Page 1 of Possessed by the Dragon Alien (Zarux Dragon Brides #6)

ONE

Nena always found nature at its most beautiful when it was imperfect.

It was supposed to have patterns, but also variations.

Like everything else the Axis touched, even these beautiful, rolling gardens were warped into something unnatural to satisfy the Axis’ demand for conformity.

But at least she was among plants. If she had to be a prisoner, she’d take a too-perfect garden to tend any cycle over a windowless cell.

Above, the dome’s shimmer was a prison wall that revealed the sky beyond.

This planet’s atmosphere was a dark, syrupy purple as it pressed down on the illuminated world below.

This looked nothing like the sky she’d spent most of her life looking at, which was dominated by a massive swirling storm that blocked out much of the two suns’ light.

She closed her eyes briefly, to center herself.

To try and find some balance in this place where she’d just arrived.

She had to admit, the garden was stunning.

Trees of every imaginable color and shape grew among flowers and shrubbery.

All were in orderly patterns. Beyond them, glass towers gleamed.

She’d learned in an informational broadcast on the transport, that the towers here at Axis Central, housed the power center of the Axis.

Nena and the handful of other new prisoners being moved to Central had been forced to watch the extensive, and absurdly propagandist, recording on how the Axis, the powerful syndicate who basically ran the entire quadrant, if not the galaxy, was spreading prosperity and greatness to every world and space station it took over.

Nena didn’t know the full extent of the Axis’ rule, but they did control the farming settlement she came from, and there was nothing great or prosperous about Settlement 112-1.

The Axis had forced the Terian prisoners to grow food, then sent transports to take it all away.

Her people went hungry as they watched their crops be packed up and Axis vessels fly through the center of the sky storm.

Worst of all, they’d been taught generations ago to worship the Axis.

No bad word was permitted against them, and the Terians hadn’t even known they were prisoners.

This Nena had learned on the transport, in the propaganda she’d been forced to watch.

And she was still processing it, two cycles later.

“Keep up, 93-A,” snapped Nok9, her direct supervisor.

Nok9 looked kind of Terian, if you skipped the blue undertones to her skin and the lines of metallic veins tracking under her face.

Her eyes, sharp and milk-white, didn’t blink.

“You will be assigned to maintenance. Your meals and rest are scheduled. You are not allowed to breed or to leave the dome.”

Nena winced at the “breed” part, but that was one policy she could agree with.

She’d been bondmated to a Terian male, back on Settlement 112-1, and his brutal attentions had wiped out any interest in physical intimacy.

The other prisoners from her cell block—a smattering of species Nena had never seen before—kept their heads down as their supervisors led them separately toward a cluster of squat, glass buildings.

Still, her eyes were always scanning, hoping to see one of her friends.

Five of them had been abducted, including her, but they’d been separated at some sort of auction and she’d not seen them since.

“You will keep your uniform clean,” Nok9 went on, continuing a brisk pace. “If you soil it, you will return to a relief station and immediately change into a clean one. You are never to be seen in the gardens by Axis officials in unclean garments.”

Nena glanced down at herself. Her uniform was one-piece, white and crisp, with a faint gray symbol on the breast: a prisoner’s badge, presumably. Why would they have workers wear white if they were working in gardens with dirt?

They passed a statue of someone, probably a famous Axis leader, but Nena couldn’t make out the inscription.

Literacy had been forbidden on all four settlements, including Settlement 112-1, but she had defiantly taught herself a little bit back on her childhood settlement, number 112-3.

There, her father had permitted more freedom than most, and she and her siblings managed to learn the meaning of a few symbols from watching the riests during worship sessions and studying Axis supply charts.

But here, each mark looked like a strange, foreign glyph.

Next to the statue was a pond, glassy and alive with fat silver fish.

They had somehow arranged themselves by size, smallest near the edge, largest in the center, mouths open in perfect O’s.

“Excuse me,” Nena said, “will I be working in these gardens? I have some experience with growing plants.”

