Hunted by the Dragon Alien (Zarux Dragon Brides #3)

Chapter 3

THREE

Sevas

Sevas stood with her back to the wall of the cell. The clean white surface was cold through the thin fabric of her shift and seeped through the smelly oversized vest the guards had thrown at her so she wouldn’t be basically naked. It hung to nearly her knees. She crossed her arms to keep her hands steady. The cell wasn’t small, but Ulo was the size of three of these winged beings, and so the space was tight. The air was surprisingly clean, as was the state of the cell. It was far quieter than she would have expected. Her gaze shifted briefly to the hulking figure standing not ten paces from her: Takkian, he’d said his name was.

He was massive, even more so than the overseer back on her settlement. They were clearly the same species. She hadn’t missed the way his green scales caught the overhead light, or the inked patterns that traveled down his arms like ancient carvings. His broad shoulders practically blocked out part of the room, and laced through every limb was a coil of strength that felt like stone about to crush something. Scars, some faded, some new, were so numerous, they looked like art across his scaled skin. His jaw was square but sharp, his face angular, with thick black brows and hair the color of coal.

But it was his eyes—the way they glowed faintly silver against the icy green of his scales—that unnerved her most. They weren’t just watching her. He wasn’t looking at her like some predator sizing up prey. No, his gaze was sharper than that, like he read her every move, dissecting her defiance piece by piece to see what was left beneath it. And there was nothing lazy in the way his body radiated control. Every shift in his weight, every flick of those piercing eyes, felt intentional. Calculated. He wasn’t just paying attention—he was aware of every inch of the room, every sound, every breath. He was dangerous. Not like the snapping-toothed raiders who’d taken her. Not like the metal guard with its cold, mechanical precision. Takkian was dangerous in the way that storms were dangerous. Predictable enough to know what they were capable of, yet impossible to truly prepare for.

Sevas didn’t drop her gaze, even under the weight of his. She wasn’t here to cower. “There’s one like you at the settlement I came from,” she said. “The overseer lives in a fortress on the mountain range above our settlement. We rarely dealt with him. He was the Axis’ agent and oversaw our community.”

His lips twitched. It was the closest he’d come to a smile, though it wasn’t warm. “If he is an Axis agent, he is nothing like me, or my friend, Bruil, here.”

“True.” She tightened her arms across her chest. “And he doesn’t look exactly like you.”

Takkian tilted his head, the faint light catching the smooth sheen of his wings. “What does he look like?” he asked in a low rumble.

Sevas didn’t answer immediately. She kept her gaze stayed locked on his, thinking that staring him down might somehow make him less overwhelming. But she couldn’t stay silent long. “His scales are dark purple,” she finally said. “He flies at night, watching over us. Do you fly?”

“No,” Takkian replied. “There is no place to do so here, and I’m forbidden from trying to do so in the arena.”

Behind them, the older one—Bruil, was it?—let out a dry chuckle from his place on the cot. “Sounds like they tricked your overseer. No Zaruxian would ever willingly serve the Axis.”

Sevas turned her gaze briefly to the older male. His rust-colored scales were faded and dull, nearly blending in with the cot’s worn fabric. Like Takkian, Bruil’s frame was wide and strong, despite the age and scars that showed this male’s past as a fighter. There was a sharpness in his eyes and a quiet defiance. She wondered how much of him had been like Takkian once—unbreakable, unrelenting. Now, he looked like someone who had survived many battles but had not necessarily won them all.

She shifted her weight, bare feet scraping against the hard floor. “The overseer back home didn’t fight,” Sevas said. “He didn’t need to, unless it was to keep the beasts to the north at bay. He just watched. Occasionally, he intervened.” She thought of Turi, whose life, and her family’s, had been changed by the overseer’s mark on her door. That mark had kept her friend from being taken by the raiders. But what was her existence like with the overseer? Was she living in that fortress now, under the constant silver eye of the one that kept her people in line?

Takkian’s eyes flickered briefly. That silver hue narrowed as if pondering the meaning behind her words. “It’s not that way here. We earn every comfort. Or we lose them.”

She tilted her chin slightly. She softened her stance enough to let curiosity slip through her armor. “And you? Did you earn this life?”

His gaze darkened, though his expression didn’t waver. “I could ask you the same. What crime did you commit to end up in the pit?”

She blinked. “I told you. Nothing . On the farming settlement, my family were builders. Our family’s plot was in the mountain’s shadow and nothing would grow. So my ancestors took to shaping rocks so we could have sturdy homes and tools.” She wasn’t sure why she was explaining herself to this male. None of it was even remotely relevant here.

Bruil grunted from his corner, tossing a small knife onto the mattress. “That explains the hands.”

