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  Claimed

  Fated Mates of the Kalixian Warriors #1

  Presley Hall

  Copyright © 2020 by Presley Hall

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

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  Contents

  1. Rose

  2. Rose

  3. Rose

  4. Tordax

  5. Rose

  6. Tordax

  7. Rose

  8. Tordax

  9. Rose

  10. Tordax

  11. Rose

  12. Rose

  13. Tordax

  14. Rose

  15. Tordax

  16. Rose

  17. Rose

  18. Tordax

  19. Rose

  20. Tordax

  21. Rose

  22. Tordax

  23. Rose

  24. Tordax

  25. Rose

  26. Tordax

  27. Rose

  28. Rose

  Epilogue

  Also by Presley Hall

  1

  Rose

  “No! No, no, no. Are you kidding me?”

  Just when I thought today couldn’t get any worse.

  First, I got fired. Now I’m about to be evicted.

  I spent the entire walk home trying to keep from panicking, but as I stare at the notice on my door, I can feel worry expanding in my chest like a balloon.

  The job I just lost sucked—being a file clerk for a retirement home wasn’t exactly my dream job as a little girl—but at least it was something. It paid the rent and kept the lights on. Barely. But ever since they cut my hours, I’ve been at least a week late on rent, sometimes more. And now it seems my landlord’s patience is up.

  One week to vacate, the notice reads in neatly typed font, as if the detachment of a typed letter will somehow make it less harsh. My landlord knows my mother. That’s how I got this place with a bad credit score and hardly any rental history. But even the bonds of family friendship aren’t going to cut it anymore.

  I sit down heavily on the front stoop, burying my head in my hands. It’s blisteringly hot outside, and the last thing I want to do is walk back into town—or worse, take the bus, which won’t have air-conditioning and will smell like forty bodies of all shapes and sizes packed into a tin can without circulated air. But I need money. And the only way I can think of to get it is to go to one of the sketchy loan places I’ve seen on 3rd and Winchester, where there’s a gas station you don’t go to after nine p.m. and a homeless shelter. It’s definitely not a great part of town.

  I rub my hands over my face. I can still hear my mother’s voice from a few months ago, when I finally left my boyfriend and decided to get my own place.

  You’re never going to amount to anything, Rose Brewer. First college, now you can’t even keep Derek happy. You’re never going to find a better man—at least he wants to be with you.

  But I’m better off without him. I know it. Derek was a lazy jerk who charmed me at first but never really cared about me. And toward the end, he hit me once when a fight got especially bad. That was what finally did it for me. The last straw. I might be willing to take a lot of verbal abuse—after all, my mother has been telling me what a waste of space I am for most of my life.

  But I won’t take physical violence. Especially not from someone who claims to love me.

  There’s no way in hell I’m going back to Derek. And there’s no way I’m asking my mom for help.

  So that leaves only one option.

  Squaring my shoulders, I begin the slow trudge back into town.

  Just seeing the iron gate over the door of the loan building and the cracking plaster on the outside of it makes me wince—I can’t believe I’m walking into a place like this, practically begging for money. I feel like everyone who passes by is staring at me and judging me. Still, I have no choice but to swallow my pride and go inside.

  This is nothing compared to the humiliation of facing my mother, I tell myself as I walk up to the counter.

  There’s only one employee here, and the place is blessedly empty other than her. She looks bored out of her mind, a half-done crossword puzzle in front of her as she looks up at the chime of the bell when I open the door. The building smells strongly of industrial cleaning products, and a sickly sweet air freshener meant to cover it up, although nothing possibly could.

  The woman heaves a sigh as she reaches into a drawer and pulls out a form, her face completely impassive. “Name?” she asks tonelessly.

  “Rose Brewer.” I can’t keep the quaver out of my voice. If I’m declined for the loan, I don’t know what I’ll do. I don’t have any savings, any recourse.

  “Age?”

  “Twenty-four.”

  “Marital status?”

  “Single.”

  “Have you ever been married?”

  I frown a little. “No, never.” Why does that matter?

  “Do you rent or own your home?”

  “I rent.”

  “Any roommates?”

  “No, I live alone.”

  I count myself lucky when it comes to that, at least. The house is tiny, but I’m the only occupant. And it’s an actual house, not an apartment or a duplex. There’s enough room for me and the tabby cat who comes around from time to time, and I don’t need anything else. Just a space of my own—one that I’m desperate to keep.

  “Any neighbors?”

  “Um…” I bite my lip as I think, a little confused. Why would she care about my neighbors? “There’s an old man who lives next door, and I think a family across the street?”

  “Do you have contact with them?”

  Why? Does she want them as references?

  “Uh, not really,” I say, shaking my head. “I keep to myself, mostly.”

