The pressure kept increasing, and she could feel the sharp point of his fangs at her skin, beneath the golden fur she'd sprouted. His body language said one thing to her. Submit.
She shook her head furiously, trying to throw him off. She opened her mouth, intent on letting a ferocious roar free, but instead only made a cruel hissing noise.
More weight. Submit.
She swatted a paw at him, opening a gash in his leg. She wanted to take it in her mouth and apply pressure until she heard the snap of bone.
More weight. Her belly was now touching the ground. He was so much larger than her. Submit.
She tried to kick out her back legs, to run over him. Her nimble feet slid on the slick floor. He let out a rumbling, resonant growl that she felt in her chest as much as she heard with her enhanced sense. She wasn't getting out of this.
She chirrupped, a scared sounding noise. She didn't feel scared, not really. She felt defeated. She laid all of her long mass down, and he let go of her long enough to allow her to roll on her side. He nipped at her exposed throat and snarled, a message her human brain didn't understand but her animal body clearly did. He was claiming dominance, reminding her that going forward she would be wise to avoid violence against him. He placed a paw on her chest, leaning his weight into it. Rub it in some, Bastard.
She watched as he changed back, easily and more quickly making the shift. She realized then that his previous shift had been purposefully dramatic, a way to goad her into her own fur. She'd reacted intuitively, frantically. She bared her sharp teeth at him, displaying her displeasure. His human voice laughed and kept her pinned down. Again, he seemed to be totally comfortable with all his assets bared to the world.
"I'm going to let go," he said to her, looking her right in the eyes. His stare was bold and blunt, another act of authority. Something in her squirmed, recognizing his command.
"When I let you go you will not try to attack me. Even in this skin I am stronger than you, better trained, and will kill you if you challenge me again," he said it so casually.
She unsheathed more of her claws. She wouldn't slice him, but she wouldn't whimper for him either. Dominance, the animal that was her decided, was such a fluid thing. Today he may be dominant. If she lived to see tomorrow, they would have to revisit the discussion.
"Change back," he ordered, each word clipped.
She thought about it. She thought about her fur receding, her legs lengthening to her normal height. She thought and thought but nothing happened. Panic, metallic tasting and cold, took over. She didn't want to be a beast forever. She hadn't wanted to be one at all. She couldn't stay trapped like this.
"Breath," he told her, reading her panic in her pheromones.
She panted, her tongue flicking past her maw. She couldn't stay like this. She was a woman, a woman with a mane of unruly dishwater blonde curls and turned down lips, lips that easily looked stern when she was concentrating or thoughtful. She was a woman who did backflips and flip flops, who had been a gymnast since her third birthday. She couldn't imagine never feeling a soft mat beneath her feet, never contorting in time with the music again. She had never been as attached to her body, as afraid of losing its potential, as she was in that moment.
"The first change back into a biped is the hardest, but you can do it. You will do it. Stop freaking out. It's not helping," he addressed her, patronizing.
"Yeah well fuck you," she snarled and it came out as a resentful hiss.
"I don't speak cheetah, woman, I'm a wolf. Use your human lips to hurl insults," he quipped, understanding her tone if nothing else.
She tried to stop panicking. She sat her haunches on the floor, and attempted to focus on deep, calming breaths. She filled her lungs, so much larger than she was used to, with the sterile air of the shining room. While she felt more in control, her pale flesh was nowhere to be found. She looked at the naked man and cocked her head. What now, evil asshole?
"It helps to think about sex," he said with a smile.
She huffed at him, a distinctly human expression from her big cat body. Men. Always the same.
"What? It does. You're never more distinctly a person than in the middle of the deed. You know there's only one other mammal on your planet that does it for fun instead of straight up procreation? It's the dolphin. That ecstasy, that intimacy, those societal hurdles one has to cross to get to the bedroom or kitchen or wherever you do it, those make you feel like a man or a woman," he said. He didn't sound dreamy or lustful like most men she knew would. He sounded clinical. Think about having sex. Sex was intimacy. Intimacy expressed through skin was an innately human thing.
