Page 3

Chapter Three

Z ar

When I arrive back in the cell, I can’t read Anya’s human features. She’s not shy about sharing, though.

“You’ve showered,” she almost shouts. “So unfair! I’m dirty and stinky.”

“Showered in the ludus. ” I shrug my shoulders.

“I’m jealous. And filthy.” She sniffs me. “You smell clean. And good.”

I have no idea what to say, which is no problem because she always seems to fill the silences. But right now, she’s wordless. She’s staring at me like she’s never seen me before. I smell something under her “filth,” as she calls it. I smell… arousal.

Anya

He smells great. Not just clean, but a mixture of pine woods and musk. Then my mind goes straight to all kinds of crazy thoughts about my cellmate. I guess I was too busy to notice before, but he is sexy as hell.

He’s rocking that angry feline vibe. His movements are so graceful as he paces around our little space. His mane, now clean, is eighties glam rock meets Born Free . The pronounced split between flat nose and upper lip almost begs to be traced by yours truly. I imagine doing just that. First with my finger, then with my tongue. Stop it, Anya! What am I thinking?

But his fur. How did I never notice how sexy it is? Soft fur covers his skin everywhere except his sex and tiny male nipples. I tried not to pay attention during our forced mating, but it feels like velvet.

My fingers itch to reach out and stroke him. I physically grip my thighs, where my hands are resting, in an effort to keep from investigating those rock-hard biceps.

This isn’t right. I shouldn’t be attracted to him. He’s a different species FFS. It’s just the enforced togetherness, right? I couldn’t be aroused by this alien male. Could I?

But my heart beats faster and my palms get so clammy I have to rub them back and forth on my pajamas to dry them. My mouth is parched. My core clenches. I can’t deny the desire welling up inside me.

I’ll admit, it’s been a long dry spell for me as far as males are concerned. Even though I sat on my ass all day at my job, there’s something about the mind-numbing monotony of it all that makes me so tired all I want to do when I get home at night is eat and watch Netflix. I’ve had my share of lackluster dates, but none that thrilled me. And certainly none of them were as buff as the male standing a few feet in front of me.

I’m intently focused on how well-built Zar is. He works out all day, every day. His muscles are like corded steel ropes covered by soft golden suede. His fur accentuates his six-pack rather than obscuring it. And that loincloth leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination.

His eyes, those decidedly feline eyes, golden with black pupils, are compelling. Instead of his differences being scary or creepy, they are tempting as hell.

All at once, his appeal becomes obvious. I was so busy trying to ignore the forced bed sessions that I totally repressed my intense attraction.

Oops, he’s staring at me. And by the looks of it, he has read my transparent little mind. And the result is not what one would expect from a hot, virile animal guy. Instead of acting on my obvious interest, he backs into the corner, slides down the wall and begins to painstakingly study the floor, his tail lashing while the rest of his body is motionless.

This male could kill a grizzly with his bare hands, and I have completely debilitated him with my lustful looks.

He’s not human, he’s part animal. He probably smells my attraction. He’s obviously not interested. Here we are, locked in this cell together. You’d think he’d take advantage of the situation—unless he finds me totally unattractive. My hands grip my elbows, and my stomach drops as I realize my feelings are hurt. I feel rejected.

Well, Anya, it’s certainly not the first time you’ve had a crush that hasn’t been reciprocated. It’s just that this has obviously made Zar extremely uncomfortable, and we have to live together in this tiny cell for the next who knows how long?

Should I just come out and acknowledge my faux pas? Ignore it? Deny it? Should I ask if he’s gay?

“Um, I think I’m having a moment of temporary insanity.” After no response from him, I babble. “That’s a legal term on Earth… it means you are not responsible for your actions. It can reduce the amount of punishment a person gets…” I trail off. I’m clearly making it worse.

Zar

“Emotions are normal.” Did I really say that? What a hypocrite I am. Well, they are normal, for everyone except me. Mine are nicely locked down, if they even exist at all.

“Is it hard for you?” she asks. “I mean being around almost-naked men all day and not being able to act on your attraction.”

My confusion must show on my face because she elaborates.

“Are you gay?”

“I assure you, a lifetime of servitude has not made me happy.”

She pauses, evidently searching for the right words. “I mean, are you attracted to other males?”

“No.” I shake my head, my eyes narrowing. Why would she think that?

“Oh…” she stands still for a long time, then begins to slowly nod her head as if she’s just solved a difficult puzzle. “You’re just not attracted to me .”

She looks dejected. I have no idea what to do. I’m not a talker. I’m not an explainer. I am not good with words. I’m a quiet male who has only had one actual relationship with another person his whole life.

