Wrage (Galaxy Gladiators #11) - Alana Khan Page 0,20

arrive at what amounts to little cubby holes niched into the wall. He opens an opaque door and flourishes his hand as if he’s ushering us into the presidential suite.

What he reveals, however, is what amounts to a space the size of a small twin bed. Above and below it are other maltas. It’s barely large enough to sit up in. Alone, I’d get claustrophobic in there after maybe an hour, unless I had my very favorite book of all time. Then it would be two hours tops.

Are we really talking about squeezing both of us in there? For a day? Even though I don’t want to have sex with him until ‘collect-the-specimen’ day?

To his credit, Wrage asks, “What do you think, Elyse?”

I wish we weren’t on a deadline. “Sure, honey. We want me to meet the in-laws, right?” I clear my throat. “You did offer us a full refund, right? For both rooms?” I ask the attendant even though I know full well he didn’t. Wrage thinks he’s rich, but he seems to have no concept of money. I just hope he has enough credits to get us back to Paragon in time to get the kit to Analac before he sends the Mounties after us.

“Yes. Of course. A full refund. You’re welcome to use the restaurant area when the upper tiers aren’t dining. Those hoaras are between 0500 and 0700 and from 2200 until 2400.”

Fifteen hours between breakfast and dinner? That sounds delightful. It’s a good thing I’ve been training for the malnourishment olympics since I began my captivity.

I roll in and press my back to the far wall, noticing there’s a tiny cubby behind our heads just big enough for our packs. Wrage slides in, and pulls the door closed behind us. It’s tight.

The attendant had reached in and turned on a dim light in our little malta. After a day in the huge expanse of the beach, flying on the balfour, swimming in the ocean, it’s doubly claustrophobic in here.

“I’m . . .” I don’t know why my first impulse alone with him in a tiny pod is to want to apologize for my outburst on the balfour. It was so out there, but I have to admit I feel better. I slam my lips shut, not wanting to bring that up.

I look at him, trying to figure out my feelings about him.

He hasn’t done anything heinous in days. He’s been courteous, helpful, kind—a regular boy scout since the havaché wore off. If we weren’t hitched, I’d consider a fling with him, God knows he turns me on. But we are hitched, and it seems like a bad idea to mix business with pleasure—the business being staying together so we don’t wind up in jail.

I’d rather be in this odd no-man’s-land than turn into one of those couples who bicker and hate each other and can’t stand to be in the same room together. That would suck worse than this . . . attraction we haven’t discussed.

Admit it, Elyse, what you have isn’t attraction. Call it lust, or hunger, or pounding desire. It surpassed attraction yesterday. Just look at him.

No! Don’t look at him, I order myself just as quickly. Do not look at his wide shoulders and muscular thighs or his face that could turn heads back on Earth if it wasn’t always so angry and blue.

He’s pretending to examine the ceiling, which is metal, by the way. It’s shiny enough to see our reflection. The thought pops into my head that people on Earth go to great lengths to put mirrors on their ceilings to enhance sex.

Stop! I scream at myself. That is not the direction I want my thoughts to travel.

I glance at him and inspect one of his buttons. It’s like rich, buttery leather. I itch to touch it.

“Tell me about your mreen again,” I say as I inch closer, my finger a hair above the one on his temple.

“They enhance scent. It’s evolutionary.”

“So you can smell better?”

“To protect from predators . . . and to mate.”

“So you can smell your mate’s arousal?” I ask.

“Yes, and . . .”

Ooh, now I’m even more interested. “And?”

“And they discharge my own pheromones into the air,” he says curtly, as if he didn’t want to admit it.

“Explain!” I demand. Somehow knowing I’m not going to like his answer.

“Wryth’Ns manufacture hormones that drift into the air to attract a mate.”

“No shit?” I slap his shoulder—on his good side. This explains everything. There’s absolutely no reason I