  The woman nods, as if I’ve answered a question for her. She looks me up and down then, taking in my strawberry blonde hair, slightly freckled face, and nervous green eyes. “Weight?” she asks, sounding as bored as ever.

  What?

  “I’m sorry, is this really necessary?”

  “We need to keep a profile on you for identification in case you default on your loan,” she says in a monotone, as if more than one person has balked at this point and she’s had to explain. I guess most people don’t want to tell their weight.

  “Um… about a hundred and thirty pounds, I think?”

  “Height?”

  “Five foot seven.”

  “Dyed hair?”

  “No, it’s natural.”

  “Tattoos?” She’s asking questions rapid-fire now, going down the list.

  “No, none.” I laugh, trying to dispel some of the tension gathering in my stomach. “Too scared of needles.”

  “Piercings?” She looks at my face, then drops her gaze down to my breasts. I fight the urge to cover my chest with my arms.

  “Just my ears when I was a baby. And a second hole in one when I was sixteen.” I chew on my lower lip again. “Are we almost done?”

  “Just a few more questions. Are you on any medications?”

  “Um, I was on birth control, but I just broke up with my boyfriend, and I didn’t really see the need for it anymore, and I don’t have health insurance, so…”

  She cuts me off. “Illicit
drug use? Alcohol? Cigarettes?”

  What is this, a doctor’s office intake?

  “No drugs, I drink casually, and I’ve never smoked,” I tell her flatly. “Do you want my income? Bank account information?”

  I know I’m starting to sound a little testy, but nothing she’s asked me so far seems to have anything to do with a loan, and I’m exhausted. It’s after four, and if I don’t have the money in hand soon, there’s no way I’ll get it to the post office to mail a check to my landlord in time.

  “Of course. In a minute.” She waves a hand, still looking at her form. “Any children? Dependents?”

  “No.”

  “Siblings?”

  “None.”

  “Are your parents alive?”

  “Just my mother.”

  “What’s your relationship like with her?” The woman frowns a little.

  “Rocky?” I shrug. “We have our good days and bad days. We don’t talk much.”

  “Any connection to anyone important? Local politicians, government employees, celebrities—major or minor?”

  “Why, so I could ask them for a loan?” I immediately regret the snippy comment as soon as I say it, but I can feel the minutes ticking away.

  The woman appraises me for a moment, but says nothing. She just nods, signs the bottom of the form, and picks up one of two rubber stamps sitting in ink pads in front of her—one red, one blue.

  She picks up the blue one, and when she lifts the stamp from the page, I see APPROVED in large letters across the bottom.

  Thank god. I let out a relieved sigh, feeling the tension lift like a physical weight off of my chest. The woman pushes the form toward me along with a pen.

  “I just need you to sign on the blank line,” she says, and I pick up the pen without reading anything in the paragraph above it. Even though I’m sure the interest rate is 200% and that I’ll be paying back triple what I’m taking out, I need the money. That’s all there is to it. I’ll figure the rest out later.

  But just as my pen touches the paper, a bright light nearly blinds me.

  I jerk in surprise and look up for a second, just long enough to see the tiles of the ceiling sliding apart and a beam of light shining down. Then I suddenly become so dizzy and nauseated that I can’t keep my eyes open, let alone keep looking up to try to determine where it’s coming from or what it might be.

  What on earth is happening to me?

  The thought is fuzzy and muddled as my knees buckle beneath me. Like a limp rag doll, I slide to the floor.

  The last memory I have is of the cool tiles under my cheek and the strong scent of bleach in my nose.

  Then blackness.

  2

  Rose

  The first thing I notice when I wake up is the bars.

  The second is the smell.

  It’s the stench of human bodies crammed together, of sweat and fear, as well as the mixture of at least twenty different perfumes, lotions, deodorants, and whatever else these women were wearing before they wound up here like me.

  The combined scents are overwhelming. My stomach turns over with a fresh wave of nausea, and a headache prickles at my temples.

  There are only women in this cell—which is what I immediately realize it is. I try to tamp down a rising sense of fear as I look around at them. Some are blonde, some brunette, some redheaded. Many are thin and fit, although I notice several curvier women too. All of them are young and attractive, and I see more than one who I’d venture to call model-beautiful.

  One girl, who looks a little younger than I am with black hair and dark eyes, looks over at me. She’s sitting on a bench with her knees pulled up to her chin, sandwiched between two other women, both of whom are asleep. Or maybe they’re still knocked out like I was, dosed with whatever made me collapse earlier.

  That thought brings the fear rushing back, rising up in a panicked lump in my throat. The last thing I remember is the light in the loan office and the overwhelming, sickening sensation in my stomach as I sank to the floor. And now I’m here, in a cage with several other women.

