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

Chapter 4

FOUR

Takkian

Takkian had the top bunk, obviously. He’d never ask Bruil to climb up there. It had been a long sleep cycle with little rest. The Dokkol had been restless as he’d tried to settle on the floor, and the female, Sevas, had curled next to the large juvenile, attempting to comfort him while also finding rest. Takkian had been tempted to offer her the bunk, but showing her any favor would be disastrous to them both. He couldn’t show weakness, and giving up his own comfort for hers would be seen as just that.

So, he’d lain on his thin mattress and listened to the sounds of his new cellmates. Now, as the sleep cycle wound down, as indicated by the slow illumination of the overhead lights, his claws tapped faintly against the ridges of his scaled forearm in a restless rhythm. Across the room, Sevas murmured her soft reassurances as she ate a little of the rations and gave some to the Dokkol. Takkian couldn’t hear her words, but the sound made his chest ache with a rough longing. Had anyone ever spoken that way to him? Had he once had family? A lover? Someone who cared for him? His memories of a time before the arena were faint at best, which was strange because the lifespan of a Zaruxian was long and his time here had been relatively short. He suspected—and Bruil agreed—that his memory had been tampered with. How, he didn’t know.

He knew one thing for sure— she didn’t belong here. None of them did, really, but Sevas was different. She carried herself too firmly, too openly, with a defiance that would get ground into dust the moment she stepped onto the arena floor. And now, thanks to the list he’d spotted in the handler’s grip during feed collection, he knew it would happen sooner than either of them was ready for. Her first match was the next cycle. He was still debating whether or not to tell her. He had told Bruil, during their walk to the latrines before the sleep cycle.

“She’ll be okay,” Bruil had murmured. “First-timers aren’t meant to be ripped apart in their first match. They’re meant to be tested. To see what they have in them. Remember, they paid good credits for her.” The older fighter wasn’t wrong, but it hadn’t stopped Takkian’s unease.

Bruil had slept just fine, snoring away in the lower bunk with his arm draped across his scarred forehead as though shielding himself from the world itself.

But Takkian knew that fire burned out fast in the arena. The crowd wouldn’t care if she fought like a cornered beast. They’d want her humiliated, brought to her knees. His jaw tightened. The faint scrape of his claws against his forearm paused as he thought about his first match. It had been a blood-soaked performance that satisfied the crowd’s thirst for fresh meat. The handlers didn’t care about fairness, and the mechs didn’t step in unless a kill was imminent. It was all about the show.

Takkian’s claws dug into his arm, leaving faint crescents in the tough scales. He hated how his chest tightened at thoughts of Sevas facing off against another desperate fighter. He grimaced at the thought of her body—the strength etched into the lines of her shoulders, the quiet determination set in her jaw—being broken for the amusement of some bloated noble or drunk merchant. He could imagine it too vividly: her golden hair matted with blood, her tan skin marred with jagged scars that would never heal quite right. Lovely, smooth skin hardened by work—untainted for now, despite all she’d endured. It wasn’t meant for the arena.

He hated that the thought bothered him. Hated more that he felt any concern for her at all. No matter what she spouted about shaping rocks, the numbers on her neck didn’t lie—the female was an incarcerated prisoner from a penal colony. She seemed to believe what she said. Maybe her memory had been tampered with, too.

Whatever the truth actually was, nothing could stop the matches that would take place during the upcoming cycle, his included. He’d learned long ago not to care about any outcome but his own. Caring was a weakness—a dangerous, stupid indulgence in a place like this, where loyalty bought you nothing but pain. He’d seen fighters dragged to tournaments knowing full well they wouldn’t make it out, because the officials knew they cared enough about someone and decided to make a show of it. He himself had been exploited for his protectiveness over Bruil, who lived because Takkian spent his favors on keeping the old Zaruxian alive.

Yet here he was, stuck on the image of Sevas—on the way she had stepped into this cell without lowering her chin. It grated at him, this unwanted pull. He thought he was too smart for this kind of mistake. Too experienced. Apparently not.

The lights brightened to their fullest, signaling the beginning of a new wake cycle. Bruil snorted and rose, making the bed groan and shift. The male stood and looked at Takkian, still sitting in his own bunk, and followed his gaze to where Sevas was sitting up and stretching. Long, smooth arms reached up. Muscles flexed as she leaned to one side and worked the kinks out of her shoulders.

“She’s not your problem, Takkian,” Bruil rasped quietly. The old fighter could read him too well, and he didn’t bother hiding it. “Don’t make her that.”

“She’s useful alive,” Takkian growled back. His tone was clipped, dismissive, but Bruil’s quirked brow said he wasn’t buying it.

“Useful?” Bruil chuckled faintly. “You sound like one of those mechs. Useful for what, exactly? Watching over the Dokkol child they dragged in here with her?” His voice turned rougher. “She will get through this, but you won’t if you let her under your skin.”

