Chapter 7 #2
I didn't know why I'd said it. The words had slipped out before I could stop them, and now they hung in the air between us—dangerous, damning.
He was a stranger. An alien. For all I knew, he could be worse than Declan. He could be playing some game I didn't understand, using me for purposes I couldn't fathom. Every logical part of my brain screamed that I'd just made a catastrophic mistake.
But my gut told me different.
The kind of knowing that lived in your bones, deeper than thought. Grandpa had called it "reading the animal." Said some folks had it and some didn't, and that it was worth more than all the book learning in the world.
"I know." Ahrick's voice was soft, sad.
I looked up sharply. "You know?"
"Kill Declan Hewes."
The needle slipped. I caught it before it could do damage, but my hands went numb.
I stared at him, my mind struggling to process what he'd just said. "What?"
"It's my mission too."
My hands were shaking now, but I managed to tie the stiches off. Not a bad job. "How do you—"
"The Prime wants Hewes dead." His voice was flat, matter-of-fact. "I'm here to make sure that happens."
"We're on the same mission?"
"Yes."
"But—why haven't you—killed him." I'd watched this guy fight. Surely if he wanted Declan dead, he'd be that way already.
"He's protected better than I expected. Then when I found out you were being sent here I couldn't risk it. Not until I knew you were safe." He met my eyes, and there was something in his gaze that made my breath catch. "Hewes is a monster. He deserves what's coming."
"Yes," I whispered. "He does."
A knock at the door made us both freeze.
Ahrick moved faster than I would have thought possible for someone so injured. He was on his feet, positioning himself between me and the door, his body a wall of muscle.
"Stay behind me," he said quietly.
The door opened.
One of the females who'd bathed me earlier stood there, holding a tray of food. Her eyes were downcast, movements careful, intended to make her unobtrusive. She set the tray on the small table and left without a word.
I looked at the tray. Real food. Not the slop they'd given me before. Meat that looked halfway fresh. Bread. Something that might have been vegetables.
My stomach growled.
Ahrick relaxed slightly, picking up the tray and moving back to the bed. "Eat."
He sat the tray between us and we ate in silence at first, both of us too hungry to talk. But as the edge came off my hunger, my mind started working again.
"How do we get to him?" I asked.
"Hewes?"
"Yes."
Ahrick was quiet for a moment, chewing thoughtfully. "I don't know yet."
"You don't have a plan?"
"Do you?"
I wanted to lie. Wanted to say I had everything figured out. But what was the point?
"No."
He nodded like he'd expected that answer. "I'll figure it out."
"What if you don't?" The fear I'd been holding back started creeping in again. "What if one of the other fighters gets their hands on me before you can reach him? What if—"
"That won't happen."
"You don't know that."
"I won't let it happen." His voice was absolute. Certain.
"How?" I demanded. "How can you possibly—"
"I'll keep winning."
The simplicity of it should've been laughable. It should've been impossible.
But looking at him—at the scars, at the strength, at the absolute determination in his eyes—I believed him.
He'd fought six opponents tonight. Had taken a blade across his chest because he'd been watching me instead of his enemy. He'd won anyway.
He'd keep winning.
For me.
The thought made something warm unfurl in my chest, something I didn't want to examine too closely.
I looked at him—really looked at him. At the way he held himself despite the pain.
At the scars that mapped a history of violence and survival.
At the eyes that had looked at me in that cage like I was something worth fighting for.
He was a monster by human standards. Covered in a thick pelt, built like something designed for killing, clearly capable of brutal violence.
But he'd asked if I was okay before he'd even acknowledged his own injuries.
And somehow, that made all the difference.
I took the tray when we finished, carrying it back to the table. My hands moved on autopilot, arranging the empty dishes, buying myself time to think.
Behind me, I heard Ahrick stand. Heard his footsteps—still uneven, still pained—move toward the shower.
The water started running a moment later, and I tried hard not to picture what that meant. Tried not to think about him standing under the spray, blood washing off that massive body, running down all those muscles I'd just spent touching while I stitched him up.
I focused on the dishes. On the counter. On anything except the sound of water and the knowledge that he was naked less than twenty feet away.
