Wrage (Galaxy Gladiators #11) - Alana Khan Page 0,55

there were traveling troubadours who went from town to town telling stories in verse. Many of their songs were in praise of courageous fighters. I think I’ll sing you one.”

She creates a song about me out of thin air. I wonder how the words can come, so swift and sweet and rhyming, as if she’d worked on it for lunars. And her voice, clear as a bell. Beautiful. Look at that face, like the angels my father’s religion spoke of. A beautiful, almost-naked angel who sings like her song is a gift from God.

“And he smote the giant beast,” she sings. “Again and again his arm came down with the strength of a dozen males. And when he was done he was covered in blood, but he’d saved himself to come home to his fair maiden.”

The cell block is silent. For the first time, the brutes in the other cells shut the holes in their faces and listen to the beauty of my mate’s talent.

A hot wave of guilt pierces through me when I think of the abusive words I threw at her like arrows the first time I saw her, as if I wanted to destroy the only thing in her life that gave her happiness. I know I’ve apologized, but my behavior dishonored us both.

Now is not the time to talk about it, though, instead I say, “Elyse, you honor me.”

“Yes, mate. I do, and will until the end of time.”

We haven’t made love in this place, even though my urge has been desperate to show her my feelings in one of the best ways I know how. The cameras trained on us, the lack of even a rough-hewn blanket—I didn’t want to disrespect her that way.

It’s she that approaches me. She glides to her knees on the jagged rock floor, but doesn’t notice the discomfort—her full attention is focused on me.

“I’m going to make you feel good, my love,” she says with that voice she uses that allows no argument. “And then you’re going to repay me in kind. We’re going to live, Wrage. We’re going to live until we die. I don’t know when that will be. But we’re living now.”

With that, she grips my cock, and before I can protest, she takes me to the hilt. I don’t stifle my groan, my pleasure is too boundless to hide. If I live another day, I’ll marvel at how, after just escaping death and knowing with certainty that my end is coming swift and sure within one lunar at most, my first thought is gratitude.

Yes, thankfulness at what I have—the love of this good female who would do anything for me, as I would do anything for her.

She presses me into the back of her throat. I don’t protest, knowing it’s her way of showing her love, her tribute to her mate.

“You’re a blessing, Love,” is all I can rasp through my gritted teeth before she wrings another moan from my throat.

Her hand cups my sac as she takes all of me, all the while her gaze never leaves mine. It’s her moan of pleasure that undoes me. I spill into her mouth and down her throat.

As soon as I can move, I hit my knees, joining her on the rigid stone floor.

“I don’t deserve you, Elyse. But I thank all the Gods that I have you.” I almost told her I’d never leave unless I had to, but she knows that.

Carrying her to our filthy mattress, I wish it was pristine—she deserves so much more. But she doesn’t complain, she holds her arms out to me, her eyes brimming with love.

“What do you want from me, Love?” I ask. “Tongue? Mouth? Cock? I want to pleasure you until I’m too tired to move.”

“All of you, handsome. Everything you want to give me.”

“Quit humping your whore, asshole. You’re the one who asked for clothes,” a guard thunders at us. He’s standing so close to our cell his feet intrude through the bars. I don’t want to think about how long he's been standing there.

He wads the fabric he carries into a ball, pushes it between the bars, and tosses it dangerously close to the puddle of watery blood taking up half the floor.

I grab it and see it’s the robe Sooma Ryone wore the day we arrived. He’s staking a claim. It even smells like him.

I open the garment, it’s large, with lots of fabric, then drape it over our heads and down my back so it