Total pages in book: 57
Estimated words: 51862 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 259(@200wpm)___ 207(@250wpm)___ 173(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 51862 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 259(@200wpm)___ 207(@250wpm)___ 173(@300wpm)
I am a killer, a criminal, and a prison escapee.
She is the sweetest, most innocent thing I’ve ever had the pleasure of claiming.
Emily Hallow is mine. But my enemies are not going to accept their losses.
They’re going to come for me.
They’re going to try to send me back to the dungeon I escaped, and take Emily to sell - or worse.
She and her entire village are at risk of imminent alien abduction.
I am the monster standing between them and a lifetime of brutal, cruel captivity.
I will do anything to protect my sweet human pet.
Anything.
Collared is a standalone alien romance in the Human Pet Shop series. Mature readers only, please.
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
1
Emily
I hate running.
I am not made for running. I am made for cozying and snuggling and napping.
Every step is pain.
Every breath is agony.
But I don’t have any choice other than to keep going, because I am running for my life in the interior of an alien vessel, green lights flashing against black floors and walls constructed in uncomfortable triangular shapes that can’t possibly be efficient, or maybe they are, I don’t know. My mind is scattered, panicked, and barely able to keep up with what has happened over the last few unbelievable minutes.
The sound of alien boots pounding against metallic flooring rings in my ears as I scamper into what must be a cargo area. There are crates everywhere, cages and barrels and general supplies. Many of them are from Earth.
Earlier…
“You’re a beautiful girl, Emily,” Grandmother Evangeline tells me. She’s biased, of course. I am chunky and my front teeth are a little too big compared to the others, and one of my eyes always seems to be squinting in the rare times there’s a picture taken of me.
She is standing in a cloud of scented smoke rising from large pots on the stove. Her face is lined, intermittently obscured by fresh puffs of blue and green as she adds ingredients one after the other. I may not be able to see her, but she can see me.
“Just like your mother was,” she says with a sigh. “One day, a man is going to come along and make you forget yourself.”
“I’ll never forget myself,” I promise her. “Not for any man. Not ever.”
“The village depends on us to know who we are,” she reminds me. “The work we do is and will always be important. Hand me the calendula leaves, please.”
I give her the dried calendula leaves and watch as she drops them into her brew. She never seems to use any particular amount, but always knows how much to use. As much as the other village ladies might try to approximate her concoctions, they never can. My grandmother has a gift they do not. She tells me I have it too, though I don’t feel it.
She turns the burners down low to let the brew simmer and shows me how to cast for the hundredth time. All these little tasks she does so naturally seem incredibly complex to me. My grandmother cannot read words, but she can read people and speak the language of plants. When someone falls ill, she knows what is wrong with them, and more often than not, can help either cure them or at the very least, alleviate pain.
We knit together until the bright light of day starts to become slightly liquid. Then she stands up and begins decanting the brew into a series of glass bottles, all gathered over years, washed and rewashed. Some green, some yellow, some pale and see-through. The smell of it will stay with me a lifetime, bringing me comfort whenever I make that same brew.
…
Memory swims to the present as I decant my fresh brew into the very same glass bottles my grandmother used for years. This remedy will help the ladies in the village who have trouble with their cycles. It helps to regulate and reduce the pain of menstruation, and there are several who swear by it. I like to keep several in stock, as when it is needed, it is needed with great intensity. I’ve been woken up in the early hours of the morning more than once by a woman in need of the Bleeding Brew, and suffice to say, it’s best to not have to begin the process of brewing while a poor soul cramps in the kitchen.
Placing the bottles on one of the many shelves in the kitchen dedicated to remedies, I write little labels and tie them to the necks. I try to write them the same way my grandmother did, on little bits of recycled paper. It’s possible that some of the labels I write now are written on remnants of the very same paper she used all those years ago.
We recycle everything in the village. Shep Tamworth’s paper press is at work most days creating new from old. Rows and rows of paper hang on little clips to long lines of twine in his shop, while on the other side glass is washed in boiling hot water then turned upside down and left to dry.