But my body had other ideas. Heat pooled low in my stomach, unwanted and unwelcome. My skin felt too tight. I could still feel the texture of his pelt under my fingertips, still remember the way his muscles had shifted beneath my hands when I'd cleaned his wounds.
This was insane. Completely insane.
I was a prisoner. He was a prisoner. We were both trapped in some alien nightmare. People were dying. I could die.
And here I was, getting turned on by the sound of running water.
What the hell was wrong with me?
I pressed my palms flat against the table, trying to ground myself.
Trying to think rationally. This wasn't attraction—it couldn't be.
It was just... stress. Adrenaline. Some kind of fucked-up survival instinct my brain had cooked up because Ahrick was strong and capable and the only thing standing between me and whatever fresh horror waited outside that door.
That's all this was. Biology. Chemistry. My body doing stupid, primitive things because it thought big-strong-protector equaled safety.
Except that didn't explain why my fingers still tingled from touching him.
Why I could still feel the warmth of his skin—or whatever you called it under all that pelt—radiating against my palms. Why the memory of his voice, rough and concerned, asking if I was okay, made something clench deep in my chest.
I was losing it. I had to be. There was no other explanation for why I was standing here, heart racing, skin flushed, thinking about a seven-foot-tall alien warrior like he was some kind of romance novel hero instead of a fellow prisoner.
God, if I ever got out of here, I was going to need so much therapy.
The shower cut off and my heart kicked against my ribs.
I stared at the table like it held the secrets of the universe, my hands white-knuckled on the edge.
"Merrilee."
I turned.
And forgot how to breathe.
He stood near the partition, water still beading on his pelt, catching the light like tiny diamonds scattered across suede.
His hair hung loose and wet around his shoulders, darker now, clinging to his neck and chest. The nasty, blood-soaked trousers he'd worn into the arena were gone—not that I blamed him, they'd been torn to shreds and filthy beyond saving.
But what he wore now...
A loincloth. Just a simple strip of fabric that covered the absolute bare minimum and left everything else on display.
And I do mean everything.
Those powerful legs, thick with muscle, the pelt on his thighs darker where it was still damp.
His hips, narrow and defined in a way that made my mouth go dry.
His stomach—oh God, his stomach—all carved muscle despite the fresh stitches I'd just put across his chest. The way the loincloth sat low on those hips, the fabric clinging slightly from moisture, drawing my eyes to the defined V of muscle that disappeared beneath—
I yanked my gaze upward.
My eyes caught on his arms instead. On shoulders so broad they blocked out the light behind him. On the way water traced paths through his pelt, following the contours of muscle.
He moved—just shifted his weight slightly—and I watched those muscles ripple beneath golden pelt. Watched the way his body moved with that quiet, predatory grace despite his injuries.
He could break me in half without even trying.
The thought should have terrified me. Instead, my body responded with a rush of heat that made my knees weak.
Steam still drifted from the shower behind him, carrying his scent—something clean and male and utterly foreign. Not cologne or soap, just... him. The natural musk of his body, warm and alive and far too appealing.
I dragged in a breath and immediately regretted it. The scent filled my lungs, made my head swim.
"I should—" My voice came out rough. I cleared my throat and tried again. "I should clean up too."
He nodded, stepping aside to give me space.
I had to walk past him. Had to move within inches of all that barely-contained power, all that heat radiating from his body.
Up close, I saw the individual droplets of water still clinging to his pelt. Noticed the way his chest rose and fell with each breath. Saw a scar that ran along his collarbone, old and faded, and another across his ribs that looked newer.
My eyes traveled lower before I could stop them. To the defined ridges of his stomach. To the way the loincloth clung to—
His hand moved slightly, and I realized with horror that he'd caught me staring.
Heat flooded my face. I jerked my gaze up to his.
He was watching me. And from the slight tilt of his head, the almost-smile that tugged at his mouth, the knowing glint in those golden eyes—he knew exactly what I'd been staring at.
"Excuse me," I managed, and practically fled past him.
What the hell was wrong with me?
I pressed my palms against the cool partition, trying to ground myself. Trying to remember why I was here. Hewes. I was here for Hewes. That was the only thing that mattered.
Not this. Not the way my pulse hammered in my throat. Not the heat pooling low in my belly or the way my skin felt too tight, too sensitive, like every nerve ending had suddenly woken up and decided to betray me.