Page 3 of Champion (The Outlander Book Club… in Space! #6)

Charick wore the distaste that I considered myself a warrior all over his handsome face. Well, he could just get over that shit.

“Close your mouth. You’ll catch flies,” I huffed at him.

“Excuse me?” The golden eyes blinked at me. From behind, I caught Adtovar’s low snort of amusement.

I issued my best intimidating glare, which probably lost a lot of effect since I had to crane my neck to meet his gaze.

Jesus, how tall was he? I was almost six feet tall, and this guy was at least a foot taller than me, maybe more.

Granted, for someone his size, facing me in battle probably seemed ridiculous, but I was never one to give up without a fight.

I jerked my gaze from him and turned, sashaying toward the end of the alley.

“Where are you going?” Charick fell into step behind me, relegated to the number three position by a faster-moving Adtovar.

“To the arena,” I shot over my shoulder, letting my gaze linger scoldingly on Adtovar, who was fighting a laugh.

Pretending to ignore the two men, I made my way to the end of the alley and onto the cobblestone path that led by the row of stone buildings toward the arena.

When I thought about gladiators, my mind went to the opulence of ancient Rome and the grandeur of the coliseum.

This place was nothing more than an oval dirt field surrounded by stone buildings and an escarpment of craggy rock.

There were no tiers or grandiose arched entrances.

No underground staging area, or seating for up to 50,000 spectators.

Just dirt, dirt, and more dirt. At least a dozen guards patrolled the perimeter, even though there was only one way to enter or exit the compound most lovingly referred to as the pit .

A low, disapproving huff escaped Charick’s lips.

Normally, I’d be all kinds of pissed at anybody disparaging my abilities as a soldier.

But for some reason, his displeasure, while aggravating, still made me smile.

Not because I wanted to irritate him, but more because, despite my better judgment, I kind of liked him.

The memory of how hard he fought to get to my side when Nansar stole me away played in a loop through my brain.

Nansar and I traveled for weeks to get here, and all that time, Charick followed.

Tenacious—I liked tenacious. Plus, there didn’t seem to be dishonesty or subterfuge in his demeanor, which meant a lot to someone in my predicament.

I wasn’t even going to mention that he was hot as twin hells with all those rippling muscles and golden eyes.

I might be sixty-something in mind, but my body was back to its roaring twenties, complete with a bevy of youthful hormones just bursting at the seams.

As usual, a hush fell when I strode onto the training field.

The other aliens had divided into sparring pairs, some using dull training blades while others used only their fists and claws.

At the sight of me, they went still, parting like the Red Sea as I walked past, careful not to get too close.

No doubt because of Adtovar. After he’d recused me from those Aljani guards, word traveled quickly that I was under his protection.

He might be an old guy, but everyone gave him a wide berth.

This time, there was a heady sense of shock in the mix of reactions.

Gasps and amazed whispers of Vaktaire filled the air.

I glanced over my shoulder at Charick, who seemed completely unaffected by the attention.

His focus lay in surveying the sidelines, especially the guards on patrol.

Looking for a way to escape, no doubt. I wondered what he’d say when I insisted we bring Adtovar along on our escape.

No way was I leaving the elder warrior on this godforsaken rock.

Especially when my being alive to rescue was mainly because of him.

I headed to an area near the stone escarpment where Adtovar and I usually trained. It was well away from the others, which helped me concentrate. Plus, the towering rock cast a decent shade, keeping it from getting ungodly hot, especially under the afternoon sun.

While Adtovar gathered our training tools from a pile near the edge of the arena, I began my stretching routine, which consisted of bend and reach, rear lunges, forward lunges, prone row, and a bent-leg body twist. Charick stood nearby, the golden eyes regarding me curiously.

“Do you fight?” I asked, shifting from a rear to a forward lunge and feeling the pull at the top of my thighs.

“Of course.” His posture took on a haughty tone. “I am Vaktaire.”

It didn’t surprise me. With that body of his, it would be a damn shame if he wasn’t a warrior of some kind. Still, I couldn’t resist the urge to tease.

“I couldn’t tell, especially with your priest's robe.”

