His Human Slave (Zandian Masters 1)

ked her off her feet. It felt like traveling at time warp speed. Her teeth buzzed and thousands of images fell into her head at once.

Although the sensations were not unpleasant, she jerked her finger away from the soft fabric and glowing crystals.

“What do you feel when you touch them?” she asked, forcing her voice to sound steady.

He frowned and she realized she’d done it again—her reaction had been paranormal, out of range. “I did not choose to rule over any other being. It was a position forced upon me when the Finn killed off the rest of my species.”

“Of course,” she said quickly to soothe his defensiveness. She hadn’t meant to touch a nerve.

He plucked a crystal from the mantle, tearing the threads. Reaching through the bars of her cage, he pressed it to her forehead, between her brows.

A shock of energy rang through her like an electric charge.

“Zandian females decorated themselves in crystals. They pierced their nipples and navels, their faces and anywhere else they wanted decoration.”

Her entire body trembled—both from the crystal he’d stuck to her forehead and the idea of wearing more. Something about it excited her on a cellular level, thrills spiraling out in waves from all the places he’d suggested.

Something buzzed on his cuff, and he drew back from the cage. “Be good, little slave. I’ll come for you later.”

The heat burned into her forehead and traveled down her body to her pulsing pussy, which had grown moist just at his admonishment to be good.

It took effort to make herself speak, but she managed to croak. “Yes, master.”

The moment the door slid shut behind him, the images rushed in again. Far too many to follow—too fast. Her vision blurred and nausea forced her to shove herself more upright—as much as she could in the small space.

A fierce Zandian warrior flashed before her eyes. He was older than Zander—perhaps by ten solar cycles. Flanking him, she saw armies of ships and warriors of a variety of species.

With a flick of her fingers, she removed the crystal from her forehead and drew a measured breath to slow her heart rate.

She didn’t know what all this meant, but it was far too dangerous, no matter how sweet the energy of the crystal felt. The last thing she needed was to get confused about what she should and should not know about.

~.~

Zander found himself oddly excited about the prospect of bringing Lamira to the weekly meal. It was probably a terrible idea. She wasn’t trained well enough yet. She still tested him, still sassed. But she had improved over the past several days.

But if he was honest, he’d admit wanting her near him wasn’t a rational decision. She’d become an addiction. When he spent the day away from her, he felt itchy. On edge. He burned to have her writhing naked under his hands, to hear the little cries she made when he took her, to examine every inch of her glorious body.

The vecking human was becoming a huge distraction. And, like any addiction, he couldn’t pull himself back.

His guard Gunt pressed his palm to the screen outside his door, so it was open when he arrived. He nodded at the male as he passed him, his eyes already on the cage.

“Have you been a good slave, Lamira?”

She shook the bars of her cage impatiently but wisely held her tongue. She was learning.

He opened the door and caught her waist as she launched herself out.

“Washroom,” she murmured, twisting out of his grasp.

He let her go, watching her ass sway as she scampered to the washroom.

When she re-emerged, she held up the dress he’d sent a servant to buy today for her to wear. A simple Zandian traditional dress, it was constructed of white linen with a halter-style neckline and long, slim skirt. “Is this for me to wear?” Color had risen to her cheeks.

Was she excited?

“Yes. Try it on to see if it fits.”

She started to go back into the washroom then blushed, as if realizing she had nothing to hide from him, and stripped out of what he called her “cage clothes”—clothing he permitted her to wear in the cage on days he had to have servants sent in to care for her. The dress slithered over her head and down her lovely curves, fitting perfectly. Her skin looked pale compared to a Zandian’s, but she looked no less beautiful than any Zandian female he’d seen—live or in a hologram.