“Hell no.” Lacey glanced over at her friend as panic made her twitchy. “No way, I’m staying with Roxy.”
At this point, her friend threw her hands into the air and yelled, “This whole time—this whole damn time—you’ve lied to me! You’re fucking aliens! I can’t believe you’re fucking aliens and you didn’t tell me! God, I almost had a threesome with ET!”
“On second thought,” Lacey said as she moved next to Gwarnon. “Let’s give them some privacy.”
Confused didn’t even begin to describe Lacey’s state of mind as she followed the somehow familiar, ridiculously handsome alien out of the oddly cluttered room that had been her home these past few hours…days…whatever. She was so out of it, she didn’t even know what month it was, or what year. For all she knew, when the alien slavers kidnapped her from Earth and brought her to be some crazy ass gladiator in another galaxy, decades had passed while Lacey was held in some kind of weird suspended and unconscious state.
Her daughter might be an old woman by now.
“What year is it?” she rasped, her throat tight with fear.
Gwarnon led her into a nearby room, this one a pale cream and decorated in a normal style compared to the eccentric Earth clutter she’d just come from.
“The Kadothian date is the year 150,837, the Galactic year is 929,349 of the Iwolliz Cycle,” he replied as he moved closer to her, revealing streaks of silver lightening surrounding the pupil of his deep navy gaze.
“No, I meant on Earth. What year is it on Earth? How long have we been here? Months, days, years?”
“Days,” he took another step toward her, the silky white fall of his hair catching the light.
Her shoulders lost some of their stiffness as she blew out a soft breath. “Okay, days. That’s not too bad.”
“I cannot believe you’re real,” he breathed out as his gaze searched her face. The silver streaks, like lightning in his dark blue eyes, flashed with emotion. “I was told you were dead.”
“No, I’m alive. At least, I think I am. Maybe this is heaven…or purgatory.”
“What is purgatory?” the man asked. His chest flexed in a distracting manner through the open front of his shirt.
“Never mind.” She forced her gaze off the strong tendons of his sexy throat—yes, even his throat was sexy—and said, “Who told you I was dead?”
“My mother,” he growled. “Out of all the many wounds she has inflicted on my soul, this one is the deepest.”
“You aren’t making any sense.” Her heart sped up and, to calm herself, she used her military training to keep from losing her shit. “Why would your mom lie about me being dead? I don’t even know her.”
“That is a discussion for another time.” He took a step closer, near enough that she could smell his delicious cologne. It reminded her of an exotic incense. “My bride, may I kiss you?”
Despite the odd desire Lacey was feeling to do just that, she stepped away with a vehement, “No!”
“If not a kiss, then may I please touch you?”
“What? No you can’t touch me. What is wrong with you?”
Hurt radiated from his gaze, and she actually felt bad as he said, “Please, my bride, I swear I will not hurt you. I need to touch you, to make sure you are real and this is not some desperate dream.”
Anxious to get off the subject of touching and kissing, she asked, “Why are you calling me your bride?”
The moment she said it, the faulty crystal implant tried to supply her with the information. Pain roared through her head, but along with it, bits of information bombarded her mind—as if she read and heard it at the same time in seven languages. Kadothian males mated for life with one particular female. Ten thousand years of history tried to sear itself into her unequipped brain, a screaming wall of voices and images that sliced through her like mental razor blades, sharp and unforgiving. Lights began to flash behind her closed eyelids as the pain increased, the faulty implant sending shocks through her that left her limbs jerking.
Dimly, she was aware of two men shouting, but her mind was completely held captive by increasingly scrambled information trying to make its way into her head.
Abruptly, the bombardment of information stopped, and she slowly returned to consciousness, her limbs stiff and achy. Groaning, she opened her eyes and blinked back tears as she stared up at an incredibly handsome and unfamiliar face. Smooth, pale skin set off his deep brown hair streaked with bits of the darkest amber and a few pale streaks the color of sand. His arched brows framed his wide set hazel eyes, and he had thick, dark lashes that any woman would envy. Wearing a shirt similar to Gwarnon’s, but deep brown instead of white, he radiated concern as he stared down at her.
His gaze locked with hers and she sucked in a deep breath of cool, masculine herb scented air. As with Gwarnon, she felt a clench deep in her belly, an exhilaration of her soul. Once again, she tried to dismiss her odd feelings as the result of too much stress, but it was impossible. Any woman with a few working hormones in her body would be sent into heat by these intensely sexual men. They exuded a masculine allure that sent a quiver between her legs as her clit grew sensitive. The man above her had kissable lips, deep pink against his pale skin and surprisingly full. For a moment, she wondered what they would feel like against her own, but she quickly shoved that thought away.
These guys were not only aliens, they were unbearably hot aliens who likely had no interest in a woman like her.
They were merely here to infiltrate…or something. Shit, was she developing Stockholm Syndrome at an accelerated rate? Was there such a thing as instant Stockholm Syndrome? Why else would she be experiencing these odd feelings of familiarity and intense attraction to strangers?
“Who are you?” she croaked out, her mouth as dry as dust.
“I removed the faulty crystal implant the slavers gave you. How are you feeling?” His deep, smooth voice seemed to roll over her skin.
Tentatively poking at her head, she braced herself then mentally asked a question. To her relief, she was alone in her mind again. With a low groan, she pushed herself up from the couch and man-with-soothing-herb-cologne went to help her, but she waved him away.
“I’m fine, much better, thank you.” Tilting her head to the side, she stared up at him. “Who are you?”
He stepped back then sank to one knee. “Forgive me, my bride. I am Senior Healer Novaliumnarushchel Malnaro of House Westfall—or Chel, for short.”
She didn’t even attempt his name as she frowned at him. “Look, Chel, I don’t know what’s going on exactly, but if what this piece of shit crystal in my head said is right about your version of marriages, I know I’m not your bride. I think you guys made a mistake.”
Gwarnon stepped up next to Chel, his hand gripping the other man’s shoulder. “No mistakes were made. You are our bride. We can feel it—sense it—in here.” He thumped his powerful chest. “I knew the moment I saw you that you were meant to be our alyah.”
“As did I,” Chel said with a warm smile. “I true dreamed of you. Do you dream of us?”
She slumped back into the couch, her mind whirling as she remembered her fragmented dreams about faceless men with incredible bodies and long, flowing hair. “I’m not sure.”