Zalis E-Book

Nancey Cummings

• Herausgeber: Nancey Cummings
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025

Beschreibung

Gemma was not going back to Earth.
 
Stolen and sold to aliens? Gemma’s impulsive nature and temper have gotten her into some sticky spots, but this is easily the worst. Even her rescue is bungled.
Get married or go home. An easy choice. What better protection than a huge, muscular alien warrior? Zalis is the meanest, baddest thing she’s ever seen. He’ll keep the monsters away. But is her safety worth taking away his choice, too?
Zalis wants a love match.
But he’ll accept a marriage of convenience, for now. Gemma chose him because she wants protection. He’ll bring vengeance to those who hurt her, show her that he’s more than a brute, and win her heart.
Can something fake become real? It will when Zalis claims his mate.

Leseprobe

ZALIS

WARLORD BRIDES

WARRIORS OF SANGRIN

BOOK 13

STARR HUNTRESS

NANCEY CUMMINGS

CONTENTS

About Zalis

About Warlord Bride Universe

Foreword

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Epilogue

Afterword

About the Author

Also by Nancey Cummings

Want an alien of your own?

Zalis: Warlord Brides

Warriors of Sangrin 13

Copyright Nancey Cummings

Cover Design by Nancey Cummings 2025

Published October 2025

All rights reserved. This copy is intended for the original purchaser of this book only. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printer or electronic form without prior written person from the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

NO AI TRAINING: Without in any way limiting the author’s exclusive rights under copyright, any use of this publication to “train” generative artificial intelligence (AI) technologies to generate text is expressly prohibited. The author reserves all rights to license uses of this work for generative AI training and development of machine learning language models.

Author’s Note: This is a work of fiction and all people, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination. All characters depicted in this work of fiction are eighteen years of age or older.

Formatted with Vellum

Gemma was not going back to Earth.

Stolen and sold to aliens? Gemma’s impulsive nature and temper have gotten her into some sticky spots, but this is easily the worst. Even her rescue is bungled.

Get married or go home. An easy choice. What better protection than a huge, muscular alien warrior? Zalis is the meanest, baddest thing she’s ever seen. He’ll keep the monsters away. But is her safety worth taking away his choice, too?

Zalis wants a love match.

But he’ll accept a marriage of convenience, for now. Gemma chose him because she wants protection. He’ll bring vengeance to those who hurt her, show her that he’s more than a brute, and win her heart.

Can something fake become real? It will when Zalis claims his mate.

When aliens arrived on Earth, it happened with an invasion—just like the sci-fi movies taught us to expect.

The vicious Suhlik meant to enslave Earth and rob her of her resources. Only the Mahdfel warriors stood against them.

Once the slaves of the Suhlik, the Mahdfel won their freedom. But as a lingering reminder of their oppression at the hands of the Suhlik, they cannot have female children.

Now, in exchange for protecting Earth, the hunky alien warriors demand only one price: every childless, single, and otherwise healthy woman on Earth is tested for genetic compatibility for marriage with a Mahdfel warrior. If the match is 98.5% or higher, the bride is instantly teleported away to her new mate.

No exceptions.

Desperate to find her missing sister, Emry reconciled with her estranged Mahdfel mate, Ren.

Hey! Long time no see. I know, I kept you waiting for Zalis.

I think he’s worth the wait.

A note before we get started. Some scenes in Zalis also appear in Ren and share the same dialogue.

As a rule, I do my best to avoid repetitive scenes, mainly because I find them boring as all get out. For Zalis and Gemma, it was unavoidable. Their meet-cute happened in the background of Ren. Not experiencing the meet-cute from Gemma and Zalis’ point of view felt wrong, like I would be cheating the book out of an important romance moment. And frankly, Ren wasn’t paying attention. He missed a lot of what was going on.

So, for the scenes that are rehashed, some dialogue is the same. Some are slightly different. Why? Well, memory is slippery. What Ren and Emry remember is different from what Zalis and Gemma experienced. I don’t know how many times my mom said to me, “Nancey, you remember what you want to remember. That’s not what I said.”

I misremember all the time in calm conversations with my mom. Now add stress. Yeah, it’s a mess.

So that’s the official writer’s answer: memory is tricksy.