Even if she had been human she wouldn't have told him she'd only had one sexual experience, and it was nothing to daydream about. She'd slept with her brother's friend, in the backseat of his car parked in a field by his house, because she'd gotten drunk for the first time with him. It wasn't terrible. It just wasn't anything worth wasting more time on. He'd poked her, kissed her exposed shoulder a few times, and made a mess of the bench seat. For her it'd stung, and she couldn't even remember if they'd really kissed mouth to mouth. After they were done, a few minutes at the most, he'd gotten out of the car to puke. Too much liquor.
"Are all future Olympians so tight?" he'd asked her on the car ride back.
"I don't know. Are all future drug dealers such total asses?" she'd said. They had both laughed at that and moved on.
Instead of thinking about that, which wouldn't help her feel more womanly at all, Valentina thought about the man in front of her. Sure, she inherently disliked all of his mannerisms and qualities, but she couldn't deny that in physical appearance alone he was a stunner. Every part of him was wrapped in muscle, every inch defined. He had scars that ran up and down along his body, mostly all faint and straight, as though he'd been patched up professionally. That itself was incredibly appealing. He wasn't a pretty boy, or at least everything from the neck down wasn't perfect like his face. She liked that it looked like he'd taken his lumps, that his skin was a map drawn over rough, herculean terrain. That was the right word. With the posh face and substantial body he looked like Hercules.
His thighs, his thighs looked delicious. They were cut and big, four hands her size may not have been able to fit around them. His thighs made her think of her own, also muscular, too large for a fashionable woman. However, in comparison, hers would be small against his. Everything about her would be small in contrast with him. She imagined that his hand, callused and warm, would span almost her entire belly. The idea of his rugged hands on her skin made her shiver. The shiver started a chain reaction through her body. It hurt, fuck it hurt, and when it started there was no stopping it. She closed her feline eyes against the waves of anguish.
The eyes she opened were still enhanced but not disturbingly so. She looked down and realized she was as naked as the day she was born and was horrified she was standing there in front of the shithead man she'd been fantasizing about totally exposed.
"Why haven't you put your clothes back on?" she asked him, her arms crossed over her chest.
"It seemed rude since you split out of yours. Did you want me to get dressed and stand here and talk to you while you're unclothed?" he asked.
"Yes," she said, "put your clothes on."
"Does my nudity bother you?" he asked, the hint of a smile on his face.
"Sure does," she answered, still as a statue. No way she was going to shrug and cause her bits to jiggle.
"Get over it. You're a shifter now. Animals don't care about nakedness. A shifter that isn't willing to strip is a shifter who has a pretty tiny wardrobe since they've shredded all their clothes," he lectured.
"Speaking of pretty tiny things," she said, hoping to make him uncomfortable enough to throw on layers. Seeing his rather enticing business wasn't going to do either of them any favors.
His eyes glazed over, and he gave her the look, the look that made her instinctively want to bow her head. It was his dominance look,
and she had to grind her teeth to fight it. Fight it she did, though. She gazed back at him unblinkingly. She developed, in the space of just a few seconds, a terrible crick in her neck. Her body was trying to act against her, to save it's skin under the onslaught of the alpha stare. She wouldn't give in.
"You do realize that holding my eye contact this long would be considered a challenge by any and all shifters," he said, his eyes not moving but his tone mild.
"I assumed," she said, giving in to the shrug.
"At least you have balls. Not smart. Not overly strong. Not typical. But balls for days," he bared his teeth at her in a gesture she couldn't call either a smile or a sneer.
"Those," he went on, "will work for you in the pit. We can work with it."
"The pit? And I clearly don't have balls. You'd have seen them by now. If I did, they'd be bigger than yours," she responded, wanting to face palm as soon as the words left her mouth. What was she? Still in high school? Actually, she'd never been to high school so the self indignation didn't fit.