I don’t want to hurt her feelings. How do I explain I’m not a real person? I’m a stone who looks alive.

Her face is trembling. She’s experiencing emotions. Lots of them. Bad ones.

“I have no attractions,” I explain. “Not to males. Not to females. I wake, I fight, I eat, I sleep, and then I repeat.”

She’s watching me, wordless. “There’s nothing in here.” I lightly thump my chest. “I’m dead inside. I’m dead and my body just doesn’t know it.”

Tears well in her eyes. They quiver there for a moment and then two single tears slide down her cheeks.

“I didn’t want to make you cry.”

This somehow makes her cry harder.

I move without thinking. I’m instantly up on my feet, then I sit gently on the bed beside her—but not too close. She won’t look at me. She’s like a lyrian bug that rolls into a ball as its only defense.

“This isn’t about you.” My hand reaches up of its own volition to touch her, where, I do not know. It quickly drops back into my lap as if burned. She glances into my eyes and seems to calm a bit, so I keep gently talking.

“Your world has changed in an instant. You’re scared and far from home. You just don’t know what to do with all the feelings swirling inside you.” I sound like I’m some expert on emotions, even though I have none.

Her tears are slowing. She’s quietly gasping big gulps of air and giving me more eye contact. I think I’ve soothed her, at least a bit.

“You’re right; I’ve been catapulted into a different universe. No one could remain completely sane after that, right?” she asks with a small, questioning smile.

As quickly as the storm came, it has passed. Good. I think I’ve reached the limit of my ability to pretend to have or understand emotions.

I’m keenly aware of her thigh touching mine. I freeze and just pay attention to everything I’m conscious of. I breathe in deeply and smell her essence. She has a crisp, unique scent. It’s intoxicating.

I’m paralyzed for a moment. Part of me, a large part, wants to rise from the bed and go back to my corner where it’s safe and there are no demands on me.

But another part—a tiny undeveloped part—is sitting up straight inside, keenly interested in this developing connection shimmering between Anya and me.

Slowly, I find the courage to draw my gaze to hers. There is a spark of energy flickering through me. My heart pounds in fear, but I order myself not to look away. All the noises of the cell block cease. The sight of the drab gray walls recedes. All that exists in this vast universe are the two of us.

I reach out and touch her curls, surely the most courageous thing I’ve done in my entire life. I fight the urge to flee.

She doesn’t move, just sits and maintains this delicious eye contact, savoring our intimate link.

My fingers slide through her hair. It’s like silken springs. Then, my hand is on the back of her head. I pull her closer and lean toward her, unhurried. Finally breaking eye contact, I press my lips to hers. Sweet. There is no future, no past, just this moment of drowning in this female and this wondrous connection.

My lips feel hard on hers. Too hard. I soften the contact and her body responds instantly. Just soft lips against softer ones. Her shoulders relax. A sweet sigh escapes her.

I try to slow down. I don’t want to scare her or push farther than she wants. The back of my mind knows it’s kind of ridiculous to worry, considering we’ve already consummated things. But this, what’s happening now, is totally different from what slaves are forced to do.

I could kiss her like this for hoaras , drowning in the intimacy of lips touching lips, but she presses at the seam of my mouth with her tongue. At first it shocks, then tickles, then it ignites a fire inside me. I open to her, and she sweetly invades my mouth. The tip of her tongue encounters the rasp of mine. I’m entranced by her soft slickness, and I wonder if she’s equally fascinated by the gentle scrape of mine.

Her taste is intoxicating. There’s no holding back. She is so open to me. Her little tongue wars with mine. Ah, a battle with no loser, only winners—I like this. Her hands finally leave her lap and clasp my shoulders. Her palms sweep to the back of my neck and tangle in my mane, pulling me even closer.

I’m besotted, not knowing whether to pay attention to the intimate battle our tongues are waging or the fact that her palms are now on my pecs, pressing on my muscles, her thumbs finding and gently flicking my nipples.

My cock is kicking against its constraints, demanding release. My blood thrums insistently there. My tail wraps around her waist to press her even closer.

I tear my full attention back to my mouth and lips, our tongues. What’s happening here is too delicious to hurry. I want to be fully immersed, memorize every modicum .

Our tongues are still sparring. She thrusts, I parry. She encounters one of my fangs and pulls back quickly, eyes widening. Her teeth are flat—she must not know how to navigate around my sharp canines.

“Don’t worry,” I croon, “I would never hurt you.”