No major events have changed. People still do what they do and say, generally, the same things.

The trauma in this is dialed up more than my usual fare. Content warnings for abduction and human trafficking. We’re going to mention PTSD, and there will be trauma-induced nightmares and panic attacks.

Okay, now on with the show.

GEMMA

The noise in the bar covered the noise of the talking heads on television. It was getting crowded, which meant it was time for Gemma to head back home.

Batting her bottle from one hand to another, the glass slid easily on the condensation. She barely paid attention to the captions at the bottom of the screen. Not that she had to. She already knew what they were talking about.

The Mahdfel Bride Registry.

Gemma’s anger about the program—the draft—simmered and bubbled inside her, threatening to boil over. During the invasion, Earth signed a treaty with the Mahdfel: protection against the invaders in exchange for brides. Using genetic testing, human women were matched to alien warriors in an arranged marriage.

Every woman. There was no opting out. It was a mandatory program.

Gemma wanted to fling her bottle at the television screen.

As a temporary measure? Sure, the draft was understandable. Earth was desperate. It had been an emergency. The first wave of brides were patriots. Heroes. Taking one for the team so the team survived.

Gemma appreciated the necessity of the bargain made with the Mahdfel, but it’d been decades now. The emergency was over. Earth had rebuilt and moved on. People got on with their lives.

Except people with wombs. They were perpetually held hostage, unable to make plans for their future because they could be snatched away at any moment to go make alien babies. Unless those womb-holders had a baby of their own.

Or got married.

Gemma snorted, clutching her mug of beer.

Men.

Human men barely tried hard before; nowadays, they didn’t bother. Now that they acted as if the sun shone out of their dicks, they were worthless.

If they had tried even a little bit, they’d have treated her identical twin sister better. The car accident that made Gemma and Emry orphans also left Emry with a nasty scar on her face.

Now, no one had a problem telling the twins apart.

A bitter new thought twisted in Gemma’s gut. Emry’s alien husband didn’t treat her any better. He sent her back to Earth.

Men sucked. Every last one of them, no matter what planet they were from.

The channel flipped to a sports game.

“Hey! I was watching that,” Gemma protested.

“No, you weren’t, and I’m cutting you off,” the bartender said.

“I’m not drunk,” Gemma protested. Half a bottle of beer was nothing. Besides, she worked hard. She deserved a drink.

“Yet. You’re one more beer away from one of your political rants.”

“It’s a good rant.”

“It’s old and tired.”

“You say that because you have the privilege of being exempt from the draft.”

“If you’d actually been watching the news, you’d know that’s not strictly true.”

Gemma snorted. A recent bill to make the Mahdfel Bride Registry voluntary was making a splash in the media, but it wouldn’t go anywhere. It never did. “They love talking about changing the draft, but nothing ever actually happens.”

The woman next to her leaned over and grabbed her half-finished bottle. They tussled over the drink before Gemma relinquished her hold. Beer sloshed over the mouth of the bottle, making a mess.

Good.

“She’s real sorry, and we’ll be going,” the woman said, handing the bottle to the bartender.

“You suck, Clarissa,” she said, jabbing a finger at her friend. Employee, technically. “First, I’m your boss. Not the other way around. You don’t get to make decisions for me.”

“That’s literally my job description, especially when you’re fighty drunk.”

“Second—” Gemma slid off the stool and teetered before gaining her balance. Clarissa grabbed her elbow. She shook her off. “I’m not drunk.”

“Sure.”

“The barstools make my legs fall asleep. And you owe me five bucks for my drink.”

“Take it out of my check then, boss,” Clarissa said, steering Gemma out of the bar and onto the sidewalk. She didn’t have to say anything more to drive home that Gemma was being an ass.

“Sorry. I was out of line,” Gemma said. “You’re my friend and my assistant manager.”

“And I’m amazing at my job.”

“You are,” Gemma agreed.

“And you couldn’t do any of this without me.”

“Absolutely. Who said I could? Because they’re liars. We should egg their house.”

That earned Gemma a small chuckle. Not completely forgiven, but good enough for now.

Clarissa walked with her to the corner, where their paths diverged. Lights from the bakery glowed at the end of the street, guiding her home.

