziness. You were sent here to represent Braxia and earn glory for both yourselves and our people. Start acting accordingly. All entertainment venues on Lilith Hive are now barred to you until you prove to me that you have gotten your shit together. Is that clear?”
While Torog looked at me crestfallen, at least three of the others appeared eager to challenge me.
“You have a problem with it?” I asked making eye contact with each of the three. “Then come at me.”
I spread my arms wide, daring them to take on the challenge. But for all their laziness, the young men weren’t fools. My reputation for being crazy in combat preceded me. At even odds, I could count on one hand the number of Braxian warriors that I wasn’t certain to defeat—number one being the Magnar. Ravik wasn’t a man, he was a true beast from the purest of the Braxian bloodlines.
When the pups all averted their eyes, despite their anger seething within, I dropped my arms, took a couple of steps backward before turning around and walking away towards my woman.
My brow creased in a frown at the scared look on her face. My gaze never strayed from her as I circled around the protective barrier to the hidden door in order to climb the bleachers to the VIP box. Hope rose to her feet, eyes wide and hands clasped before her. I hated the scent of her fear and the slight trembling of her body.
“My Vaya,” I said in a gentle voice, approaching her slowly, carefully as one would a terrified animal. “Why such fear in your eyes? It is me, your Krygor. Your giant.”
“I-I know… I’m sorry,” Hope said, clearly trying to rein in her fear. “It’s… Your eyes…”
I cast them down and took in a deep breath to calm the heat in my blood. Battle always made me a little feral, which gave me the crazy eyes of a serial killer. I held out a hand, palm up. Despite her fear, Hope reached for it without hesitation. I gently closed my hand around her trembling fingers, touched deeper than words could express that she’d still choose to trust me.
“I am a Berserker, Hope,” I said softly, carefully drawing her against me, before cupping her cheek with my free hand. “It
is a rare Braxian trait passed down in warrior bloodlines. When I go into combat, I gradually build what we call battle rage. It makes me—and those I consider of my clan—stronger, faster, and more resistant to pain. I didn’t go berserk right now, but the rush of battle can make me look a little crazy. But know this, I have never raised a hand to a female. Ever. We Braxians have many faults, but we know our strength and how devastating it could be to our females. As the Ancestors are my witness, whatever happens in the future, no matter how angry I could possibly get, one thing I can promise you, on my honor, on my life, is that you will never have to fear physical harm from me. Okay?”
Hope nodded, looking both relieved and embarrassed. “I’m sorry,” she said giving me a sheepish smile. “I’m not usually this squeamish. But, wow, you’re badass!”
I chuckled and puffed out my chest. “Youth always underestimates experience,” I said with false modesty. “Come, my Vaya. Let’s go home.”
Chapter 6
Hope
The four days spent so far with Krygor had been beyond magical. Although he’d ‘bought’ me as an Escort for a week, my giant treated me more like a committed love interest. We spent almost every waking hour together, especially now that he’d finalized the last bit of business on Lilith Hive, three days earlier than expected. While I loved his undivided attention, with him going so far as to accompany me when I went to pick up Siona from school, the threat of his imminent departure kept growing with each passing hour.
Krygor had still not said anything about my Indentured Servant contract with Luther. Yet, everything about the way he acted and his still very rabid hunger for me all indicated that he had no intention of letting me go anytime soon. So why the mystery? I was going insane with the urge to flat out ask him. At this point, I wasn’t beyond begging and groveling. Except, now it was no longer just to protect my daughter—although that remained my number one priority.