“My what?” He blinked at me. Damn, he was cute when confused.

“Your robe.” I gestured up and down his body at the deep green cassock he wore. “On Earth, only ministers—holy men—wear robes like that.”

Charick made a face and, with a disdainful grunt, sloughed off the robe, tossing it on a nearby boulder.

Have mercy!

I knew he had muscles, even with the robe on, but….

Have mercy!

Underneath, he wore black boots and black leather pants that molded to his muscular thighs and perfectly rounded ass.

A sleeveless leather vest showed off brawny arms and shoulders.

Without the robe, I realized that what I’d taken for honey-tanned skin wasn’t skin at all but a short pelt that looked downy soft.

My fingers itched to run over his arms and shoulders so badly it was mildly shocking.

I’d always liked big, muscular men. My husband had been over six feet and built like a leaner Arnold Schwarzenegger.

But this guy... he was like a wet dream come true.

I couldn’t take my eyes off him, and it appeared he possessed the same dilemma.

His golden eyes traveled my body, leaving hits of heat where they touched.

“Are you ready?”

I was so caught up in my admiration that Adtovar’s question made me jump. I barely gathered my senses in time to catch the two dull metal blades he tossed in my direction.

“You train with blades?” From the look on Charick’s face, the revelation did not make him happy.

This wasn’t the first time I’d held a knife, and I twirled the blade between my fingers, grinning smugly.

Charick appeared more appalled than impressed.

When he realized he was getting nowhere with me, Charick turned his upset on Adtovar. “You let her train with blades?”

My trainer gave a snort and grinned broadly. “Watch and learn.” With that, he raised his blades and attacked.

I faced Adtovar, shifting my stance to a 45-degree angle, with my left foot slightly ahead of my right and met him head-on. The dull blades clanged like church bells as I deflected his strike.

“Remember, keep your hips facing toward me. It gives you a firmer baser of support from which to defend.”

I grunted and shifted my stance again, this time taking a swipe at Adtovar with the blade in my left hand. He grinned as he batted the strike away.

I wasn’t an idiot. Adtovar was so large and skilled that he could have me on my back before I could blink.

He probably only used half his strength and speed against me.

Yet he did his best to teach me the techniques that might keep me alive if I faced an opponent who didn’t pull his punches. I’d be forever grateful for that.

The next few minutes were a flurry of glinting blades as Adtovar came at me using eight different angles of attack.

Each swipe of his blade I met with a parry of mine, and my hands tingled as the hilt reverberated in my grip from the force of his blows.

It was still early morning, but the oversized sun beat down from overhead, causing sweat to break out on my forehead and trickle between my breasts.

“Remember, the easiest defensive move in sword fighting is simply to move away.” You’re small and fast—use it.”

I took his advice and dodged his underhanded attack, spinning and catching his blade with a downward motion and driving the point into the dirt.

I held a black belt in Krav Maga and ranked in Muay Thai.

Despite it being years since I’d had active training in the disciplines, my body and mind remembered.

“Good!” Adtovar bellowed, grinning broadly when I parried with a slice toward his chest that might have proved deadly to a lesser-skilled opponent.

His praise made me bolder. It always did.

I lived for these moments. Even though I recognized Adtovar stood as a substitute in whatever deep-seated daddy issues I carried from a father who’d rather be on a naval aircraft carrier than home and hated the fact that I’d been born a girl.

As the oldest of three girls, I was the surrogate son, living for the sparse moments when my dad bragged about whatever boyish feat I’d mastered.

When I married Mark, my father got the son he’d always wanted and from that point forward ignored me completely.

My husband, however, took pride in my accomplishments.

Like Adtovar, Mark was an excellent teacher, never shying away from anything I wanted to learn or accomplish except SERE training.

His hesitancy wasn’t due to doubting my abilities but simply knowing firsthand the brutal nature of the training.

I’d come out of SERE with a black eye, three broken ribs, and two broken fingers.

Mark never said a word, although I saw the regret in his eyes as he took in my black and blue body.

Never wanting to make him feel that again, I moved into Naval Intelligence soon after, where the only physical challenge was twice-a-year PRT tests.