  And I have no idea where “here” is.

  I struggle to my feet, feeling disoriented and still vaguely sick.

  “Where are we?” I ask the dark-haired girl, who hasn’t stopped staring at me. “What’s going on?”

  “I don’t know.” She shakes her head, her voice slurring a little like she’s drunk.

  So we were drugged.

  Some of my fear coalesces into anger, settling in a hard knot deep in my stomach. The woman in the loan office must have been in on it—whatever this is. Some kind of kidnapping ring? Sex trafficking maybe?

  “I haven’t been able to ask anyone else,” she continues, her long hair falling into her face as she looks down at the floor. The surface is a smooth, continuous gray color, and a few benches of the same drab gray are scattered against the walls of our cell. Some of the women are on the benches, like the girl, others are lying still passed out on the floor. “You and I are the only ones that have woken up so far.”

  More of the others are beginning to stir though. As the bodies scattered across the floor start to move, I stride toward the bars, gripping them as I look out.

  Someone has to tell us what the hell is going on.

  I’m just about to rattle the bars and start to shout for someone, anyone to come and explain how we ended up here. But before I can open my mouth, I hear the heavy tread of booted feet, and I shrink back away from the bars.

  There’s no explanation for what comes around the corner.

  At least, none that makes any sense.

  My mouth goes dry, my mind spinning as I try to think of an explanation for what’s happening. There was a hallucinogen in the drug we were given, maybe. It’s all I can think of to explain why a group of alien creatures are walking toward us, looking like nothing I’ve ever seen.

  There are six of them. They walk on two legs like humans, but it’s the only human thing about them. They’re nearly six feet tall, with spines so horribly curved that they’re hunchbacked—I can only imagine how tall they would be if they stood up straight. Their faces are squashed in, bulldog-like, with flat pig-like noses and tusks curving out from between thick, greenish lips. Their skin is rough, textured like an elephant, and decorated with large warts.

  I recoil as they approach the bars, a fresh wave of nausea washing over me.

  What the hell?

  They’re dressed like guards, in leather trousers, tunics, and studded leather armor across their chests, shoulders and arms. They’re carrying guns that look suspiciously like blasters from a science-fiction novel, but there are knives hanging from their belts too, and one has an ax.

  A chill washes over me as I stumble back toward where the dark-haired girl is sitting, and I fight back the urge to vomit.

  I’m dreaming, I must be, I think wildly, but all of this is too vivid to be a dream.

  The women are all awake now, all crowding back against the farthest wall away from the creatures with me, and I couldn’t have dreamt this many bodies, the smell of us all, the stench of the creatures in front of us.

  The girl next to me starts to cry.

  “Hush, Nadia!” The blonde woman who was passed out next to her elbows her sharply, glaring down at her. She’s slightly older, and I wonder if she’s Nadia’s older sister, or just a friend.

  Nadia sniffles, but she manages to stop the sobs. I feel sorry for her—crying seems like a natural reaction to what’s happening, although no tears sting my eyes. I think I’m just in shock. I can’t seem to think past the pounding of my heart in my throat and the confusion of wondering what the hell is going on.

  And then we find out.

  “Terran women!” The guard in front speaks, raising his voice so that he can be heard over a chorus of fresh wails from the women around me. Their reaction seems a little dramatic to me; we don’t even know what he’s going to say yet. Although it can’t possibly be good.

  “You have
been given a great honor,” he continues. “You have all been chosen to be brought to the magnificent Orkun Empire as brides for our warlords, who have proven themselves in bloody battle against the conquered worlds!”

  Oh, shit.

  On second thought, I preferred not knowing.

  He keeps speaking, and with a sudden jolt, I realize that he’s speaking English. I was so shocked by his appearance at first that it took me a moment to process the fact that he’s speaking my language perfectly. How? Some kind of translator?

  I find myself focusing on that, trying to figure out how this clearly alien being could’ve learned to speak my native tongue so well. It’s hardly the most important question right now, but it makes for a good distraction from the insanity happening around me.

  Because none of this can be true.

  Warlords? The Orkun Empire?

  I’ve never heard of that—not in any book, fiction or nonfiction, and not in any movie or television show. Whatever they’re playing at, it’s not something I’m familiar with. And it has to be some kind of game, or a production of some kind. An immersive performance art piece, maybe, or a thought experiment. A movie or play with extras picked up and dropped into it with no warning. Some sleazy director’s attempt to get real, unfiltered reactions.

  And then the gate opens, and the soldiers—guards?—come into the cell.

  “Undress!” the leader barks, and we all look at him as if he’s out of his mind.

  “Like… take our clothes off?” Nadia asks weakly, and he glares at her, pointing a finger in her direction.

  “You, the stupid one. You go first.”