Ar'Tok: Book Ten in the Galaxy Gladiators Alien Abduction Romance Series

by Alana Khan

  “The tasting table,” Maddie whispers as if we’re in a cathedral. Her eyes are sparkling, and she can barely contain her wide grin.

  There’s not enough room for all of us to sit comfortably and watch, so most of the females sit on their male’s lap. This is going to be fun in more ways than one.

  “Females and males,” a male humanoid with opalescent skin and a thick black Mohawk announces in a deep whisper, “we’ll be starting our show in a few minimas. Jorgan, the Peripatetic Epicure, will do his best to cook for you in an entertaining way. You have a job, too.”

  He waits to get everyone’s attention. “Your job is to laugh at his jokes. Not just a little smile. No, if Jorgan says something funny, I want the people all the way to Perseus IV to hear you. Let’s hear it now.”

  Silence.

  “Are you waiting for me to tell a joke? That’s not what they pay me for. I just want to hear you laugh.”

  We all try to laugh on cue, which isn’t easy. He scolds us and makes us try three more times until he says, “I doubt they can hear you on Perseus IV, but this will have to do.”

  He strides to the tasting table and says, “And for all of you at this table, your job is to let the audience know how delicious, how spectacular, how extraordinary, how out of this world Jorgan’s cooking is. Of all the people in the galaxy, you lucky folks are the only ones who will actually be able to taste the dishes Jorgan cooks today. The people at home want to hear yums and oohs and aahs. They want to see your eyes practically roll back into your head in culinary ecstasy. They want to see your utensils scraping your empty plate in search of one more morsel to shove into your mouth. Got it?”

  We all nod.

  “Okay.” He raises his voice to announce, “Let me introduce to you the one, the only, Jorgan from Carden II, the Peripatetic Epicure!”

  We all clap, Maddie puts her fingers in her mouth and whistles so loudly it makes my ears ring. Ar’Tok dips his mouth to my ear and says, “Before this day is over she’s got to teach me how to do that.”

  Really? Twenty-five years in prison and his big dream is to learn how to whistle? He’s adorable.

  “Welcome, welcome,” Jorgan says. “I have a delicious menu planned today.”

  He drones on, talking about foods I’m not familiar with. I glance around and notice everyone at the table has a glazed look in their eyes. All except for Maddie. She’s leaning forward, hanging on every word.

  “Now,” he says, “let’s see who’s at our VIP table. I’m told you all came in together from parts unknown. Where are you from?” He sticks the microphone in my face.

  “We’re from all over. Us females are all from Morgana,” Maddie says, grabbing Jorgan’s wrist and pulling the mic toward her. “Most recently we’re from Aeon II.”

  Almost every single person on both ships is an escaped slave. This vid is going to play all over the galaxy for years to come. Maddie came up with a cover story. Smart female. I’m told that Morganians look just like humans. Shadow is one, and except for his bionic parts, he’d look right at home on Earth. He even forged us all official Morganian papers.

  “Here on business?” Jorgan presses.

  “The business of pleasure,” Maddie jokes with him. “This is a Pleasure Planet after all. And we all love your show.”

  “Well thank you,” he says, stepping away. “Let’s get cooking.”

  Half an hour later, the huge hangar is filled with the smells of six things simmering, baking, and roasting. We get our first tastes, and I wonder why the announcer made such a big deal out of telling us to enjoy our food.

  He did not have to direct me to roll my eyes in appreciation, or to ooh and aah. In fact, I can’t hide my moan of pleasure as I enjoy the taste of the Alaman Rean that is our first appetizer.

  “Now, if you can’t find any ektal at your neighborhood grocer, you can substitute . . .” he drones on.

  I notice that Ar’Tok’s muscles are stiff beneath me. When I glance back at him, his eyes are blank and unfocused. After setting my plate on the table, I grab his hand and entwine our fingers. Our blue and yellow nails look so good together.

  I can’t talk to him without interrupting the recording and being rude, so I turn in my seat, scoop the last bite of Alaman Rean off his plate, cup my other hand under my utensil, and fork it into Ar’Tok’s mouth.

  That little moment of connection brings him back to the present, and he rewards me with an upward tilt of his lips.

  “Delish?” I ask, playing to the camera that has dollied closer.

  “Amazing,” he answers, the molten look in his eyes an eloquent statement that I’m far more amazing than the Alaman Rean.

  As soon as we’re back on the hover, I’m going to find out what made him fade out like that.

  “Someone told me we have a chef in the house,” Jorgan announces with a smile toward the end of the show. “Maddie?”

  The camera pans to her and surprise lights her face, eyes wide, lips parted.

  “Care to help me bake dessert?”

  I’m so new to all these people I don’t know anyone well, but this makes me wish I knew them all better. Watching Maddie, so excited, in her element, I can’t help but be thrilled for her.