LeBeaux Bakery: her dream that alien blood money helped build.

Fine. She was being dramatic, but the money paid out as compensation for being snatched away by aliens was tainted. A better person than Gemma might have struggled with feelings of hypocrisy, railing against the draft but taking the dirty money, but the money wasn’t the problem. Money was a tool.

The problem was that her twin, Emry, had been matched and snatched, leaving Gemma with a bag of cash. Gemma didn’t know what to do with herself. Her best friend, her sister, her twin, was gone. She’d never gone more than a handful of days without Emry. Now she faced a lifetime of being a galaxy apart. She didn’t know what to do with herself now that she was just herself, not part of a duo. It was hell.

Days later, Emry came back. Best possible outcome, right? Yes, Emry had been humiliated, possibly even had her heart broken. The alien rejected her and returned her to Earth. Emry didn’t need to explain the massive chip on her shoulder, Gemma knew. Call it a creepy twin thing.

While Gemma’s soul ached for Emry’s pain, she was secretly ecstatic. She had Emry back. They used the money to open the bakery, fulfilling her lifelong dream. Gemma loved it. She felt their father’s presence when she worked the dough or pulled fresh loaves of bread from the oven.

There was even a bit left over to bribe the right sort of people to get Gemma’s name removed from the bride program registry. It really was the best possible outcome, and it wrecked Gemma knowing she got everything she wanted at Emry’s expense.

Well, it turned out all of Gemma’s choices were a slow-moving catastrophe. Emry hated the bakery, even though she wouldn’t admit it. The hours were long, the work was hard, and the profits were minimal. That didn’t worry Gemma so much. They’d work it out. The catastrophe was far more dramatic.

Turns out, when you give shady people money to do something shady, they keep asking for money.

Gemma was blackmailed by the people who removed her from the registry. She paid it at first, just wanting the problem to go away, but the requests kept increasing. Then the blackmail shifted from friendly requests to threatening demands. The night a pair of heavies cornered her outside the bar, the demands turned into physical threats. Gemma didn’t know what to do.

Emry did. She signed a contract as a personal chef for a ridiculously rich alien. The bonus money paid off the blackmailers with the understanding that the extortion was over.

Long story short, Gemma felt guilty. She got exactly what she wanted, and her sister paid the price. It sucked. Gemma sucked. The system that treated the twins like a commodity sucked. Everything was terrible, and self-loathing mixed with rage bubbled inside Gemma. It’d eat her alive one day.

Distracted by all the rehashing of guilt and things beyond her control, Gemma failed to notice the figure waiting behind the bakery. The glowing ember end of a cigarette alerted her to the stranger’s presence.

Gemma paused in the alley between buildings. Shadows cloaked the narrow walkway, keeping her presence hidden. Light from the streetlamps pooled at the entrance, urging her to turn around and run. There was just enough moonlight for Gemma to make out the smoker’s profile: Barney the Brick. Look, it was ridiculous, but Gemma wasn’t in charge of naming goons. Regardless, Barney waiting for her outside the bakery’s back door was bad news.

Gemma backed out of the alley, returning to the street.

Her hands shook as she fumbled for her phone. She had a good idea why Barney was darkening her doorstep and needed to speak to Emry right now. The call would be expensive, and more often than not, there’d be no answer. Real-time calls involved relays and priority channels, and priority was marketing talk for expensive. Budget-minded calls had a significant delay, making an actual conversation impossible. The cheapest calls were recorded, uploaded, and bundled with other messages. It got there when it got there. Assuming the message wasn’t dropped or gobbled up by space-time wormholes.

The call connected. A green dot appeared in the top corner of the screen. “Em. Emry. Em,” she said, pausing to see if the connection held. The green dot remained steady. “I messed up. I’m sorry. Call me when…just call me.”

Gemma disconnected the call and eyed the darkened alley. Yup, still filled with bad news. If she hurried, she could catch up with Clarissa.

And then what? Confess that the consequences of her actions were lurking at her doorstep, and could she crash on her couch?