"Big balls? Is that the human equivalent of 'I have a bigger dick than yours'? If so, I don't understand. Why would you want to run around swinging a balls boulder?" he seemed to be thinking it over.
"The pit?" she redirected him since he didn't seem in any greater hurry to cover up.
"Is where you'll earn the right to become a citizen of The Demesne. Is a gladiatorial arena where you prove your worth to the society. Win four bouts and you achieve the full charter of citizenship; bearing children, owning land, a paying job. Win and you walk free. Lose and you die," he warned.
"What? I have to fight to the death to be part of something I want to escape anyway?" her voice was colored with emotion, each word could have been a vibrant dark stain in the disinfected room.
"Yes, or you could go back and join one of those other two lines out there," he offered, pointing at the door.
"And where would I end up then?" she prodded, although a screaming part of her said she didn't actually want to know.
"One line will go on to become the unpaid laborers The Demesne requires; street sweepers, domestic servants, bodies at the quarries. The other, even further unlucky, line doesn't get to go to The Demesne," he answered straightforwardly.
"And where do they go?" she asked.
"Nowhere. They're gone," he said.
A thousand questions flooded her, but she clenched her teeth against them, trapping them before her voice gave them life. She didn't want to know. A third of her planet, her people, gone. Somewhere out there were her parents, her little brother, her friends, everyone she had ever shared a look with. Separated into thirds. One to become slaves. Another to fight for their lives. The last to simply cease.
"I won't go to either of those other two lines," she said, squaring her shoulders.
"Then you'll fight," he said simply.
"I don't know anything about fighting. I am, was, a gymnast. I do floor routines and swing from the uneven bars. I've never held a weapon in my life," she told him.
"That's where I come in. I'll take you into my home, train you, feed you, and do my best to prepare you for what's coming," he offered with no more warmth in his voice.
"Why?" she asked skeptically, "what's in it for you?"
"Money. If you matriculate out of the arena a citizen my wealth increases exponentially," he said.
"I don't like you," she bit out, wanting to set boundaries in the here and now. She'd let him try to train her, but she wasn't his to do with as he pleased. She didn't have to like the direction her life was traveling. She didn't have to like him.
"It's mutual," he answered, unfazed, "but then again I rarely like my proteges. I don't get paid to like you. I only get paid to deliver an entertaining fighter and strong potential citizen to the arena. I'm not sure I can turn you into either."
"Fuck you," she said, repeating the sentiment from earlier. This time, though, she said it in a common language she knew he understood.
"Nope. That's a privilege few, and certainly not you, can ever claim," he said, his air of lordliness firmly in place.
He retrieved his clothes and started layering them on, oblivious to her continued surveillance. Once he was fully dressed he turned toward the door.
"You will be delivered clothes, given a small room aboard the next vessel traveling back to The Demesne, and will be rooming with your fellow fledgelings. I wouldn't get too comfortable with them though, even if that feels like the right thing to do, to form bonds of allegiance. You could end up facing any of them in the arena, and I would bet any of them would kill you for the chance to live," he warned, his eyes as hard and unfeeling as glass.
"So it is other humans I'll be facing in the pit?" she asked, uncertain she had the fortitude to actually do it.
"Could be. There'll be other races too who've recently had their planets' resources assimilated into The Demesne fighting for their citizenship. There are also career fighters who take bouts to earn extra income or sharpen their skills in an effort to prove their prowess as a future alpha, but those are restricted from fighting in the citizenry sessions under almost all circumstances," he expounded.
The door opened for him, and he parted with an unencouraging, "See you at my villa."
"How will I find it," she called, feeling adrift and alone.
"You'll be delivered to me. Eat. Rest. Your training is going to be brutal," he said the way some people would say goodnight.
"What. A. Shit," she mumbled to herself.
