Page 6 of Adtovar (The Alliance Rescue #1)

Who the hell was that?

I’d gone into Bozzo’s office, steeling myself for interaction with a being that looked like a walking, talking, secreting turd emoji, and found Legolas.

And I loved Legolas. All my friends had swooned over Aragorn—except Trixie, who liked Frodo for his enormous feet. Trixie always was a bit of a freak. But me, I was a Legolas girl, and the dude in Bozzo’s office nearly took my breath away.

He was strikingly pale, with straight, silky white hair cascading over his broad shoulders like a waterfall of moonlight.

His eyes held an almost ethereal shade of pale blue, so icy and penetrating they seemed to freeze the air when he glanced at me.

Even while seated, he cut an imposing figure, tall with broad shoulders and muscular arms that strained the fit within the sleeves of his leather jacket. I’d always been a sucker for nice arms.

The sight of his horns initially shook me. Yet, I couldn’t help but admire how seamlessly they complemented his appearance, curving elegantly up and away from his forehead. The shape resembled the horns of a bison but with a stunning pearlescent sheen.

Damn. If he was a new gladiator, I might just have to sign up for the prize pool.

The thought made me chuckle. The sound bounced off the earthen walls in echo, accompanying my muffled footsteps as I headed back to the cells.

A musty smell, reminiscent of aged wood and forgotten places, lingered persistently in the atmosphere, pushing away the spicy, forestry, male scent I’d picked up emanating from my alien Legolas.

Who was he?

From his size, the idea of him being a gladiator wouldn’t be a stretch.

Yet there was something about him... something decidedly lacking the barbarism inherent in the other fighters.

His clothes appeared expensive, the black leather clinging to every muscle as though tailored specifically for him.

Plus, he didn’t seem at all taken aback by my conversation with Bozzo.

His handsome expression suggested that alien Legolas might have been amused, which I found appealing.

Seriously, the dude was hot as twin suns, which, based on my luck with men, meant I’d most likely never see him again.

I turned the corner, entering the female section of the cells, and my mind immediately shifted to more serious matters. Lafalia’s cell was the second door on the right. The other females had left her, no doubt to nap in their own beds, as was the usual practice after a prize night.

Lafalia lay in a deep slumber, her breathing now more rhythmic and steadier than the last time I observed her, which brought a sense of relief. Her brow furrowed deeply, a poignant reminder that even in the realm of dreams, pain held her in its grip.

If I could only get my hands on some herbs. If I could only get my hands on anything, but there didn’t seem to be anything on this planet but dust and rocks.

With utmost care, I rested my fingertips against her temple, feeling the temperature of her skin while gauging the subtle rhythm that pulsed beneath.

Her skin was cool to the touch, and her pulse maintained a calm, steady beat—good signs as far as I was concerned.

I was no doctor. My first aid knowledge was limited and amateurish at best, but I did the best I could.

Satisfied she would heal, I left Lafalia, trudging the short distance to my own cell, wincing as the rickety door emitted a loud, grating creak when I pushed it shut behind me. The sound echoed off the cold stone walls, resonating through the dimly lit corridor like a reluctant groan.

Behind the weathered, beat-up wooden headboard of my bed, a large, smooth gray stone concealed my secret stash.

It held nothing of real value, but to me, the small compartment housed a source of immense comfort.

The sight of it always brought a chuckle to my lips.

The construction was crude, pieced together with thick, uneven stitches, crafted from the remnants of the clothes I wore on the day of my abduction.

Most people believed voodoo poppets served as symbolic representations of individuals, often fashioned from cloth or clay, and imbued with personal items or attributes of the person they represented.

Practitioners of voodoo would then engage in mystic rituals, performing magical acts on the poppet believing these rituals could influence the actual person, as if the poppet acted as a mystical conduit.

Whether the aim was to heal an ailment, provide protection, or, in darker circumstances, cause harm, the poppet was central to the practice.

The common misconception of sticking pins into the poppet, while mostly folklore, was not that far off the mark.

I’d crafted this poppet to remember the aunt and grandmother who raised me.

Rather than wielding it for any malevolent purpose, the poppet served as a source of solace, much like the reassuring touch of a rosary.

