Page 14 of Enticed by the Alien Chef (Gladiators of the Vagabond #8)

He halted abruptly and scowled at the small box as if it had personally offended him.

He was very solicitous when he gave me instructions.

It was an odd experience to have the creepy guy switch into such a polite way of talking after the nasty things he’d said—things that weren’t about sharing sex, but about experimenting and testing my limits.

Obsessed, yes, but not in the way I had expected.

I tried to ask as many questions as I could to stall, but he remained remarkably lucid and shockingly patient.

Until suddenly, he was not. He slapped the box out of my hands, and it clattered to the floor.

“Enough. Take off your clothes. I want to see what I paid for. You can figure out the rest later.” It was the first time he gave any indication that he knew there might not be a later for me, and he gave me a very wicked, evil smile.

A strange glow started in his gold eyes and flared along the spots visible on his chest beneath his robes.

My hands shot to the buttons of my shirt near my throat.

It was instinct to start to obey such a tone.

It was survival instinct at this point to try not to anger the alien.

As he was keen to remind me, he might have been smaller than I was, but that did not mean weaker.

The Ovters could spit acid, and he was eager to see what effect that would have on me.

I had made a grave mistake, but this apartment was right over Rex’s kitchen. Could I make enough of a ruckus that he’d hear me and come to rescue me? No, this was my mess. I’d fucked this up; I had to find my own way out. My pride stung a bit too much to ask for help.

The first button slid free, then the next, when my eyes fell on a heavy stone statue.

It could have been marble—it looked like it—but I couldn’t be sure, not on an alien planet.

I sidled toward it, ready to pick it up and whack him on the head with it.

One moment, he was grinning widely, long tongue dangling; the next, his eyes focused on the statue as if he’d caught my intent.

I thought he was going to spit his acid on me for sure, but he toppled forward so suddenly that I didn’t even have time to leap out of the way.

He landed heavily on top of my feet, and I stumbled back, tripping over the edge of a rug.

My hip hit the side table sharply before I went down in an ungainly sprawl.

Instinct made me jerk my legs to my chest and scramble further back, panting heavily as my back collided with a wall.

Then I froze and stared, trying to wrap my head around the abrupt turn of events.

Did I kill him? Or had the drugs knocked him out?

This alien roofie thing—what if it was deadly to an Ovter?

I struggled to even make myself care if he was dead, though I was loathe to have to explain a dead body to Drova or Rex.

He was so creepy that it took me a minute to gather the courage to check if he still breathed.

I snatched up the perma-contacts first; those were not leaving my sight until I could use them.

I had earned them fair and square, even if this guy was probably not going to agree with that.

Screw him. He was planning to swindle me right back, killing me after he was done with me rather than paying me. He deserved this.

Crawling closer on my knees, I leaned in and noted that the guy was definitely still breathing—and also drooling on Drova’s rug.

It was leaving a smoldering hole, even the drool acidic enough to do damage.

I scooted away, climbed to my feet, and raced for the door.

Maybe I should stick around and better set the scene, but I didn’t have the energy for that.

Besides, how did you set a scene that involved the torture of your own person?

Leave bloodstains? I had planned to undo his pants and ruffle his clothes, but that seemed inadequate now, and I really didn’t want to come any closer.

Thudding heavily down the stairs, I ducked through the bar and into an unoccupied bathroom stall before Drova could see me.

My hands trembled as I opened the metal box and placed it on the edge of the sink.

The promised set of high-tech syringes was there, but I wouldn’t know if they worked unless I tried them.

If I didn’t do it now, I’d lose my nerve, and Drova or that Ovter Laza would have a chance to take them from me. Not going to happen.

Point and shoot, that’s what the instructions were.

But there had been a complex explanation of how to open the packaging and blink, or, in an Ovter’s case, lick the eyeball before proceeding.

I blinked as I was told to, my eye growing wet and moist, and then I lifted the first one and set the round circle against my eye socket to help guide the tool.

I feared I’d blink as I pressed the button, but that was not supposed to matter.

I counted to three, lost my nerve, and tried again.

In the end, I just squeezed on an exhale and then feared that I had done it wrong, that it hadn’t worked.

But the syringe was now empty. That was it?

I didn’t feel a thing… That made doing the other eye much easier, but it also made me feel like I’d been tricked.

I didn’t want to consider what it would mean if it hadn’t worked.

Tossing the case with the empty high-tech syringe things tucked inside in the trash, I washed my face with cold water and then left.

There was nothing to it; I had to go on with my day until I could find out if it worked.

Laza said it could take up to eight hours before it took effect, which meant the entire evening stretched out in front of me before I’d even know.

A long evening of uncertainty while I worked the barroom and feared the Ovter would come down and accuse me of tricking him.