Clarissa would say yes, no questions asked, but it was Sunday night. The bakery was closed on Mondays. Gemma wouldn’t be able to slip away before dawn for work and instead would have no excuse not to suffer through breakfast with Clarissa, her husband, and their infant. The husband was perfectly nice, and the baby was Gemma’s favorite person, but they were all too twee and saccharine for Gemma’s delicate stomach first thing in the morning. Clarissa never had to worry about the draft, and the inevitable conversation would pop up about why Gemma hadn’t settled down yet.

Even if Clarissa and her husband were too polite to say it, they’d think it. How could Gemma explain that she was too much of a hot mess to settle down? There was too much to unpack, and she’d question all her life choices, and all of that was a little too much to tackle before coffee.

Emry never made Gemma question herself about being a hot mess, considering that she was her own particular dumpster fire, too.

The baby really had no opinions at this point.

Worse, even if Gemma did suffer the indignity of sleeping on Clarissa’s couch and eating breakfast with a happy family, the root problem would still be lurking at her doorstep. Figuratively. The lurker wouldn’t hang around all night, obviously. They had a busy schedule being a scourge on society and whatnot, but they’d be back.

She was only delaying the inevitable.

Gemma took a steadying breath. She had to handle this herself. Big girl panties time. No more delays.

The darkness behind the bakery seemed darker because the security lights were out. Gemma knew the reason, but it felt ominous. Emry had always been on her case to get them fixed, but it never felt like a priority.

It felt like a priority now.

“Hello? Who’s there?” she asked, the question echoing in the silence.

Act confident. Lowlifes can smell fear.

Gemma squared her shoulders and tried again. “Bit late for a caller. Whaddaya want?”

“You’re late.” A match flared to life, smelling sharply of sulfur, and illuminated Barney’s unwelcome face. He took a drag of the cigarette before speaking. “I don’t like waiting.”

Well, there were a lot of things she didn’t like. Rather than make them someone else’s problem, she said, “Those things will kill you.”

“That right, cupcake?”

She prickled at the mockery in his tone. She was a pastry chef, a vocation that took precision and artistry which no one seemed to appreciate. Plus, she slung around massive bags of flour like they were nothing. She had a proper gun show going on. “I paid my debt, and you’re not getting a penny more in blackmail, so you can⁠—”

“So I can what? Gonna tell me to fuck off?”

Well, yes, but now she had doubts about the viability of that plan.

Confidence. Don’t back down.

“Basically,” she said, doing her best to keep her voice steady.

Barney chuckled. The lowlife had the nerve to lurk at her door in the dark, clearly up to no good, and laugh at her.

Gemma broke. She didn’t know how else to describe it. All sense of self-preservation fled her body. This minion, and more specifically the buffoon he worked for, had gotten his money from Gemma, but it wasn’t good enough. They pushed and pushed until Emry had to take a high-paying job off-planet to pay them off. Now Gemma was alone, and they were back.

“You greedy bastard,” she spat. “I’m not paying you or your boss one red cent more, so yeah, you can go fuck off. Darken someone else’s door. And don’t you dare threaten to report me to the feds. What are they going to do? Fine me? Jail me? A year’s vacation in federal prison sounds pretty good right now. Oh, and I will snitch. I have the receipts, and I will turn everything over in a heartbeat. I’m a small fish compared to an organization that can hack the alien bride database. I will snitch so hard I’ll change the name of the bakery to Snitches Get Cupcakes.” She winced at the terrible name, but it was too late now.

“The Snitch Snack Shack is a better name.”

Unfortunately, Gemma agreed.

“Haven’t you heard? The registry is gonna be voluntary, making blackmail obsolete,” Barney said. “The boss is pursuing new investments. As such, we’re liquidating the old inventory. It’s nothing personal, but you’re an asset to be sold.”

To be sold. She didn’t need it spelled out any clearer. Unable to squeeze another cent from her through blackmail, Barney and company were simply going to steal her and auction her off.

“You can’t abduct me.”

He shrugged a massive shoulder. “You’re not on any government list.”

“People will notice I’m gone,” she said, trying to reason with the unreasonable. “I’m a business owner. My employees will know I’m missing. In five hours, to be exact, when I don’t turn the ovens on and start baking the bread.”

“Sign says you’re closed on Mondays.”

“Clarissa,” she nearly shouted. “She’s expecting a call when I get inside. She’ll know something’s up when I don’t call.”

