The Alien Warlords' Punished Pet

Chapter 1

Ifreeze.

The tiny sound echoes through the silent underground chamber. I turn towards the entrance, towards the pale light spilling down the stairs.

It was only an echo. Right? It was, wasn’t it? I strain for the sound of bootsteps, but there’s nothing except my heart thundering in my ears, my pulse panicked.

Freedom, so close.

My hand shakes so badly that the loop glances off the hook. The dress spills over my arms again, and the quiet rustle of fabric seems deafening inside the chamber.

I look towards the entrance.

Empty.

On the second attempt, the loop catches, only to twist free when I release it. I barely catch the dress before it reaches the floor.

Come on.

My pulse hammers in my ears, each beat so heavy that I almost mistake it for the distant tread of an Aurelian descending the stairs.

I hold my breath and listen.

Still nothing.

On the third attempt, the loop catches. I arrange the dress carefully, smoothing every fold until it hangs exactly as it did before. Then I close the wardrobe, its doors meeting with a soft click beneath my hands.

I spin and race for the entrance. I don’t walk back. I run, with the horrible feeling that something is chasing me from behind, or that I will round the curve in the stairs and run straight into a wall of Aurelian flesh.

When I reach the bottom of the stairs, I stop and gather myself. I force my breathing to slow, force myself to take the stairs quietly. If they’re back, all I need to do is reach the top, and they have no proof of anything.

If they heard my bare feet pattering up the stairs and caught me because of my own stupidity...

I creep upwards until the hallway appears ahead of me, illuminated by the sunlight pouring through the skylight. I take the final stair and whip my head left and right, searching for marble flesh, cold gray eyes and the promise of another brutal punishment.

There is nothing but the sound of the wind and a bird chirping.

I walk into the kitchen area, retrieve my boots from where I left them and sit to pull them on.

Sunlight streams through the windows, laying warm bars across the limestone floor.

Fresh air drifts through the residence, carrying the scent of grass and damp earth, and everything feels so real and calm after the darkness below.

A bunker, once those doors close.

I could be trapped down there for years.

Decades, if they Bond me to them and stretch my life into something eerily long. Decades for them to break down my mind until nothing remains but the creature who belongs in that nest.

I shiver, pull the final lace tight and leave the residence through the front doors.

Sunlight warms my face. The pool lies to the right, flashing and reflecting the light, and leaves whisper as the wind moves through them.

Everything is calm. Everything is normal.

High above the residence, the Reaver turns silently, its gleaming white underside barely more than a speck as it tracks the grounds, analyzing any threat before it can draw near.

My feet carry me along one of the old paths towards the tree where I used to watch them. For months, I climbed into its branches and studied the three aliens who had invaded my world, learning their routines while they remained oblivious to my watching eyes.

At its base, I pull Arrek’s gloves from my pocket. The soft leather slides closely over my hands, each finger fitting perfectly. I flex them, then place one palm against the trunk.

I immediately dislike the separation. I can see the deep channels in the bark, but I cannot feel their roughness against my skin. Before, every ridge and crack told me where to grip. Now the leather dulls everything, turning something familiar into something distant beneath my touch.

I consider taking them off. My palms are perfectly smooth again, every callus and hardened patch erased by the Med-Bay. The bark would tear them open before I made it halfway up, and I don’t want to lose any privileges. Not now.

I pull myself upwards and begin to climb.

The gloves grip well, although every hold feels slightly wrong beneath them. I’ve climbed this tree so many times that it is simply muscle memory, my feet remembering the route better than my hands do.

I detest climbing in boots. Barefoot, I could dig my toes into the hollows and gnarled places in the bark, my callused flesh so much more malleable than the soles beneath me.

Halfway up, I reach a thick limb split years ago by a storm. A narrow hollow runs through the broken wood, hidden behind a flap of bark. I brace myself against the trunk and pull the damp strip of towel from my pocket.

It is clean, without even a shadow of blood remaining, but it is still evidence that something happened. I would rather these men know as little as possible about what I do out here when I’m not at their beck and call.

I push the strip deep into the hollow and press the flap of bark back into place.

