Wrage (Galaxy Gladiators #11) - Alana Khan Page 0,3
as a bell. I think he was just answering ‘yes’ to ‘sir’ and not the question of his buy-in to the marriage, but Red Guy takes his ‘yes’ as a yes.
“I’ll prepare the manumission papers,” he says. I never thought I’d love a word as much as I love ‘manumission’. “While you two decide on a brand.”
What the fuck? My head snaps to him.
“Brand?” Certainly I didn’t hear that correctly.
“Didn’t you say you’d dreamed of an official Paragon mating ceremony? The reason people come from all over the galaxy is the branding ceremony. I have a wide variety to choose from. By the size of you two, I’d suggest you look for a pair with bigger and smaller matching brands. Over there.” He points vaguely to the wall to my right.
How’d I miss this? It reminds me of the Medieval Torture Museum I toured back on Earth. There must be over a hundred brands of all sizes and designs hanging neatly from metal racks.
“Perhaps I missed this in the brochure,” I say, hesitant to interrupt his completion of the papers of manumission—I still love that word. “The branding involves actual heat? Actual pain?”
“Why yes. That’s the beauty of it. It signifies your deep connection, commitment, and that nothing will tear your bond asunder.”
“How about we just do the mini-ceremony? The one without the brand. Don’t worry. We’ll pay the full price. No problem.”
“On Paragon it’s not an official mating without the brand. Without the mating, you don’t get the papers of manumission.” He waves them as incentive.
Shit. Big Blue’s knees wobble as he makes a sound somewhere between a gurgle and a hiccup.
“Stand up straight, gladiator,” I order. I’m only half surprised when he immediately complies. Guess I was right about him being a gladiator.
“Branding it is,” I say as I pull him toward the implements of torture.
I spend long minutes inspecting the choices. I’m not looking for the prettiest brand. I’m looking for the smallest.
Finally, I find the perfect choice. The feminine version is petite, the masculine is one of the largest. Serves the bastard right.
“We’ve made our choice,” I call to Red Guy. “Right, honey?”
“Mmm.”
Exactly.
I can do this. A moment of pain for a lifetime of freedom? I can totally do this.
“Now it will take a half to a whole annum for this to heal,” Red informs me.
Shit! Okay, small correction. A year of pain for a lifetime of freedom. Still worth it.
After I point out our choice, the brands go into a container that I assume is heating them to just this side of molten.
You can do this, Elyse. Yes, you can. Short-term pain for long-term gain. I’m a big girl. I can handle it.
Maybe he’ll marry us first and we can skedaddle before he gets to the branding.
“Branding first, then nuptials, and finally your papers of manumission,” Red Guy says with a big smile. Even his teeth have a red tinge. I’ve certainly seen weirder things since I left planet Earth.
“Can I pay extra for painkiller?” I ask. “Got some?”
“Yes, I do. Part of the ceremony is the pain. When the ritual is complete, I’ll sell you some salve to take with you, though.”
He’s about to do the Blue Devil first when I stop him. The brand is certain to wake Blue from his alcohol-induced stupor and might put the kibosh on the whole process. I’ll offer to go first so it will be a done deal by the time Blue knows what hit him.
“My fiance’s a wimp,” I say, “do me first.”
He sits me on a chair near the wall. My confidence, what little I had, is truly shaken when I see splatters of red and green blood on the metal wall to my left. I lean against it anyway, close my eyes, and get ready for him to brand me.
“They say it’s best to close your eyes and count to ten out loud. Press your left shoulder to the wall. Whatever you do, don’t move until I step away. If you do, the pain will be the same, but the brand won’t look good.”
Wouldn’t want that, would I?
I scoot my hip and shoulder to the wall, close my eyes, and count. With every number, I gird myself more, getting ready to tolerate the pain. Maybe this is all just a little Paragonian test to see if a couple really loves each other. Maybe there’s no brand at all.
“Eight,” I say, controlling my breathing.
And he presses the blazing fires of hell into my right deltoid.
“Dear