And then I’m gone. I’ve tumbled out of the present moment and down the deep well of time into the darkest part of my past. I’m eleven. Or at least I think I’m eleven. Born a slave, you don’t exactly have anyone joyously celebrating your birthday. I’d been at the ludus my entire life and never had a meaningful relationship with another being.

One day, a new shipment of boys arrived. Like all newcomers, their fear was palpable. I could smell it. But the most amazing thing was that standing in the huddle of new males was another of my species. I’d never seen another being like myself, but there he stood. We were so similar he could have been my brother.

I had only seen myself in a mirror once, but I could instantly identify another who looked like me. His fur was slightly darker than mine. His eyes were green as opposed to my golden ones. My muscles were better defined. But, yes, a stranger would have thought Pallatin and I were brothers.

I sat beside him at the first meal and introduced myself. After that we were inseparable. We trained together, slept near each other’s pallet on the floor, and helped protect each other from attacks by the older boys.

As much as we looked alike, we were so dissimilar in personality. I was strong and brash and angry. He was smart and deliberate and unsure of himself. I’d been raised a gladiator and had exercised, worked out, and sparred seven hoaras a day since I was old enough to understand language and follow instruction. From birth, was fed a scientifically formulated diet designed to put on muscle and no fat. My reflexes had been honed from annums of grappling, sometimes with males twice my age. Pallatin used to joke that I had eyes in the back of my head.

Pallatin was raised in a life that sounded like a storybook. I had trouble wrapping my head around it. He described a loving mother and father. He lived in a house where he had a bed in his own room with walls and a door. He ate what he wanted and described delicious foods I couldn’t even imagine.

He attended a school where they didn’t teach him fighting all day. They let him read books and learn about our world. It sounded wondrous to me. I admit I was sometimes jealous of his easy life and upbringing.

I was so interested in his books and his learning that he taught me the alphabet, then how to read and write. I loved learning new words and we played during meals to see who could tally the most synonyms for everyday words.

Although he always won, he said I took to it quickly, but I felt clumsy and incompetent. He never derided me, though, and seemed genuinely pleased when I mastered something new.

Nor did I ever make fun of him in the ludus . He was slow and lumbering and did not have eyes in the back of his head. He had trouble striking with one arm while defending with the other. He didn’t seem to even want to attack. At night, after he’d taught me things about the universe, or the history of my people, the Ton’arr, I would gently coach him about his performance in the ludus . Perhaps he didn’t understand that what he taught me was interesting, but not important. What I taught him could one day save his life.

Before I met Pallatin, I’m sure I’d heard the laughter of others. As I think about it now, most of that laughter was derisive, making fun of others’ misfortune or loss. Being raised in slavery does not bring out anyone’s higher purpose or better instincts.

I’d never actually laughed before he arrived. He told me a pun once that was so funny I burst out laughing. I had never heard a joke before. I was literally shocked to hear a bark of laughter escape my mouth.

After that, I begged him to tell me more. He couldn’t. He told me he didn’t have many jokes memorized. So we began to make things up, silly things, ridiculous stories, anything that would bring even a small smile to our lips. Before him, I had been an automaton. Pallatin introduced me to my soul.

It was the best time of my life—to know someone had my back and that one other being in the galaxy cared whether I lived or died. To have another person interested in the thoughts that went through my head, who listened to my opinions, who cared about my emotions, was a completely new experience. Those were heady times.

He hadn’t been at the ludus quite an annum when one day we were issued new loincloths—never a good omen. It meant someone had come from off-world interested in either a show or to purchase one of us.

Can’an, the head gladiator, looked thunderously angry when he strode into our quarters that morning clutching his clipboard so hard his knuckles were white.

“There will be two contests today, a spectacle for off-worlders. The docket has already been decided. Annot and Guarmond will fight first.” Can’an’s face squeezed in some emotion I couldn’t read. “Zar and Pallatin, you are matched second.” A long pause. “To the death,” spoken so low I almost couldn’t hear it.

I could swear my heart stopped beating. Surely this couldn’t be true. I had never heard of anyone under fifteen fighting in a match to the death. And had only heard of one match of fifteen- annum -olds, which was punishment for an escape attempt.

I knew the masters and owners didn’t care about the ethics of fighting sentient beings to the death. They treated us cavalierly. So many times I had heard of a master who was down on their luck but not ready to sell, who would put his fighters on half rations without recognizing we athletes need to be at peak performance to save our very lives.

I’d seen every callous behavior that could be imagined perpetrated on my peers, but I had always counted on our owners’ greed to keep us alive for at least several more annums . It wasn’t cheap to acquire fighters. Nor was it inexpensive to feed, train, house us or keep us healthy enough to fight. Killing us just didn’t make financial sense.