It had all happened just as Ward had described. After he left a smallish young woman came in to deliver clothes to her. Valentina had tried to talk to the girl, to ask more questions, but she quickly realized the girl, her pretty skin tinged a soft pink and her hair an exact match, wouldn't speak to her. She kept her head down, her mouth closed, and her expression shuttered. This, Valentina had decided, must be what becoming an unpaid laborer for The Demesne looked like.
Valentina had hurriedly pulled on the clothes, a simple white romper style uniform that left her arms and legs exposed. However, under the breezy material there was a rigid frame that reminded her of corset boning. The uniform was reinforced with small, sewn in plates, not unlike the bands Ward had worn around his chest. The clothing allowed optimal movement while still giving protection akin to space age chain mail.
One of the twins had followed in the wake of the slave girl, floating elegantly through the pressurized door just as Valentina finished adjusting the clothes. As the creature moved toward her Valentina jerked away, keeping herself out of reach.
“Don't put your hands on me,” Valentina warned her, violence a low, unfamiliar undercurrent in her voice.
“I don't actually have hands. We call them habiliments. They enable us to do our job, you see, but not many others. While great for calming wounded or scared spirits, they'd make a mess of playing a musical instrument,” that dulcet voice explained without any hint of offense.
“What the hell ever they are, don't use your weird voodoo on me again,” Valentina said.
“So long as you allow me to escort you to your vessel I won't attempt to influence you. Agreed?” that sweet voice asked.
So many thoughts rushed through Valentina’s already overloaded mind. She knew, from watching far too many crime dramas to count, that in transit was the most opportune time to try to escape. What she didn't know and couldn't find any reasonable answers to was where she would go if she ran, how she would provide for herself, and if there was any way possible she wouldn't just get picked up again. She doubted very much that The Demesne would look kindly on a runner. A society forged of victors only would probably see any attempt of subverting the system as an immediate act of cowardice. She didn't like it, but she was being given a chance. Did Cleopatra Selene try to jump off the boat when she was sailing on a voyage surrounded by the very men that caused her mother and father to take their own lives? No, she didn’t. She made it to Rome, married a powerful man, and left the clutches of the emper
or to build her own damn city.
The problem was that Valentina was no Selene. She was just a girl from a small town who'd left nearly everything behind to chase an athlete’s dream, a dream that was smothered in seconds. If she was bluntly honest with herself she simply didn't have the courage to try her luck. Yet.
“Agreed,” Valentina said to the twin and fell in place behind her willowy form as the alien led her out of the room. The silent girl followed in the rear, another set of eyes to make sure Valentina behaved.
The vessel they led her to was dirty, the first thing from the invaders that had seemed rugged and clunky. It was almost whale shaped, a great bulk in the front tapering down to a vee shaped tail with several interconnected gunmetal colored sections. By looking at it Valentina guessed that watching it sail through the air would look more like a marine animal breaching than a ship flying. This was a vessel that could curve and fishtail. It didn't give off the impression of being either fast or sleek.
The two women showed Valentina to a small, bare room aboard. It was big enough to house a mat that laid directly on the floor and spherical luminous ottoman that had a few sets of clothing identical to what Valentina wore. The door was mechanized like the door in the clinic like room had been. As she was looking at it the twin explained it's use.
"That door will open three times a day, every day, in an exact routine. You'll be let out twice to relieve yourself and once to eat. You may bring some food back to your room in case you get hungry outside of the scheduled meal time. You may only bring as much as you can carry in your own two hands. There are guards who will oversee your movement to the latrines and mess hall. They are there only to make sure one of you doesn't kill any others. They will not force you to eat, will not enter your room for any reason, and frankly do not care much if you reach The Demesne at all. They are armed. They are given permission to use lethal force if necessary. I suggest you not draw attention to yourself," the twin gave this speech as though she were a flight attendant that gave it every day.
Bad, Very Bad Shifters- The Complete Mega Bundle Page 62