“What about my hands?” she replied, looking down at them.

“They’re strong,” Bruil replied. “You have the hands of a builder. Or a fighter.”

She nodded, not bothering to mention that if it had been discovered that her hair had changed and the gold spots had emerged, signaling her maturity, her rock-shaping skills would have become irrelevant. Her father would have sent her to a bondmate of his choice, to breed and toil, no matter how good she was at turning stone.

Sevas stayed where she was, but she dropped one hand to rest it on Ulo’s cool, stony shoulder. The solid feeling of rock steadied her more than she cared to admit as her gaze darted between the two Zaruxians. Takkian had stopped moving. His towering frame was still, but there was an energy around him that felt like a tether stretched too tight. Bruil, on the other hand, seemed to collapse further into his cot.

“What happens here?” Sevas asked, her voice slicing through the low hum of the overhead light. She wasn’t sure who she was addressing, but her question hung in the air like a challenge. “Ulo and I deserve to know what we’re up against.” Ulo, for his part, was silent. He held still, but his small black eyes watched the Zaruxians, blinking now and then.

Bruil gave a dry chuckle that sounded like rocks grinding together. His yellow eyes gleamed as he glanced at her. “You’ll find out soon enough,” he rasped, leaning back. “Might as well save your questions.”

“We don’t have that luxury,” Sevas shot back. The edge to her tone surprised even herself. She shifted her weight, standing straighter now. “If we’re going to survive this place, we need to know what goes on here. So, start talking.”

Bruil let out a long, weary sigh. He flicked his gaze to Takkian, who remained silent but watchful. “She’s got fire, this one,” Bruil said, his voice tinged with something between amusement and pity. “Might even last a few matches.”

“We are taken from our cells twice during the wake cycle to the feed line, then we get five piks in the washroom to relieve ourselves and use the sonic cleaning tubes,” Takkian explained. “Other than that, we remain in our cells unless we’re summoned for a match.”

Sevas released Ulo’s shoulder and stepped closer to the center of the cell. Her bare feet pressed against the cold floor. “Tell me about the matches.” But she was met with silence. “We’ll last more than a few if someone actually tells us what the fek we’re dealing with.” She turned her gaze to Takkian, daring him to be the one to answer.

Takkian shifted then, his arms unfolding as he straightened to his full height. His movement was smooth, pulling Sevas’ focus whether or not she wanted it. “The arena isn’t just about fighting,” he finally said, his voice flat, heavy with unspoken weight. “It’s about entertainment.”

“Entertainment?” Sevas asked. Her fingers curled into fists at her sides. “You’re telling me they’re throwing us into death matches…for fun?”

Bruil made a noise somewhere between a chuckle and a scoff. “It’s not just fun for them. It’s business. Credits flow in from all over when we fight. Betting, sponsorships, trade deals—it’s a fekking industry.”

Sevas’ stomach twisted, though she didn’t let her stance waver. Her life had been about survival—working for scraps, enduring abuse, avoiding notice where she could. Now, she was here, expected to perform like an animal for the profit of others. “What kinds of fights are we talking about?”

“It depends.” Takkian crossed his arms once more. “They’re not all death matches. Those are rare, actually. They’re called final matches. Most typical matches are one-on-one. A few are group brawls. Sometimes they throw in animals—beasts from planets you’ve never heard of. Whatever gets the crowd screaming loud enough.”

Bruil snorted. “Don’t forget the spectacle games. They like those. Make you chase flags or weapons while something’s trying to gut you.”

Sevas’ jaw tightened. “How often?”

“Every few cycles there is a tournament,” Takkian replied. “They fill the stadium and hold many matches. Sometimes they make a victor fight twice, if the crowd’s hungry enough.” His eyes didn’t leave hers, and the weight of his stare felt heavier than the air in the cell. “They don’t care if you’re ready. They care if you bleed.”

Bruil tilted his head. A faint grin pulled at the corners of his scarred lips. “Win, and you earn some comforts, like these beds here. Lose enough times, and you’re worth less than the meat they feed the beasts.”

Sevas’ gut twisted again, but she refused to let it show. She’d grown up hard, but this was another kind of cruelty. Her nails dented the calloused flesh of her palms as her fists tightened. “And if you win enough times, will they…release you?”

Takkian’s lips curved grimly. “No one leaves the arena alive. You survive it—for a while.” He paused, his gaze raking over her like he was measuring her. Judging if she could handle the weight of the truth. “I used a favor to spare Bruil, here. He lives because I keep winning.”

But one day, I won’t. That was what was left unspoken. Everything was temporary.

“Don’t forget the armor,” Bruil interjected. “If you’re real lucky, they’ll toss you scraps of armor to keep you from spilling your guts too early. Not much, mind you. Just enough to make it all more interesting.”