“I am aware of your file.” The supervisor’s mouth pulled into a shape that might have been a smile. “You are expected to keep to your assigned tasks. Duties will be provided at the beginning of every wake cycle. Deviations are punishable by estra-v .”

“What is… estra-v? ” Nena asked.

“An injection that affects the nerves.” Now the smile was definitely a threat. “Work detail is freedom compared to the alternatives, 93-A.”

They passed through a pair of translucent doors that hissed when shut.

Inside, the air lost its chemical edge. She breathed in damp, plant-rich air and got her first look at the workspaces: rows of hydroponic trays, wide tables with tools lined in geometric sequence, racks of what looked like sogfrut but were a glaring orange rather than pale pink.

“You will start here,” Nok9 stated. “Competence will be rewarded with more varied work on the larger gardens. Incompetence will result in less desirable duties. Which will you strive for, 93-A?”

Nena took a deep, fortifying breath. Balance. Calm . “Competence.”

“A competent response,” the supervisor said with another little smile.

She likely thought her joke was amusing, but Nena only heard the condescension.

It was a good thing she was here and not any of her four abducted friends.

Fivra might have kept her cool, but Lilas’ sharp, taunting tongue would be in for at least three shots of estra-v by now.

Sevas would have laughed, then given Nok9 a taste of her fist.

But not Nena. She was an observer, a thinker, and rarely saw an upside to irritating people.

Her friends often asked her for advice. They called her their sage, but she didn’t think much of that.

She hardly possessed any unique wisdom or more experience than anyone else.

If she offered good advice, it was because she considered a problem, thought through all the possible actions and outcomes, then suggested whatever seemed like it would have the best result.

It wasn’t mystical. Just logic, minus emotions.

But when it came to herself, it was harder to take her own advice.

She’d been ripped from her home, after all, and thrust into this place—literally the mouth of the beast. She’d been ripped from one prison and thrust into another, but at least she would still be working with plants and soil and growth.

She could put her hands in the dirt and try to find some peace.

Her supervisor departed without so much as a nod, and left her with a large male with two small horns on the sides of his head and tusks jutting from his bottom jaw.

He walked slowly up and down the aisles, observing.

Beside him scurried a small mech. When he saw her, he grunted and continued his slow, lumbering pace.

This would be her supervisor in here, apparently.

There wasn’t any orientation, just a meaty thumb pointing her to the far end of the greenhouse.

Nena slipped down the narrow path, sidestepped a hunched-over prisoner, and found her assigned row. There, she found gloves and a sharp little sickle. The plants here grew in weird, tangled nests. Their leaves were silver-blue, wet-looking, and gave off a faint, peppery scent.

She glanced at the prisoner next to her.

He didn’t look up from his work, but Nena watched what he did.

She took note of the angles and patterns of plant scraps left by whoever last worked the row, and started cutting.

Across from her was a female, maybe her age, but maybe older.

Ages were hard to guess here; so many people seemed worn down by whatever they’d endured before this.

She was petite and hairless, and had expressive, watery eyes in the same shade as her light blue skin.

She moved with a precision that suggested either deep fatigue or pragmatic efficiency.

Maybe both. Unlike the big male supervisor, she glanced up at Nena and offered a small, welcoming smile.

Nena worked in silence for a few minutes.

The sickle was light, well-balanced, and made quick work of the fibrous stems. The peppery smell increased as she cut, and soon her gloves were slick.

She’d gotten into a rhythm, trying not to think of the past weeks, when the female across from her finally spoke.

“They call you 93-A,” she whispered, not looking up. “I’m sure you have a designation, but what’s your real name?”

Nena kept her eyes low, hands busy. “Nena,” she said quietly.

A small, approving sound. “I’m Lulit. Burrl over there doesn’t like us talking.” She nodded toward the large male official slowly walking up and down the rows, “But he won’t bother us if we keep up our work and keep it quiet.”

Nena glanced at her, uncertain. “What trouble would we be in for talking?”