Wrage (Galaxy Gladiators #11) - Alana Khan Page 0,9

it. I guess we’ll see.”

Right after we’re seated, she goes to the restroom. When she comes back, she looks good. She’s been wearing that red dress for over a day now, but somehow she fixed her hair and cleaned herself up.

This is how she looked last night when I took an immediate dislike to her. She’s pretty and reminds me of Sibyl. I need to get beyond that. She’s not Sibyl; she’s my mate.

“You look very nice,” I tell her sincerely.

“That’s not what you said last night. You were drunk and loud and called me ugly.”

“I apologize. As you stated, I was drunk.”

“And mean.”

“Yes. I apologize again. How long do you want to hold it against me?”

She maintains my gaze for a long moment, then drops her eyes to the menu and says, “This isn’t my best day.”

“Nor mine.”

Although I figured the hover driver got a kickback for bringing us here, the food is surprisingly good. When we were eating, the animosity seemed to be buried as we talked.

Elyse

I’m having trouble seeing him as the devil when he acts like this. He keeps asking me if I like the food and seems genuinely interested in my answers. When he’s not fuming with rage, he’s kind of nice looking, in a totally alien way.

I think it was Plato who said you only get the truth from wine and children. I think I met his true self last night when he was drunk. I’m not sure why he’s schmoozing me now, but I don’t trust him—nor do I want to.

“What are those buttons on your face?” I ask. They look slightly amphibious, although he has no other amphibious traits.

“They help me smell,” he answers levelly.

“Your armpits don’t do that?” I quip.

He laughs. It’s the first belly laugh I’ve heard from him. It’s deep and hearty and masculine and makes his face light up. I feel a bolt of attraction. This will never do.

He sniffs first one pit, then to keep the laughter going, he sniffs the other.

“They’re doing a fine job,” he says, his gaze lingering a bit too long on my lips.

I snatch my gaze from his and notice the small stage to my right where two males are setting up mics. As a singer, it’s hard to ignore. One of the males invites everyone to come up and sing. As he explains the procedure, I realize it’s an intergalactic version of karaoke.

“You need to sing,” I goad. “I want to heckle you so you know how shitty it feels.”

“Call me Wrage and I’ll sing.” His voice is low and his face is suddenly serious. I lift my eyebrow in silent question and he answers, “You’re my mate and you’ve yet to say my name.”

Am I reading him right? Have I hurt his feelings?

“Wrage,” I say with zero emotion, my face blank. I want to hear him sing. I’m already mentally compiling a list of the best heckles I’ve received over the years. He’s going to get every last one of them, including the one he lobbed at me—fancy restaurant or not.

He rises and walks to the computer where he scrolls through the available songs. After giving his selection to the DJ, he stands at the mic and waits for the words to roll. Wait. This is more high tech than at home. The words don’t roll on a screen, they must come in through his translator implant, relay to his brain, and he sings it like he knows it.

His voice is deep and low and mellifluous. Oh my God, where did he learn to sing like this? The tune is good, and the lyrics are interesting, but it’s his voice. He could totally go professional. With no additional training.

And . . . look at that body. First of all, it’s perfect. He’s wearing the same clothes as all the males at his table were wearing last night—black cargo pants and a tight black t-shirt. Perhaps it slipped into my consciousness before now, but right now it slams me like a hammer. His body is large and muscular and sexy as hell.

He reminds me of the statue of David—flawless. The clothes are tight and leave nothing to the imagination. Wide shoulders, narrow waist, and trim hips are stacked on top of each other in ideal proportions.

He sings effortlessly as he glances at me too often to be accidental. And his hips? The trim ones that are masculine and as already mentioned—perfect? Those hips are swivelling. Not in a hoaky Elvis way,