But I knew I’d heard Can’an correctly, because the look on Pallatin’s face must have matched my own. His jaw hung loose, his eyes widened, his shoulders slumped.

“Surely this can’t be true,” I spoke up. “You must know this is not a fair match!” What a pitiful argument it was then. It sounds hollow to this very day.

Can’an’s teeth clenched. He didn’t respond. I realized later that he, a former gladiator himself yet still a slave, must have dreaded delivering this news almost as much as we hated receiving it.

“One hoara from now, in the ring,” was all the teacher said, his jaw tight. He then turned on his heel and left our barracks.

Pandemonium rang out, all the young males talking at the same time. They were all angry, shocked, and afraid, but Pallatin and I only wanted each other’s company. We went to a corner and stood, my hands on his young shoulders, his on mine.

There was no use trying not to cry, Pallatin was already doing so. We both knew he was no match for me. We both knew who would die in an hoara . We both knew we were powerless to do anything about it.

“I won’t do it,” I announced stubbornly. “They’ll have to kill us both.”

“No, my friend. Only one of us needs to die today.”

“I can’t do it. I can’t…” I couldn’t see anymore. My vision was clouded by my tears.

“We are slaves, Zar. We live and die at their mercy. I must die today.”

To this day, I will never know how he found such courage and wisdom.

“We must give them a show, draw it out. I know you could finish me in thirty modicums , but perhaps whoever is paying for this spectacle will appreciate your prowess, buy you, and take you from this hellhole.”

“This hell hole or another, what does it matter? You’re the only thing that makes life bearable.”

“Stay strong,” he said, even though he had to already be shattering inside. “Promise me two things…” He paused until I nodded. “When it is time, do it swiftly.”

“Of course.” I still die a little when I remember this conversation. It breaks my heart to think the greatest gift I could give my best friend was a quick death.

“And second,” he waited for me to look into his piercing stare, “do not take responsibility for my death upon your heart. It may be your hand that holds the sword, but it is upon their order.”

How could a twelve- annum -old be so wise? Or so wrong. To this day, I have never been able to follow his last wish. I’ve never forgiven myself.

I watch our final match in my mind’s eye, seeing every blow, hearing every raucous cry from the stands, smelling the coppery scent of my best friend’s blood, and reliving down to the most minute detail the depths of my pain, grief, and guilt.

And then the memory comes to a halt. The metallic smell of my cell block intrudes. I’m aware of my thighs on the bed. I open my eyes and come back to the present, sitting still as a statue. I focus on my breathing. It’s the only thing I can bear to pay attention to.

I would do best to leave the human alone. I don’t know what possessed me when I told her I would never hurt her. What a lie! All I do is hurt every single being that I touch. I kill people who care about me.

I walk to the back corner of the cell and slide down the wall until I’m squatting on the floor. I’ll sleep here tonight. I will not share my bed with the female until the next order to mate and that will be from behind. As quickly as possible.

I go away. Disappear. I’m not in pain. I simply don’t exist.

Anya

Squatting in the corner, he’s still as a marble sculpture. If that statue had a name, it would be “Agony.”

I may not have an advanced degree in psychology, but I think my cellmate has a definite case of PTSD. I can’t think of any explanation other than a heart attack that could pull someone so completely out of such a sensual embrace.

His face is a mask of total despair. I have no idea where his thoughts went, but his look of anguished misery speaks volumes. This large Atlas of a man is so fragile at this moment that I just want to reassure him—but I don’t know how.

In my twenty-five years on Earth, I’ve never been at such a clear choice point. I could sit on the bed and dive into my own misery. I could count all the things I miss, from cotton-soft clouds in the blue sky to my favorite song, to my friends and family. Or I could get my ass over to the corner and connect with the male in this cell who has tried very hard to make this as easy as possible for me, and who is clearly lost in his own internal torment.

I walk to the corner, slide my back down the wall next to him until we are hip to hip squatting on the floor. He’s motionless and paralyzed—that’s okay. It gives me time to wallow in all the things I miss. But that gets maudlin and boring.

My thoughts veer to the aborted kiss we shared. I touch the pads of my fingers to my lips as I relive those quick, intense moments. I’ve never experienced that level of arousal from just a kiss before. I don’t think it was simply because of the amazing, rough burrs on his tongue. We were sharing a connection.

I might not want to admit it, but I’m becoming more attracted to him every day. There’s a tempting combination of rough strength and gentle vulnerability that I find hard to resist. Sadly, though, he doesn’t seem to share the attraction.