  Jorgan instructs her on the preparations and lets her bake the cake from start to finish. When we finally get a chance to eat it, I’m not lying when I blurt, “This is the best thing I’ve ever tasted in my entire life!”

  The camera got a good shot of that, and the audience broke out in laughter at my unabashed enthusiasm.

  Emboldened, I say, “I might just have to learn how to cook when we get home.” This earns me more approving laughter and a smattering of applause.

  After the taping ends, Maddie wholeheartedly thanks Jorgan, and we all stand to leave. Even though we only got tastes of all today’s dishes, I’m so full I feel like someone should roll me out of the hangar.

  “I have to admit,” I tell Maddie as we file toward our hover, “on our way here I was thinking there were definitely better things to do on a Pleasure Planet than watch someone cook. I was mistaken. That was uber fun.”

  “Definitely one of the highlights of my life,” she says, her face beaming.

  Here she is—they all are—abducted from their lives less than a year ago, stranded in space, and thrown into the crucible of hardship. And yet, they’re all making the best of it. Many are mated, most are in relationships, all of them are . . . happy.

  And me? I feel so different from when I woke up this morning. I’m accepted by everyone. My spontaneous statements in front of hundreds of people, that were captured on vid and will be played across the galaxy in perpetuity? That was me. I’m figuring out who I am when I’m not locked alone on a satellite in the middle of nowhere.

  I wonder if I can ever go back to that life.

  When Ar’Tok and I are in our seats on the hover, I ask him what happened back in the hangar when he got so quiet and serious.

  “Profound gratitude.”

  “Really?” He looked sad, not grateful.

  “I know I shouldn’t look back. My life wasn’t . . . good. But all my emotions welled up in me. I wasn’t being bitter. I was comparing where I was to where I am now. Look what I have.

  “These people aren’t friends, but they could become them. Happy people who want to get to know me and protect me. I didn’t tell you, but Captain Zar himself wants to teach me how to spar. Not to make me into a gladiator so I can make money for the ship, but to teach me mastery. I’m part of something for the first time in my life.

  “And there’s you, with your ridiculous Earth slang and your even more ridiculous nails. All of us males know you tricked us. We were having too much fun to put a stop to it.”

  “You knew it wasn’t for males?”

  “Do we look stupid?”

  “No. You look handsome.”

  I can’t pull my gaze from him. His cirr reach out and stroke my hair.

  “This right here. I have this. I neve
r thought I’d have this. I’m not certain I deserve it.” His eyes dip as if he can’t hold my gaze.

  His poignant words fist my heart. I want to kiss him right here on this crowded bus, but Savannah interrupts.

  “Okay, listen up.” She’s standing at the front of the hover even though we were expressly directed to stay harnessed into our seats. She was military on Earth, and I wouldn’t want to be her enemy—she can be all business.

  “We’re on our way to the hiriashi facility. Dahlia got her trip to the nail salon, Maddie brought us to the Peripatetic Epicure, and I’m taking us to play paintball. They call it hiriashi here. Potato, potahto, it doesn’t matter. I’m dividing you into two teams.”

  She raises her hand up and down the aisle. “Those of you on my right are the Eagles, on the left are the lions. No offense Zar.”

  “Wait!” Dax interrupts. “I’m an eagle. Is my translator correct? A bird? And I’m pitted against a large feline? This doesn’t seem fair.”

  “Okay. If you want to take this literally.” She looks heavenward as if she’s praying for tolerance. “On my right are the Bengal tigers, the left are lions. How’s that?” She glares pointedly at Dax who gives one swift nod of approval.

  “Eventually, though, no matter what team you’re on, it will come down to the fact that only one can win. Or one couple. When we arrive, we’ll be issued padding and paintball guns. Then they’ll usher us into a large room, maybe half the size of the Epicurean set. It will have places to hide, climb, and attack from. If you get hit, you are out. Last man standing wins.”

  “So the women don’t get to play?” Ar’Tok asks, his tone indignant.

  “Aliens!” Savannah says, but she’s smiling. “Last person standing wins.”

  Ar’Tok nods happily as if he just won an argument.

  “Just so you’re all aware,” I say, “the males all know.”

  “Know what?” Savannah asks, her brow furrowed in suspicion.

  “That Earth males don’t wear colored nail polish.”

  The women gasp in unison.

  “You told?” Petra turns in her seat, her eyebrows so high in surprise they almost touch her hairline.

  “We’re not stupid,” her mate Shadow pipes up. “You really thought I wanted my nails to match my eyes?”

  “It does bring out the color of your eyes,” Petra says, her voice hella defensive.

  “And you really didn’t want purple nails?” Dahlia asks Dax while holding her nails for all to see: purple, gold, purple, gold, and so on.

  “We’re gladiators, Dahl. You didn’t suspect we were punking you?”

  “No. How was I to suspect you were punking us when we were punking you?”

  As if on cue, every female on the bus punches their male’s shoulder. Some slugs look decidedly harder than others.