The small, raggedy doll helped me feel as though I could converse with my aunt and grandmother.

It stood as a tangible proxy for their presence, providing a connection to their enduring spirits.

Truthfully, I felt rather foolish for even pretending to dabble in voodoo.

After all, I had dedicated my entire life to science.

Yet, the women in my family were all believers in their own way, particularly my grandmother.

She insisted with unwavering conviction that the poppet she crafted of the drunk driver who took my parents’ lives played a crucial role in his being run over by a bus.

My aunt Juanita approached the practice of voodoo with more rationality. She believed that the intent behind one’s actions was of paramount importance and that what one put out into the world would inevitably return to you.

Sitting cross-legged on the bed and clutching the poppet tightly against my chest, I closed my eyes, letting the world around me fade into an ambient hum.

I whispered a prayer to my ancestors, feeling the weight of their presence as if they hovered just beyond the veil, and reached out to any god who might be listening.

I pleaded for the grace to protect and care for the females.

.. and for the strength to persevere. I didn’t pray for frivolous things, like freedom.

I learned long ago not to let myself hope.

As if in response to my prayer—and definitely not the answer I hoped for—the grating sound of Bozzo’s voice pierced the air, announcing his imminent arrival. Shit! Undoubtedly, he was furious at how I’d acted with his guest and craved a rematch.

I carefully slid the doll back into its hiding spot, ensuring it nestled securely among the shadows. I rose to my feet, smoothing my ragged clothes, trying to make them look a little less tattered and frayed. What I wouldn’t give for an Ann Taylor pantsuit!

He didn’t even bother knocking. With a stubby hand, Bozzo pushed the door open, the hinges creaking in protest. A sheen of oily secretion left a glistening trail on the weathered wood.

I parted my lips to speak, but words failed me as alien Legolas stepped in behind him.

He was so tall and broad-shouldered that he had to bend low and turn slightly to fit through the doorway.

It might be my imagination, but his presence seemed to cause a crackling in the atmosphere like static electricity that raised the temperature in my small cell.

“To what do I owe this pleasure?” I parroted the greeting Bozzo gave me earlier, except with much less interest.

Bozzo didn’t appear phased by my mocking attitude. He seemed more concerned with making sure the ceiling didn’t cave in on his head. Oh, to have that kind of power! His piss-colored gaze lingered on me for a minute, before turning his attention back to alien Legolas with a huge smile.

“Adtovar, may I present the human female Maddie. Maddie, this is Adtovar, the legendary champion gladiator.”

Great, another freaking gladiator. Although the idea of joining the prize pool for this guy still danced enticingly in the back of my mind.

“Congratulations.” My voice sounded droll and unimpressed.

In my experience, even the gorgeous gladiators tended to be complete assholes.

The confidence that came from knowing one could pummel another into bloody submission nurtured an ego that was not only unattractive but downright grating, like nails on a chalkboard.

His full lips curved into a genuine smile. “It is good to meet you, Maddie.” His voice was a rich, velvety baritone, like the smooth flow of warm honey cascading over the rough texture of sandpaper, with a hint of bourbon thrown in for spice.

I shook my head as if waking from a deep trance. My lips felt moist, glistening with a thin sheen of moisture. Shit! Had I been salivating? I schooled my features into what I hoped was a mix of disdain and aggravation but still felt like I resembled a love-struck teenager.

“So, you’ll be taking part in the next fight?

” What did one say to a gladiator? Welcome.

Try not to get yourself gutted. How many opponents have you killed?

What’s your favorite weapon? Why did he want to meet me, anyway?

Bozzo never gave a shit what any of us thought about the manner of male he brought into the pit.

“No.” The smile that curved over his handsome face dimmed. He glanced at Bozzo, wanting to make sure his next words had purchase in not just my ears alone. “Fighting is long in my past.”

Long in my past. He looked little older than me. Shit. How old was I now? At least thirty-one. Aliens didn’t exactly adhere to the Gregorian calendar, but I tried to keep up by counting the days. I was sure one birthday had passed since my abduction, but not two.

“Adtovar is here looking at stock for building his own champion familiae ,” Bozza announced, a wide grin splitting his turd emoji face.

Stock? What a fucking asshole.