“What horrible beings would enjoy watching something like this?” Sevas asked, more to herself than anyone in the room. She swallowed hard, her throat dry as ash.

“They pack the stadium,” Takkian replied wearily. “And it’s beamed on multiple frequencies over the quadrant.”

Behind her, Ulo whimpered. She resisted the urge to go comfort him. How had she thought she could protect the gentle soul who’d been sold with her? What a foolish idea. This was nothing like moving boulders.

But Takkian continued to study her, and something about that gave her a perverse confidence. He wasn’t counting her out. “Make no mistake, the arena is a game as much as it’s a fight. It’s about more than winning. It’s knowing how to win. And you,” he said, looking at Ulo. “Your people are strong and your skin is as tough as most armor. You will have to put aside your gentle ways and use the power you were born with.”

“What does that mean?” Ulo asked quietly.

“It means you hit your opponent, youngling,” Bruil said, leaning back against his cot. “You hit them hard and you show no mercy.” His dark reddish scales caught the dim lighting, making him look even more weathered. “The crowd doesn’t just want blood. They want a story. They want heroes, villains, and long-shot winners. They want fighters who rise up only to be struck down at the perfect moment. Sometimes, taking a hit earns you more than dodging it. Play the crowd, not just your opponent.”

Sevas narrowed her eyes, her fists relaxing slightly. “So, it’s not just survival. It’s performance.”

“Exactly,” Bruil said. “You’re learning already.”

Takkian didn’t appear to share in Bruil’s sudden amusement. His voice was grim, almost cold. “But don’t misunderstand. Performance doesn’t guarantee survival. The mechs—or worse, the handlers—decide most outcomes. You could fight like fire is in your bones, but if they decide the crowd would rather see you broken, then broken you’ll be.”

The weight of his words settled over Sevas like a dense fog, but determination burned through the haze. There was no escape from this, no negotiation, and no second chances. She would be made into either a survivor or a spectacle. And Sevas had no intention of being turned into someone else’s entertainment.

Her gaze flicked back to Takkian. “And you? How have you survived?”

Takkian’s eyes narrowed. For a moment, he didn’t answer, silence stretching taut between them. Bruil raised an eyebrow, his wiry fingers threading together as if he was betting on whether or not Takkian would even respond.

“I learned to adapt,” Takkian finally said. “I’ve lost parts of myself to this place. But what’s left is enough to tear through anything they throw at me.”

The words hit harder than Sevas expected. There was no boasting in what he said, no arrogance. He spoke like someone who had been honed into a weapon—something forged in pain and relentless use. Any softness he might’ve once had had been stripped away, melted down, and reforged into the hard, unyielding thing in front of her now. It gave her a pang of sadness to know that he had once been something else. Perhaps someone who had smiled and laughed. Someone who had loved.

Bruil snorted faintly from his corner. “Adapt, he says. What he means is, keep your focus as sharp as his claws. Don’t trust anyone.”

Sevas studied the older fighter. His humor had an edge to it, but beneath the scars and wear, she sensed he carried more wisdom than he let on. Trust no one. The advice felt sour in her gut. Trust had been a fragile resource on her settlement—one offered sparingly, but still vital to survival. Here, though, it seemed trust could get you killed.

She shifted her focus back to Takkian. “And you?” she asked. “Do you trust anyone in this place?”

Takkian’s jaw tightened, the lines of his face hardening further. “Only Bruil,” he said simply. “I would heed his advice unless you want a knife in your ribs the moment the handlers decide you’re worth less than your blood in the sand.”

Bruil chuckled dryly. “He’s a real poet, isn’t he?” He stretched out on the cot, the metal frame groaning under his weight. “But he’s not wrong. Trust here is a luxury you can’t afford. Learn that quick, Terian, or you’ll end up as a footnote in some spoiled, backwater noble’s betting ledger.”

Sevas’ gaze didn’t waver. She let their words weigh on her. Every warning hardened her resolve rather than breaking it. She’d been uprooted—sold, stripped, and thrust into something entirely foreign. Yet here she stood, breathing, unbroken…for now. Whatever this place demanded of her, she was ready to learn the rules—and, eventually, how to bend them.

“Fine,” she said flatly. “No trust. No weakness. Just survival.”

Bruil made a noise of approval, though it wasn’t exactly encouraging. “Look at that, Takkian. She might not be completely useless after all.”

Takkian didn’t bother to look at Bruil. His silver eyes never left Sevas. There was something unreadable in the glow of them, something that made her spine stiffen even as she fought not to shift beneath his gaze.

“If you stick to that,” Takkian said, “you might live long enough to see the next cycle. Maybe even the one after that.”