Page 38 of The Alien's Captive Bride

As the world began to blur, she heard gruff voices arguing above her.

“We should just kill her here,” one growled. “Why risk taking her to Oran?”

“Orders are orders,” another replied. “Oran wants to do it himself. Says it’ll send a stronger message.”

“Yeah, well, if she keeps squirming like this, I might accidentally snap her neck anyway. Fragile little thing, isn’t she?”

Venus resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Fragile, her ass. She could probably take all three of them in a fair fight. But that wasn’t the plan, so she let her body go limp, feigning unconsciousness while her mind raced. Oran? Eerion’s brother? This was bigger than they’d thought.

As they carried her to what she assumed was their transport, Venus allowed herself a small, internal smile. They had no idea what they were in for. “Fragile little thing” was about to show them just how dangerous an Earth girl could be.

The journey was a blur of hushed voices and rough handling. Venus drifted in and out of consciousness, partly from the drugsthey’d used, partly by design. Each time she “woke,” she played the part of the confused, terrified captive with an enthusiasm that would have made her high school drama teacher proud.

“W-where are you taking me?” she slurred, injecting a note of panic into her voice. Her lower lip trembled for good measure. “Please, I don’t understand what’s happening!”

One of her captors, clearly not the brightest star in the galaxy, took the bait. “Shut up,” he growled, but then couldn’t resist adding, “You’ll find out soon enough when Oran gets his hands on you.”

Venus widened her eyes, letting tears gather. Time to turn up the waterworks. “Oran? Who’s Oran? Please, I don’t know what you want from me! I’m just a simple Earth girl. I don’t know anything important!”

She sniffled pathetically, watching with hidden amusement as the guard shifted uncomfortably. Hook, line, and sinker.

The other guard elbowed his companion. “Ignore her. She’s just trying to get information. Don’t fall for those fake tears.”

“I assure you,” Venus whimpered, “these tears are very real. Along with the contents of my stomach, which I’m about to share with you if this ship doesn’t stop spinning.”

That got their attention. The idea of dealing with a vomiting prisoner seemed to horrify them more than any resistance she could have put up. Venus filed that information away for future reference. Who knew alien warriors had such weak stomachs?

With each carefully crafted question, each frightened plea, Venus pieced together more of their plan: A warrior ship waited in orbit. Oran burned with revenge for his brother’s death, ready to plunge Tharvis into all-out war. It was like a bad space opera, and Venus was determined to rewrite the ending.

As they approached their destination, Venus sent up a silent prayer. She only hoped Azlun could control his protective instincts long enough for them to spring their trap. Knowinghim, he was probably already fighting the urge to storm the ship single-handedly, consequences be damned.

“Almost there, princess,” one of the guards sneered. “Ready to meet your maker?”

Venus let out a pitiful whimper, all the while thinking of a dozen witty comebacks she wished she could use. Maintaining this facade was harder than she’d thought. She made a mental note to demand acting lessons if she survived this – a princess should be prepared for all eventualities, after all.

The real battle was just beginning, and Venus was determined to see it through. Besides, she thought with grim humor, what was the point of being a princess if you couldn’t occasionally save the kingdom?

And if she happened to thoroughly embarrass these so-called warriors in the process? Well, that was just a bonus. Venus Arison, soon-to-be Princess of Tharvis, was about to show the galaxy exactly what an Earth girl was capable of.

Oran and his cronies wouldn’t know what hit them.

EIGHTEEN

The ship lurched to a stop, and Venus felt her heart rate spike. Showtime. As her captors roughly hauled her to her feet, she blinked owlishly, playing up her disorientation.

“Oh my,” she slurred, stumbling deliberately. “I don’t think I’m in Kansas anymore.”

The guards exchanged confused glances but said nothing as they half-dragged, half-carried her down the ship’s ramp. Venus’s eyes darted around, taking in every detail of her surroundings. They were in a cavernous hangar, its walls hewn from rough, glittering stone. A sleek, predatory-looking spacecraft loomed nearby, clearly prepped for departure.

And there, flanked by a group of armed warriors, stood a figure that could only be Oran Rathor.

He was tall with a lean, coiled energy that reminded Venus of a jungle cat about to pounce. His eyes, when they landed on her, were cold and filled with contempt.

“So,” he drawled, his voice a silky purr that did nothing to mask the danger beneath. “This is the Earth female that’s caused so much trouble. I must say, I expected... more.”

Venus straightened, shrugging off her captors’ hands. No point in playing meek now. “Sorry to disappoint,” she quipped. “I left my ‘Threat to Alien Warlords’ outfit at the dry cleaners.”

Oran’s eyes narrowed. “Insolent to the last, I see. Tell me, Earth girl, do you have any idea of the damage you and your kind have done to Tharvis?”

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