Takkian opened his mouth to reply, but movement near the cell door drew his attention. The faint hum of gears preceded the telltale clank of a mech. It stood on the other side, its boxy shape framed by the dull light spilling in from the cell block corridor. Its single glowing eye briefly scanned the room, the effect cold and impersonal.

“Female 78-S,” the mech announced in its grating, monotone voice. One of its appendages—armed with a shock baton—extended toward Sevas. “Match imminent. Follow me.”

Sevas froze mid-sentence, her comforting murmur to Ulo cutting off abruptly. For a moment, she didn’t move, didn’t even seem to breathe. Her back remained stiff, her shoulders squared, but Takkian caught the subtle twitch in her fingers and the slight ripple of tension that darted through her neck. It wasn’t much, but it was there. Fear . For the first time since she’d entered this place, her facade cracked.

Ulo let out a low sound—half whimper, half protest. “Don’t let them take her,” he muttered to Takkian. His voice was thin as he looked up, wide-eyed and lost. His massive hands reached for her, seeking comfort, but Sevas turned to him and pressed one of her smaller hands against his rocky forearm.

“I’ll be fine, Ulo,” she said, though her voice wobbled just enough to betray her.

Takkian rose and slid off the bed in one fluid movement. He closed the small distance between them. Sevas rose. Surprise flickered in her dark red eyes as he approached her. Surprise and fear, despite her effort to conceal both. He was too practiced at reading fear not to see it. Her breathing picked up, shallow and slightly uneven.

The mech clattered its baton against the doorframe, a sharp, jarring noise. “Noncompliance will result in disciplinary measures,” it said flatly.

Sevas drew in a shaky breath and turned toward the mech. Her chin was lifted, her shoulders back, but Takkian could see the way her hands flexed at her sides.

“Wait,” he said.

Sevas hesitated. Her body was halfway to the door when she turned to him. Her dark red eyes locked on his. “Yes?” she asked, blinking up at him.

Takkian stepped closer. His large frame and wings cast a shadow over her. He reached out before she could pull away and tilted her chin up with his fingers. He kept the touch firm but not rough, forcing her to meet his stare directly. Her skin was warmer than he expected, and soft despite the strength in her calloused hands.

“Fight hard.” His voice was low and heavy with command. “Do you hear me? Fight with everything you’ve got. Don’t give you opponent, the handlers, or the fekkers watching the satisfaction of seeing fear. Fight for yourself. Survive.”

For a moment, Sevas didn’t reply. Her eyes widened at the harsh tenderness in his voice. Her head stayed tilted in his grasp. Her body leaned into his touch, as if she didn’t mind it. As if, just maybe, she welcomed it. He wondered if that possibility surprised her as much as it did him. It had been so long since he’d touched anyone without violence that this light contact felt foreign. It was also a painfully welcome relief to know that he could touch someone without causing pain. That, perhaps, his touch could give someone pleasure.

The moment lingered, heavier than the stale air in the cell. Takkian felt it—a slow, pull deep in his chest, as if every inch of space between them was collapsing under some unseen force. She was warm and alive in a way that made his hand reluctant to pull away. Her face, upturned toward his, was all smooth lines and strength, and more beautiful than anything in this wretched place had a right to be. The faint shimmer of gold spots on her forehead caught the light and lit something primal in him.

Her lips parted slightly—just enough to let a shaky breath escape. It wasn’t fear that showed in her expression now. Her resolve had strengthened, and yet, beneath it, Takkian could feel something else. His blood surged, muscles tightening involuntarily as an unspoken connection flared between them, unexpected and not entirely welcome.

That pull—a magnetic force he had no name for—coiled low in his gut. The delicate curve of her jaw beneath his fingers felt impossibly fragile and maddeningly strong. It sent a spark through his veins he hadn’t felt in megacycles, or perhaps, ever. Desire . Not the kind that came with fleeting glances or meaningless encounters, but something more dangerous, more rooted in who she was. Her fire. Her defiance. The strength in her that didn’t bend or break, even with fear biting at its edges.

Takkian hated it instantly.

He withdrew his hand abruptly, his fingers tingling as if burned. He clenched them into a fist at his side, willing himself to focus on the cold reality of the arena instead of the warmth of her skin, the stubborn tilt of her chin, or the way her eyes lit up when challenged. This wasn’t some twisted romantic holodrama. This was survival, raw and unkind, and she was a fighter—one who might not even see the next cycle.

“Remember what I said,” Takkian growled. He stepped back and tried, futilely, to extinguish the lingering heat under his scales. “Fight hard. Fight smart. And don’t—” His voice caught as his throat went tight in a reflex he cursed himself for. He forced the words out. “Don’t die.”

Sevas straightened, the faintest flicker of something unspoken crossing her face. “I won’t,” she said roughly, before turning back toward the mech. She walked toward the door with deliberate steps. The mech’s flat gaze followed her every move.

“Compliance noted,” the mech droned as it extended its baton to guide her forward. It turned, its mechanical joints whirring faintly as it led her out of the cell and into the hall beyond. The door clanged shut behind them with a finality that rattled deep in Takkian’s chest.