Wrage (Galaxy Gladiators #11) - Alana Khan Page 0,57

blue shirt, and a fashionable matching black jacket that sweeps to mid-thigh. Dear Lord, this male couldn’t look more handsome.

The door is yanked open and one of the guards motions us out with the tip of his rifle.

We’re in the living room, right where we were a week ago shortly after we arrived on Rhoid. Sooma Ryone sweeps down the stairs as if he’s walking the catwalk at a fashion show.

I see a marena in a corner of the room. It wasn’t there last time, I certainly would have noticed if there had been space’s answer to a piano within fifty feet of me. Perhaps it was brought in when they delivered the T-Rex.

“I’m expecting guests. A rarity, I can assure you. Although they are not of the highest class, they certainly are more genteel company than anyone else on this godforsaken rock. I want you two to sing for them.

“You have one hoara to practice. Before you do, Elyse you will march back into the bathroom and use the cosmetics I so thoughtfully provided. Do . . . something with your hair.” Before I can move, he shouts, “Now.”

I scurry to the bathroom, which has already been cleaned of all remnants of our presence. I assume It has done it, since I’ve seen no other staff other than guards.

I spy the makeup on the counter. I’m well acquainted with what he’s provided. It was one of the only luxuries I was allowed since my abduction. Performers do better when they look good. And since my owners confiscated all my tips, they wanted me to look my best.

Ten minutes later, I’m made up and coiffed as I return to the living area. Wrage’s face beams with approval and pride.

“That havaché wasn’t ten times more powerful to me than other species,” he says, a small smile lighting his face for the first time in days. “It must have been a hundred times more powerful for me to have failed to notice you’re the most beautiful female in the galaxy.”

“Cut the drack!” Ryone snaps.

I wink at Wrage, wishing I could tell him how good it feels to hear him say that, as well as to reassure him that he has certainly apologized enough by now.

As we practice, me sitting at the marena, Wrage at my side, the ground trembles beneath our feet more than once. Just as it did the day we arrived.

It is moving quickly, dusting every surface in the room even though it looked perfect before she began. Ryone has not only allowed my mate and I to dress, but has given his bed-slave some clothes, if you can call them that.

She’s wearing a see-through dress that hugs her body like a second skin. It runs from right above her aerolas to just below her sex. When I say see-through, I mean it’s like shimmery plastic wrap. It actually sexualizes and objectifies her more than if she were nude.

When the next shake hits, It is a few feet from us. Her expression doesn’t fit the mild tremor we just experienced.

Ryone has retired to his room. I imagine it’s to somehow make his snakelike face more presentable to his new guests. Since he’s not here, I screw up the courage to whisper, “What’s happening?”

Her eyes dart to the guards as she moves, positioning her back to them. “It’s been getting worse for lunars. I’ve heard it whispered that the big one is coming.” Then she dusts her way to the far corner of the room.

The big one? A huge earthquake? Maybe the ground will open up and swallow our delightful host.

The household kicks into high gear as Ryone bellows orders. The ship with his guests has arrived, and everyone is dancing to his tune as his commands are barked with increasing frequency and decibels.

He sweeps through the room, barely glancing at Wrage and me as he says, “You wear slave collars. Nothing you say or do will make my guests help you in any way. Just sing. Entertain as well as you can with your pathetic, no-talent routine, and I might choose to let you live another day.”

The doorbell rings, and Wrage and I stay exactly as we are, like living statues.

We hear Ryone greeting the newcomers at the door, and then they enter the living room. There are three of them, two Primians, and a Cerulean. They’re all huge, faces on lockdown as if they’re not here for a social visit.

The Primians, with their wild tribal markings on their faces