  “I think we all look bitchin’,” I say.

  Several of the guys put their hands behind their left ears to touch their subdural translators as if they malfunctioned.

  “Female dogs?” Ar’Tok asks as he does that adorable head-cock that makes me want to kiss him.

  “Slang!” the females all reply.

  “It means good,” I explain as Savannah rises again and starts barking orders as we park at the hiriashi storefront.

  The place is another warehouse, this time about half as big as the video studio where we watched the Peripatetic Epicure. How come everything we’ve done today on the Pleasure Planet is in a dump?

  The jade-green business owner informs us that the arena has been cleared of all players except for our party. He explains the rules and ensures we’re all wearing our protective gear properly.

  Although you’d think the big, bad gladiators who have risked their lives in the arena would scoff at this little game, they’re all so competitive they’re champing at the bit to play. They’re going to get a chance to not only perform in front of their main squeeze, but they get to help her, too.

  I ran a treadmill and lifted weights on the Misfit. If you don’t exercise on a vessel in space, you can lose muscle tone. But this aggressive game? Being raised as the only child of the only people within a parsec, I never before felt a need to compete.

  “Three, two, one, go,” the owner announces.

  Ar’Tok grabs my upper arm and skirts the long wall until we arrive at the back of the gaming area. The lights are dark, with strobe lights that illuminate splattered paint that glows in vivid pinks, greens, and blues adorning every wall and bunker. Participants can hide behind big, pillowy impermanent structures scattered throughout the room.

  The guns are the shape of rifles and make noise when they’re shot. They shoot paint pellets that mark the participant. Savannah reiterated that the moment you’re hit you must leave to the sidelines.

  “Shit!” I think that was Dahlia. I peak around the structure we’re hiding behind to see her stride toward the area in the front corner. It’s constructed out of flimsy wire and has a large sign over it that I assume proclaims ‘safe’, or ‘out’, or something like that.

  Dahlia’s splattered with bright blue paint that streams down her long, red hair.

  “Don’t worry, Dahl,” her mate Dax calls to her. “I’ll win for us both.”

  I’m pressed against a triangular structure about six-feet tall. Peeking my head around it, I see action all around. The males seem to be doing most of the fighting, although the females are getting in some shots, too. Not surprisingly, the mated pairs seem to be working together in perfect synchrony.

  Although I’ve never experienced anything like it before, I know immediately when a gun muzzle presses against the nape of my neck. I freeze, my blood turning cold despite the fact that I know these weapons aren’t lethal.

  “You’re at my mercy,” a growly voice whispers in my ear. “Follow every order I give you, and I’ll let you live.”

  Is this Ar’Tok? I’ve never heard this deep, raspy tone before.

  “Lean your gun against the bunker, tip facing up.”

  I do.

  “Don’t speak. Don’t move.” His lips brush my ear; his cirr slide around my neck in a proclamation of ownership.

  “That’s right,” his voice is gentler now. Dipping his knees, I see his rifle join mine, leaning against the bright blue bunker.

  His arms surround my waist, his hard cock rocks against the small of my back.

  “You’re captured, little female. Spoils of war. I own you now.” His hips press harder, staking their claim. “Nod if you understand.”

  I nod, feeling every cell in my body light on fire. I read a couple romance novels that went in this direction, but never liked them. I enjoyed the sweeter ones. But here, now, his pronouncement of total control is more arousing than I would have thought possible.

  He slips his booted foot between mine and kicks my feet wider, first to the right, then the left until my center of gravity is slightly off, my stance about three feet wide.

  “This,” he says as he cups my sex from the front, “is mine.” To make his point, he cups it harder. “Nod if you agree.”

  I nod while entertaining the odd thought that our enemies will find us hiding in this dark back corner by the smell of my arousal alone.

  “Good,” he breathes as his cirr pull my head back slightly, exposing my throat. What is it about this position that is so sexy? I never would have dreamed I would love being at his mercy like this.

  I whimper in protest when his hand leaves its post between my legs and slides under my t-shirt. Both his large palms cup my breasts outside my bra.

  “These are mine,” he announces with whispered authority. “Correct?”

  I nod.

  “I’m glad you understand your situation—I’m in complete control.”

  He finds my nipples through the thin material of my bra and rolls them just hard enough to make my knees weak. Impatiently, he pulls the bra up to rest on top of my breasts, then plucks my hard, sensitive buds. He starts soft, then harder until my hips roll, massag
ing the hard cock at my back.

  Then he tugs them even harder until he pulls a gasp from me.

  “That’s right. Your body knows it belongs to me,” his warm breath stirs the hair above my ear. Biting along my jawline, he nips forward to my chin, then retraces his path until he scrapes my earlobe.

  It feels so good I don’t know how to handle all the input bombarding my senses. One hand is gently pulling and twisting a nipple while his other has resumed its post between my legs, the heel of his hand pressing circles on my needy clit.