“You’re not very good at lying. Do you know that? Your eye gets twitchy.” He pointed to his right eye, as if to demonstrate.

Gemma screamed, partly in frustration and the rest a healthy dose of terror, and rushed past him to the stairs. If she could get inside⁠—

A hard pull on her hair snapped her head back, and her feet vanished from underneath her. She fell back onto the wooden steps, landing on her tailbone hard enough that her teeth rattled. Stars danced in her vision.

Rough hands gripped her ankles, dragging her down. Gemma kicked wildly, wishing she had taken kickboxing or just regular old boxing lessons, but the class was right before the lunch rush, so she had to take Pilates instead. Pilates.

Her foot hit nothing, Barney dodging her kicks. Eventually, she made contact that resulted in a delightful crunching noise. There was cursing and a brief rush of elation as she scrambled out of his grasp. Fuck yeah, Pilates.

No such luck. Barney had a hold of her ankle and would not let go.

She dug her fingernails into the wood boards, desperate to hold on. Her nails buckled, bending backward, and rough splinters tore her fingertips.

He yanked her away, tossing her to the pavement.

Gemma scrambled, trying to get to her feet, but a kick to her side sent her back down to the ground. A heavy boot landed on her ankle with a crunch. Pain whited out her vision, and she knew there was no good ending here.

ZALIS

Ivon Ren was a liar.

It was intolerable. That male was intolerable.

Zalis endeavored to see the good qualities in his team. They were not easy to get along with, but Zalis knew the same could be said about him. They merely had to work together. Friendship was not a requirement.

The team left Zalis alone to do his job, which was the most generous thing he could say.

Lorran was too charming. Bubbly and effervescent was an accurate description. Such easy, affable behavior was foreign to Zalis, but it was useful. Zalis understood that. Lorran followed orders and completed his assigned tasks. If he occasionally bubbled and effervesced while Zalis worked, it was tolerable.

Lorran’s mate, Wyn, pursued her own projects. She never bubbled or effervesced. He liked her.

Better still, neither was currently on the ship.

Havik was a straightforward male. Zalis appreciated his blunt delivery and lack of tact. The male was often too literal and lacked imagination, but that also meant he lacked the imagination to lie.

Thalia, his mate, lied enough for them both. Somehow, despite the fact that deception came as naturally to her as breathing, she also managed to be straightforward. She lied when necessary, stole from those who deserved it, and never hesitated to share her thoughts. Zalis appreciated that quality. He never had to mentally replay their conversation and analyze her words for hidden meanings. Thalia said what she meant. She could be as blunt as Havik in that manner. Zalis liked her.

Ren’s lies, however, served no purpose.

Correction. He had one useful lie.

Ren’s stature was not that of a typical Mahdfel. The idea of a typical Mahdfel was fragile, as the warriors came from several different planets and had varying physical attributes, such as color or number of limbs. Zalis’ appearance differed drastically from his father, who sported shaggy white fur over his body. It was common for the generations to share little resemblance. The bioluminescent reaction that made their tattoos glow connected them in ways that a shared complexion or a strong nose could not. Other unseen factors made a Mahdfel: their healing factor, large size, increased muscle, and heightened senses.

There was no typical Mahdfel appearance, yet Ren managed to fall below those relaxed expectations. Simply put, he was small. He could pass for a civilian. His body was a useful deception, infiltrating spaces and gathering information from sources that would never talk with a Mahdfel warrior. His entire being was a deception, and Zalis resented the male for it.

No. Zalis’ animosity was misplaced. Ren had no more control over his stature than he did. To dislike Ren for such a petty reason was insulting to them both.

Zalis had a better reason for disliking Ren.

The male had a mate—Emmarae—for years and never breathed a word of her existence. He summoned the team to Tholla, begged assistance to retrieve the missing sibling of his heretofore unknown mate and refused to answer any questions.

The male had hubris. It was almost admirable.

Almost.

Zalis could not understand such a thing. His parents were happily mated—a love match, even. He was surrounded by males who shone with the pride they took in serving their mates.

A mate was sacred. A treasure. To keep her secret? Unfathomable. To send her away to live on another planet? Unforgivable. Zalis did not have a mate and doubted if he would ever be matched, but he knew that being separated from his mate would tear him asunder.

