Series: Zandian Brides Series by Renee Rose
Total pages in book: 61
Estimated words: 57939 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 290(@200wpm)___ 232(@250wpm)___ 193(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 57939 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 290(@200wpm)___ 232(@250wpm)___ 193(@300wpm)
“Can you walk, little human?”
“Yes, Master,” I murmur.
The warrior makes a sound like, “Hmm” or “Mm.” He sounds satisfied. His large hand stays on my elbow as he guides me out of the clinic and into a long white corridor. The building is beautiful--tremendously different from Ocretion structures. At least that’s my first thought, but when I try to remember previous buildings, I only get a foggy image of some kind of laboratory. As soon as I try to chase the memory, though, everything goes blank.
Still, I’m certain I’ve never seen such immense wealth and opulence. The corridor floor is made of gleaming marble or some other stone. The walls are polished plaster with pale colors woven right into the texture, not painted over the top.
There’s a lightness to this planet I haven’t experienced before.
Then again, it may be the drugs they gave me for my head injury.
I draw in several deep breaths. I need to clear this headache, so I can understand what exactly is going on.
“Is this your space?” He gestures to the small but comfortable alcove. The other rescues are down the hall in similar quarters. We’re locked in, but it doesn’t feel like any jail I’ve ever seen or imagined.
“Yes.” My head spins again, and I sway.
He grabs me and lowers me to a soft sleeping platform. “Here, sit.”
I blink at him as he wraps a soft blanket around my shoulders. His fingers graze my skin, halfway between accidental and deliberate, and I shudder. They’ve given me a soft gown with short sleeves, far more comfortable than any clothing I’ve worn before. I like feeling his fingers on my arm.
“Are you cold?” His voice is low, and again, teasing.
“Ah–no.” In fact, I feel warm all over, and tingly, especially where he touched me.
“Good.” He observes me. He doesn't touch me again, though, and a flicker of disappointment rushes through my body.
I stare at his handsome face, trying to figure him out. Make sense of all this.
“So you rescued me?” I know he did, but I need to say it out loud to make it fall into place. Try to unlock the parts of my brain that are inaccessible.
“You were lying, near dead, in an abandoned hut on a supposedly abandoned planet. Left there by Ocretions, we think. And you all have matching head scars.”
“But why?” My voice cracks. I reach up to touch my head and find the oddly familiar ridge under my hairline. I run my index finger along it. “What is this?”
“That’s what we’re hoping you can tell us.” His voice is somber. “It’s critical for our planet and for every being who lives here. Zandians and humans alike.”
I contemplate this. “My name is Sia. I know that much.”
He touches my hand then takes it into his. The spark of feeling that courses through me is a shock and a surprise. I like his touch more than anything.
“I’m a lab worker.” I say it without knowing what it means, and then the information presents itself in my mind in oddly perfect little video clips, as if I’m watching a holo. Is this how memory is supposed to work?
“I organize glassware and run basic experiments with chemicals, but I’m not a chemist. I’m just a basic worker.” It’s amazing how the knowledge is coming back in, like water filling a cup. “I can see it!” I look at him, anxiety welling up, but his eyes calm me.
“Keep going.” Daven squeezes my hand. “Everything you remember, just tell me.”
I nod. “ My master’s name is -”–it comes to me–“Torok. But we don’t–he’s not a master the way you are. He never touches us. My face feels hot. “We’re not pleasure slaves.”
I don’t know why I mentioned pleasure. Daven hasn’t insinuated he will be using me that way. Yet when I say it, his horns lengthen and lean in my direction, as if he’s interested.
Stars, for some reason, I very much want him to be interested.
I clear my throat and go on. “We live in dorms and report for work. It’s highly regulated. We don’t walk anywhere without guards. We eat a special diet. Because we’re experimentals.”
Suddenly my head buzzes. I’m not supposed to say that, about being experimental. I touch my skull, the strange scar that I don’t understand or remember. The buzzing intensifies, and I recall an Ocretion face, one of my master’s main tech leaders: You must never talk about the work of Project Alpha, or you can be eliminated. Is that clear?
“I can’t–” Images flash into my mind in a split second. I see a leering Ocretion face above me. Then an image of an operating room, sterile instruments and white walls. A needle coming toward my head.
I cry out.
“Easy, easy.” Daven’s arms are around me, and the images are gone.
“What hurts? Your head?”