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Chapter Six

Iphara Island

Planet of Yithia

No one spoke as they hurried across the foyer.

Any Yithians along the way kept their gazes down.

That didn’t give Wren a sense of peace. Shit was happening in this place that had to remain a secret.

Why here, though? What was so special about this facility?

The wide passages, decorated with tiny statues, narrowed until they reached an elevator.

Its size was like a hospital’s, able to take a gurney.

Still, it wasn’t huge enough for eight yellow men, their hostages, and Wren.

The soil-scented air said they traveled far underground.

She shivered, the cold seeping through her thin clothes.

The cage jerked when it stopped. Not that she had time to find her balance.

In one surge, she was shoved out the door.

She stumbled but managed to catch herself, splaying her fingers on the smooth wall to do so.

She’d half expected to be in some sort of mine with rock-hewn walls, poor ventilation, and flickering light.

The air was stale but had a chemical tang to it.

Metallic panels and doors lined a narrow passage that headed left and right of her.

She had no doubts these men would go through with their threats.

This place had a laboratory feel to its polished floors with sluice holes for easier drainage.

No windows revealed what was inside each room; only narrow portholes high on the doors offered a glimpse. She couldn’t pause long enough to peek.

They veered to the right as the rest of the group joined them.

A sharp jab at her back drove her into a square chamber with a shelf stacked with white towels or clothes.

Many drain holes ran along the other end.

A coiled pipe that looked like a fire hose screamed this room’s purpose.

A hot shower would be preferable to what they planned.

She gritted her teeth then winced when her fresh bruises pinged.

“Strip, and stand against the wall,” Criass commanded. “If she gives you trouble, stun her.” He smirked before leaving her alone with the other purple-robed men. They dumped the women with less care than the Yithians had shown.

She gaped. Pale yellow skin and tentacles for hair?

Molods? Meloids? It didn’t matter who these aliens were, but she had heard of their species.

She frowned. Weren’t they trade-faring people, dedicated to negotiating the best bargains?

These men defied all she’d learned about them, not that it was much.

A few women moaned and sat up. Fear contorted their features; some sobbed or whimpered.

“Strip,” a man said while uncoiling the hose.

Wren hesitated. The promise of a dousing, no matter how unpleasant, was too tempting to fight. Oh, to be clean again and not smell of piss… But she’d be naked.

“Turn around,” she said, running her gaze across the voyeurs.

“Why?” One scowled, the black markings on his brow like tiny diamonds.

“For modesty,” she said and waited, folding her arms across her chest. “Do this, and we will give you no reason to stun us.”

“What?” a brunette asked, staggering to her feet. “I will not stand naked—”

“To be clean, I’ll promise anything,” Wren snapped at the woman. “Don’t ruin this for me, for a chance to feel human…”

The others scrambled up, a few waking the last three still unconscious.

All the women stared at the men until they offered their backs.

Only then did they undress. Wren had never stripped faster.

She was careful with the dagger, not wanting it to fall out and draw attention.

With her boots set to one side and her dirty clothes draped over them, she faced the Hose Man.

A wall of foam descended, drenching her.

Instinct had her closing her eyes, but a woman cried out.

The shit had to burn then. Wren didn’t dare peek.

A click preceded ice-cold water blasting over her.

It stole her breath. Goose bumps exploded into existence, chattering her teeth and summoning shivers.

She spun on the spot, hissing when the water reached warm parts of her. But at least it would wash away the foam. A few women pleading for the water to stop made Wren scowl. She said nothing, not knowing when next she’d get to be clean.

The spray shut off, leaving her dripping and trembling. Another man handed them each a garment while the hose was reeled in.

Wren yanked the robe on over her damp body, then slipped her feet into her boots, careful not to cut herself on the dagger. The others pulled on sneakers, boots, slippers, or sandals. None of the men stopped them.

Her hair wet the collar of the robe, but she didn’t say a word, letting the men lead them single file to another room nearby.

It had the look of a holding cell with a wide, metal bench lining the perimeter.

A pale barrier formed the moment all the women entered the space.

Wren studied it and grimaced—a forcefield of a sort.

“What’s happening? How did we get here?” the brunette demanded, her face crumpling into a sob.

“We are Yithian prisoners on Iphara, their island,” Wren said, sinking onto the bench. She cupped her cheek and worked her jaw.

“Yithians?” A petite blonde woman gasped, her eyes wide with fear. “I was in the park—”

“Fishing,” a redhead muttered. “Took me right out of my boat. Name’s Terry.”

“Wren,” Wren said, sprawling onto her back.

“Sandy.” The brunette sniffed.

“Brenda,” the petite girl whispered. “I was leaving my gym.”

“We were all isolated,” an older woman said, sweeping her gray-streaked hair back. “I’m Violet. Any chance of escape?” She whispered the last part.

Wren shook her head. “Unless you have a boat or a spaceship hidden nearby, we won’t be going anywhere.”

“You seem to know more than any of us.” Terry strode closer, her gaze distrusting.

“I had a…kind jailor,” Wren said, flicking a dismissive hand. “We’re test subjects in the hopes of making us compatible for…sex.”

Terry jerked back, her face twisting in disgust. “Why?”

Wren cast a glance at her. “I don’t know.”

“My children.” A woman sobbed, rocking with her arms wrapped around her bent legs. “They’ll think I abandoned them,” she wailed, pressing her cheek to her knees.

Wren froze, ice colder than the dousing sliding down her spine.

She swung her legs over the edge of the bench.

Darkness engulfed her chest. If she could, she’d whisk everyone home.

But all she had was the dagger in her boot.

Even if they managed to overpower every man in this forsaken place, they were still trapped.