Zalis focused on the terminal screen. Ren was not his concern. He did not have to understand or admire the male to work with him. The mission came first.

Even spontaneous, unsanctioned missions.

Zalis brushed his fingers along the console. The ship was an older model, rebuilt and upgraded with the latest in Mahdfel tech. It was a beautiful monstrosity; not as powerful as the setup he had on the Judgment, but adequate for the task at hand. What mattered most was when he sat at his console, the rest of the world vanished.

The entirety of the ship’s functions blinked and glowed on the screen. Someone established a feed with the Judgment, no doubt a conversation with the warlord. Zalis’ horns itched to listen in on that conversation. Another person in Havik’s cabin—Thalia—downloaded the newest episodes of Endless Hope and Suffering. All systems were operating within guidelines. Water usage had increased. Atmosphere was stable for the number of crew and additional passengers.

Had Ren even considered the strain his mate would put on the ship? Zalis did not believe so.

The feed with the Judgment terminated.

The call had not been recorded, but the data lingered in the buffer for a time. It would be nothing for Zalis to crack the encryption and listen to the conversation undetected…

He entered a command and the screen vanished, erasing the temptation to eavesdrop.

Time to work.

While his equipment was sufficient for what the team required when away on missions, it did not have the capability to both trace the message Emmarae received from her missing sister and decrypt the corrupt councilor’s data device.

He examined the data device. The chip had been concealed inside an obsidian glass pendant. Little more than a basic consumer model, the security settings were meant to inconvenience the curious rather than prevent a data breach. Unless the councilor had additional security measures installed, which would make decryption a challenge.

It mattered not. All things gave up their secrets to the determined, and Zalis was determined.

Neither task was terribly complicated, so there was no obvious advantage to starting one before the other.

The worry on Emmarae’s face haunted him. She was Terran, pale with pale hair and pale eyes, as if worry drained away her interesting features.

Trace the call first, then decrypt the data device. Not for Ren. For Emmarae, to ease her worry.

The trace spread backward, a line that stretched from point to point across the communication hubs, connecting Emmarae to her missing sister. Allegedly. The actual message was empty. The task was not particularly difficult, but it was tedious. As a message was sent across the galaxy from communication hub to relay to satellite, it gained a signature. The protocol was designed to identify points of failure and had the charming side effect of mimicking the archaic practice of stamping a passport.

Well, Zalis considered it charming. Such quirks brought warmth and personality to otherwise dull standardized systems. Standardization was fantastic for ordering replacement parts, but Zalis spent the majority of his time staring at screens, analyzing data, and looking for patterns. He was always delighted in finding unique patterns.

While he waited for the trace to finish, Zalis removed a small device from his pocket. He turned it over in his hands, inspecting the wings. The drone was the size of his thumbnail, could record both audio and visual, and had a decent flight range. It was a handy little piece of tech, but the design was inelegant. Perhaps inelegant was not the best descriptor. The design was uninspired.

The sensation of being watched made Zalis’ skin crawl.

Ren lurked just over Zalis’ shoulder, observing his work.

“Have you traced the origin of the message?” the male asked.

The question validated what Zalis sensed and broke his concentration.

“Your proximity is distracting,” Zalis said, setting the drone down and swiveling in his chair to stare down his unwanted visitor.

No. He did not like the honorless liar, Ivon Ren.

Ren took a step back, which was still too close for Zalis’ comfort. He held his feline, Murder Mittens. “I am encouraging you,” he said in a cheerful tone.

The large feline’s eyes were closed with contentment as Ren stroked the top of her head. Its tail swung lazily in the air.

“Take three paces back and encourage me from there,” Zalis said, pointing to the corridor beyond the doorway.

“That’s so far away. My encouragement is best experienced up close and personal.”

The feline squirmed, and Ren lowered its massive form to the floor. It went straight for Zalis. Ren swore that the feline was a hybrid with a domestic species and was harmless, but its large paws and sharp claws said otherwise. The feline was far from harmless.

Zalis did not flinch as it rubbed the length of its body against his legs. Instead, he returned his gaze to the screen. “Do not look at my screen.”

The feline reached up, placing two massive paws on his thigh, and then stretched. Tiny pricks of pain blossomed as the claws pierced the trouser fabric.

