Captive - Cheryl Brooks Page 0,79

elsewhere. Leaving our world is cheap because the wealthy would just as soon be rid of us.”

That explained the tendency for Nedwuts to go into bounty hunting. “That doesn’t seem very fair.”

Another shrug. “It is what it is.”

“Sounds like you could stand a revolution on—” He paused, trying to recall if he’d ever heard a name for the Nedwut homeworld. Although never having talked to one for this long might’ve had something to do with it. “What’s the name of your planet?”

“Rusarck.”

“Rusarck? Seriously?” The smell of the food was curling through his nose, making Moe wish the dude would leave so he could gorge himself, but the information he was gleaning was priceless. “Why are you called Nedwuts?”

“We don’t call ourselves that. I’m not sure where the name came from.”

Probably meant mean and disgusting in some language or other. “Maybe it’s just easier to say than Rusarckians.” Although Haedusian had the same number of syllables and so did Zetithian. Still, two syllables were easier to pronounce. He’d heard Zetithian butchered enough. Not to mention his own surname.

“Possibly. Anyhow, the name seems to have stuck. I’ve tried to explain to a few people, but they aren’t buying it. No idea why.”

“Could be you’re the first to tell anyone the true name.”

“Could be.” He sniffed and inched through the doorway a bit further. “Gotta go now. Enjoy your chow.”

Moe put up a hand. “Hold on a sec. What’s your name?”

“Zract.”

“That’s easy enough.”

“It’s actually a lot longer than that.” He rattled off a name that put Zetithian monikers to shame, then added, “Figured it was best to keep it simple.”

As one who’d been saddled with Moriconthan Tshevnoe, Moe could definitely relate. “I hear you, man.” He waved a hand in farewell. “Have a good one.” His hunger finally got the better of him, and he picked up what he assumed was a sandwich of some sort—a sandwich that appeared to be composed primarily of greens.

Great. Just when I could really go for a hot ham and cheese on rye.

“I’ll try,” Zract said with a strangely apologetic tone for a Nedwut, er, Rusarkian. “But no matter what happens, my day is bound to be better than yours.”

Moe stopped in mid-bite. “How so?”

“You’re slated for the arena this afternoon.”

Oh, joy. “Any idea who I’ll be up against?”

“Nobody on my block,” Zract replied. “Although I’m guessing it won’t be an easy opponent. Pelarus doesn’t like you at all.” He gestured toward the plate. “Most guys get more than a salad.”

“Well…tell whoever my opponent is to enjoy his lunch.” It’s probably going to be his last.

“Will do. That is, if I can find out who it is. I’ll ask around and get back to you.”

“I’d appreciate that. By the way, what do I get if I win?”

“You get to live—at least until the next match, which probably won’t be very long. Like I said, Pelarus really doesn’t like you.”

“Lucky me.”

Chapter 21

After wrapping herself in that amazing towel, Klara dried her hair, then wandered into the bedroom. Clothing—not her own, which was nowhere in sight—was laid out on a chair beside the bed. As tired as she was, diving into the bed naked had its allure, especially since the sheets looked softer than anything she could possibly imagine.

Unless it’s the skin on Moe’s cock. Already she missed him and the velvety smooth glide of his supremely satisfying lovemaking. Something she’d never dreamed would hold any appeal for her was now something she was beginning to doubt she could live without.

I have to remain alive. Our children deserve their chance at life. And for them to get it, I must escape.

“But what if the worst happens and I lose Moe and our children?” she asked herself. “If it means a lifetime of captivity and servitude, maybe staying alive isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.”

No matter what happens, I must remain firm in my convictions.

She glanced around her. Maintaining those convictions was difficult when there was no one around to share them with.

“Guess I’ll get dressed,” she muttered. “Wouldn’t want you-know-who to catch me naked if he should take a notion to drop by.”

The garment on the chair appeared to be a robe of some sort. Gathering it up, she carried it into the bathroom. After hanging up the towel—that much bathroom etiquette she recalled from her youth—she slipped on the robe. The soft, shimmering fabric caressed her skin in a manner rivaling the sensuous feel of soap and water. For a woman whose adult life had been one