Unless… One Eye had spoken to his wrist…

He had an O.D.I., which meant they had to have some way of communicating with the outside world.

Then again, sending out a mayday would probably bring down upon them the might of Yithia.

“Do any of you have weapons?” Wren rested her elbows on her knees and clasped her hands, praying she wasn’t the only one armed.

Silence reigned with no one coming forward.

“Shit,” she muttered, slumping. “Whoever they take first, your main focus is to stay alive.”

Whimpers and mutterings fell across their little group. Their situation was dire.

“I could eat.” An ash blonde offered a weak smile. “Call me Nora.”

“Same. The bitter paste I last had coats my mouth.” Terry shuddered.

The women mumbled among themselves, falling into natural conversation as if they’d known each other for years.

But they settled when a man strolled in, his gaze fixed on Wren. Criass had said she’d be first. She straightened and pushed off the bench, determined to face this madness with some dignity.

“Where are you taking her?” a woman with black curls demanded.

“Your turn will come,” the man said.

The woman formed fists at her side, but Wren strode past her. “Don’t worry about me. I’m glad I’m going first… I’ll warn you—”

“You, with me.” Another man pointed at the black-haired woman.

“I’m not a you . My name’s Ronda.”

“You females are always the same.” The ass smirked, dragging Ronda across the forcefield after it shut off. “Your attitude will change once we are through with you.”

Clammy fingers wrapped around Wren’s upper arm. She glanced at them, sickly yellow against her skin. With a tug, he forced her to stumble forward.

“Come,” he said.

He dragged her along the passage and through an open door, three rooms down.

The steel table made her stop. It had a draining hole at one end, which didn’t bode well.

The sight of the four straps twitched her fingers.

She wanted to grab her dagger and attack.

Two men in purple faced her. A metal tray on a counter held many vials of colored liquid.

She swallowed hard and pressed her nails into her thighs, forcing the panic to settle in her stomach.

“On the plate,” Criass snapped, gesturing to a disc sunk into the floor. Circular lights around its circumference pulsed in white, looking pretty and innocent.

“Why?” she asked, hesitating. If it was a metal detector, it would find the dagger.

Criass hissed and shoved her at the plate.

She sucked in a sharp breath and stepped onto it.

A beam scanned her, pausing across her pelvis, breasts, and head.

Not once did it linger on her feet. A man pressed a device to her neck, pinching her arm to hold her still.

The spike of a needle made her wince. Her neck didn’t burn like he’d injected something into her.

When he moved away, she glanced at him to confirm he’d taken a blood sample.

“We need a baseline,” he said, his voice soft.

She stiffened, shocked to find some kindness. But she didn’t thank him, when doing so might get him into trouble. Nice Guy slunk away to insert the blood-filled vial into a machine squatting on the counter.

Criass rattled off in a language she didn’t understand, prodding her waist in the process.

She could guess she was fatter than he’d expected, and sure, she had added on a few pounds since moving to Demeter.

But the idiot didn’t know that a single pound on a five-foot-four woman looked like five.

She harrumphed, folding her arms across her chest. The glower she leveled on him had no impact.

He tapped away on his tablet with far too much enthusiasm.

The man derived joy from torture. She raised her gaze to the tiled ceiling.

Lord, please, if You’re listening. Give this man a heart.

Let him sob into his beer, or whatever the hell yellow aliens drink.

“Excellent.” He chortled. “Climb onto the table.”

She shoved out her chin in defiance, not once glancing at the straps.

“You either get on by yourself, or I have someone do it for you.” He gripped his tablet to his chest. His black eyes twinkled like tourmaline. The realization that he hoped she’d resist energized her.

“May I remove my boots?” She didn’t wait for his answer and marched to a disused corner of the room. There she toed off her boots, bending to tuck the blade deep inside.

As short as she was, Nice Guy had to help her onto the table anyway.

Gentle pulls stretched her limbs in place for him to fasten the straps on.

She bit her inner cheek to silence the protests that jammed in her throat.

Complaining would do nothing to help her escape.

Spreading her legs when she wore no underwear inflamed her cheeks.

She lay there, unable to move and vulnerable, but thankfully, the long, white robe covered her.

A ceiling tile above her head slid aside, revealing a gap to the floor above.

An egg-shaped thing shot out on a hydraulic arm.

It swooped down, flipped open to reveal a bright light, then ran over her from toes to head.

She frowned. What was the point of two scans?

Sure, standing on a plate might be like a scale, but what had the white beam done?

The egg blinked, changing from white to ultraviolet.

She shut her eyes just in case. Some stations had such mist sprays for sterilization, especially on those closest to mining colonies.

But when the warmth cooled, she peeked. The egg glowed red—infrared? She stiffened, so glad she’d removed her boots. The scan couldn’t penetrate metal, but a dark-shaped dagger might have shown. Into the silence, her stomach gurgled.

Nice-guy gasped and hovered his hand above her torso.

“That’s normal,” she said. “I’m hungry.”

“We are done,” Criass snapped, spinning on a heel to storm out of the room. “Test her blood,” he called.

“I am sorry, female. Food is not a priority. If you die, the Yithians will bring another.” Nice Guy’s lips curled down in what looked like distaste. His unibrow mirrored the movement.

“My name’s Wren,” she said, meeting his gaze, hoping a personal detail might gain her an ally. “What about water?” There’d been stories over the years of people living on nothing but water for twenty-four months. The sheer idea of it twisted her gut.

“I…” He glanced over his shoulder at the sealed door. “Let me see what I can do.”

“Thank you,” she said, a wealth of gratitude summoning the sting of tears.

Then he left her…lying there.

She gaped at the door. What the hell?

And worse, splayed out like a spatchcock chicken, her nose began to itch.