“I am working,” he said, carefully extracting the feline’s paws.

To find the missing sibling of Ren’s mate.

Zalis did not object to the unexpected mission. It was a worthy use of their time and resources. He objected to the way Ren announced he had a mate and would entertain no questions. Zalis was bubbling over with questions. Where had she been? Why the separation? Had he rejected her? Or, more likely, had she rejected him?

“This is work?” Ren reached around Zalis and grabbed the drone. “You fidget with a toy while my mate worries⁠—”

Zalis snatched it back. “This is not a toy. It is a highly advanced piece of technology.”

“It is pink.”

Heat flushed his face. He had thought wings and a coat of paint would disguise the drone as an insect. Pink was the appropriate color for the insects that flitted in the garden of his childhood home.

“Not everything must be gray and devoid of color.” He could explain the reasoning behind the design, but the thought exhausted him. Instead, he set the drone down on the console.

This was a mistake.

Murder Mittens stretched up and batted at it.

“I do not understand the point of your feline,” Zalis grumbled, rescuing the drone.

“Entertainment, companionship, and rodent control,” Ren answered, still annoyingly cheerful.

Zalis searched for the perfect rebuttal, a comment so cutting that Ren would leave.

No such words existed.

A quiet alert issued from the computer, rescuing him from unwanted conversation.

“I have located the origin of the message,” Zalis said, sending the coordinates to Ren.

“That was fast,” the male said.

“Yes, in part because I am talented, but mainly because this is an obvious trap. The encryption is outdated and known to be easily cracked. Modern communications use different encryption methods.”

Ren made a thoughtful noise, pulling up a star chart on a tablet.

Stars, this male would never leave.

“You have what you desire,” Zalis said. “Go away so I may work in peace.”

Ren waved a hand at Zalis, not looking up from the tablet’s screen. “Murder Mittens demands attention because you ignore her. If you pet her, she will lose interest,” Ren said as he departed.

Zalis stared at Murder Mittens. The feline stared back.

Ren had a talent for cracking Zalis’ horns, but that did not mean he was incorrect. About the feline, at least.

Cautiously, Zalis stretched out a hand.

The feline rose on her back legs and bumped the top of her head against his hand. A pleasing rumble emanated from her chest.

Astoundingly, Zalis felt the tension in his own chest ease.

He smiled. Perhaps there was some point to the feline after all.

GEMMA

“Yes. Yes. Yes,” the alien said, gesturing to captives as he walked down the aisle of cages. Not just any alien: a Suhlik. The literal embodiment of humanity’s nightmares. He was as gorgeous in person as the invaders had been on television screens: reptilian, with a shimmering golden complexion that glowed with ethereal radiance even under the impossibly harsh warehouse lighting.

Next to him walked a Sangrin man, better dressed than the normal crew that handled the food and water.

Must be the boss.

There was something about him that screamed weasel. Maybe it was the gold hoop that pierced his horn or the way he indifferently observed a dozen people in cages with a sneer, like they were worse than something he found stuck to the bottom of his expensive shoes.

Absolute weasel.

The Suhlik paused in front of Gemma’s cage and tilted his head to one side as if considering her. Unblinking black eyes watched her, and it made her skin crawl.

Instinct screamed at her to shrink back. Gemma refused.

“The twin,” he said, his voice dripping with contempt.

Not going to lie, it was alarming to have a Suhlik recognize her, like plunging into a tub of icy water while hugging a toaster. Shocking even.

“I didn’t know you guys talked. I thought it was all snarls and drool.” She tilted her head to one side, mimicking his pose. “You look like a drooler.”

The Suhlik blinked. A translucent film slid over the eye from right to left. A sense of wrongness rolled over Gemma, making the hair on her arm stand up. This time, she flinched.

“This one likes to cause trouble,” the weasel said, which was a very fair assessment. “We have other specimens for you.”

So far, being abducted and sold to aliens has been a nightmare. Real juicy fodder for years of therapy. Gemma doubted she’d ever have a peaceful night’s sleep again, but right now the unending terror left her numb.

She had woken up groggy and with a pounding headache in a cage in an abandoned industrial building. Likely an old warehouse. Classic scenario.