I miss the sting of bark against my skin and the familiar pull through my fingers as I climb higher, yet the climb comes easily, my body knowing every branch. There is no danger here. I have done this so many times.

Soon, the ground falls away beneath me, and I settle into the broad fork that has supported me through countless mornings and nights, my back against the trunk and one leg stretched along the branch.

The leaves surrounding me are bloody red and gorgeous.

When I first watched the men from here, they were only buds.

Then they were green. Now they conceal my body while opening a narrow window over the estate.

From here, I can see the residence, the pool and the scarred training ground beyond it.

I draw in a huge breath, letting the darkness below simply disappear from my mind.

Minutes pass into hours. The sun lowers towards the distant hills, becoming a burning red ball, warm and relaxing. I have slept in this fork many times. That is how comfortable I am here.

Eventually, the white transport ship appears. It loops around the estate without crossing the outer walls, then disappears from sight to the south.

They’re back.

I watch the enormous doors at the base of the estate, far away down the hill, open. Three huge figures emerge between them and start up the hill.

Even from this distance, the sheer size of them is intimidating. There is anger in their movements, each stride crisp and military, but their bodies are not rigid. They move with a languid, predatory grace, the narrow blue-black trim on their robes catching the red sunlight as they walk.

I know instantly that the vote went poorly.

Perhaps that is for the best.

Guilt hits me in a rushing wave. Being able to Shift again would let them move across the territories and save so many lives. People in Wild Space, and in the Dark Reaches within Aurelian territory, do not have walls like these protecting them.

And here I am, so much safer behind these walls.

I hate what I’m becoming. I hate how selfishly I’m thinking, but part of me wishes I had never learned what was waking.

The three men stride up the hill, and I let myself melt into the branches and leaves. Talarin walks on Mero’s left, keeping watch, with Arrek on the right. His eyes scan through the trees, then travel up the length of the one I’m hiding in.

I mold my body against the branch and disappear.

His gaze passes over me.

I know he hasn’t seen me as they continue past and disappear into the residence. I remain in the tree, nothing more than a shadow against the leaves.

A short while later, they come out the front again.

Their formal robes are gone. They wear light, pure-white battle robes now, togas cut to allow complete movement and leaving the right side of each chest bare.

The hilts of their Orb-Blades hang at their waists as they walk around the residence towards the training ground at the back.

Red sunlight reflects from the pool as they step onto the weathered stone. Muscles shift beneath their marble skin with every movement.

Mero takes his position in the middle and draws his Orb-Blade, activating it in the same movement as he raises it from his belt. Blue-black energy wraps around the length of darkness within it.

Arrek and Talarin separate, moving to opposite sides of him.

Hunting. Flanking.

They draw their blades.

Arrek moves first in a bull rush, lowering his shoulder and reaching forwards as the energy around his blade spits and crackles. Mero parries the strike and twists aside, his own blade arcing out towards Talarin.

Talarin barely blocks the blow.

Arrek is already behind Mero. His biceps bulge as he strikes Mero across the back. The blue-black energy disappears an instant before the blade catches flesh, leaving only the dulled inner edge to hit him.

The force knocks Mero forwards, and he stumbles across the weathered stone.

Arrek takes the center next, his lips drawn back in a snarl. The other two men take their positions and begin testing him, feinting and probing with less immediate aggression. They almost look as though they are fencing, their blades darting forwards and pulling back.

Arrek finally charges.

Talarin slips aside, and Mero sweeps Arrek’s legs out with his blade. The energy disappears and the edge dulls an instant before it strikes him. The reflexes. The trust it takes, to let those blades spitting energy come within millimeters of opening your arteries…

They continue training, each taking his turn in the center, each testing how long he can last against the other two. Red welts and bruises appear across their bodies wherever the dulled blades strike.

They rotate without speaking. Mero returns to the center, then Talarin. The impacts are still hard enough to drive them backwards across the weathered stone.

I’ve watched them fight before. Once, Mero and Talarin battled for nearly twenty minutes without either giving ground. This is different. With two opponents attacking from opposite sides, none of them can hold the center for long.

The few times the outmatched Aurelian succeeds seem almost accidental.