Bought By The Zandians (Zandian Brides 2)

I don’t speak. I assess him, watching as he leans forward, his quad muscles tensing. Ready to attack, although his arms are loose. And I sense his adrenaline in the air, his odor. Masculine. Powerful. He must assume I’m weak, because I’m so small. Fool.

“I am from Zandia,” he continues. “And you have absconded with two females that I bought. Turn them over or I will take them from you.”

I take a slow breath in. Out. Transfer weight to the balls of my feet. But I don’t say a word. I’ve learned silence is an advantage; it confuses opponents. Plus, my voice would give me away. I dress like a male and play my role flawlessly, but it’s hard to disguise myself when I speak.

His eyes shift to the entry of my craft, and I make my move. I dart forward and jump, twisting in the air as I do, my left metal-toed boot connecting hard with his jaw.

He groans, I think from surprise and anger more than pain. Still in my aerial twist, I whip around and land, crouching low, then shoot out my leg and wrap it round his, going into the tumble I practiced for a year straight back on Jesel. The move is automatic, all the bruises and breaks merely preparing me for this. Life or death struggle against stronger opponents.

When I tug my leg forward, he topples, as expected. But what I didn’t anticipate was for him to catch his balance so quickly! While I’m still on the ground, he somehow manages to right himself and grab at me.

“Surrender,” he commands, his strong hands pressing into my shoulders, pushing me down into the baked ground. It burns through my camo gear. I kick out automatically, but he straddles me, one strong thigh on either side of my lean torso. His body heat affects me just as intently as the radiated sun on my back.

I pant and look up into his eyes, letting him see mine are green--that always confuses an opponent. I’ll know when to move. One second. Two. Mother Earth, his eyes are so clear, so intelligent. The curve of his lip--is he smiling? How cocky. I’ll show him who’s in charge.

I swallow and watch his eyes dart to my lips, my neck. His smile fades; his expression turns to one of consideration. Like he’s trying to figure something out.

That’s it. I harness all of my energy into my buttocks and legs, then twist and turn.

He grunts and shouts but I’m away from his hands, those powerful hands.

Back on my feet, I crouch, bounce, staring at him.

He’s up too, and as we lock eyes, I feel a tension I’ve never experienced. When he was over me, his face already victorious, I can’t describe ---

He lunges, his fist raised.

I block him, child’s play, then use another aerial leap--a new one.

But fuck, it’s like he anticipated it, because he blocks my kick and then he’s got me again, and he’s pressing me up against the hot metal hull of my craft. Arm against my neck, other hand grabbing my arm. Hips pressed into my body. Thigh to thigh.

His breath is hot on my neck and smells--oddly--sweet. Not fetid, as I might have expected for a warrior. I ignore the tingling feeling in my skin from his proximity.

We’re both panting.

“Who are you?” he demands. “Answer me.”

I stare at him, defiant. He’s not going to get a word from me. My headgear has come loose in the struggle and my red hair spills over my shoulders.

“Veck, you’re a female.” His voice is full of disbelief. “And you’re human?”

And he figured that out, too. I supposed it wasn’t too hard.

“How did you learn to fight like that?” He sounds grudgingly impressed. “And why are you trying to steal my slaves?”

I grunt and shake my head. I’ve never had such trouble getting away from an opponent. Zandians are clearly just as good as the rumors say.

He eases harder into my neck, an easy push, and gives me a smirk. Showing me he’s in charge now. Pressing his advantage. And despite the pressure on my windpipe, and his unyielding body holding me back, tingles flit across my skin again. In my neck. My belly. My nipples. What in Mother Earth?

I suck in air, forcing myself not to panic. Then I shift my hips and he immediately matches my move with his body, pressing himself to me even more closely. His hand moves on mine, but he doesn’t release me. This Zandian has no intention of letting me go.

“I’m taking back the other females,” he says, his gaze direct. The air from his lips, from his words, as he speaks, blows on mine. “And you know what? You’re coming with me, too.” He grins at me, and in that moment--for reasons I completely don’t understand--I almost want to melt into him. To reach up and touch those chiseled jawbones. Those lips. Those oddly enticing horns. His skin.

His body is lean and hard, muscles everywhere. His lips hover only inches from mine, and for a split second I think he wants to lean in and kiss me. I’ve never done this, but I’ve seen others--

I need to take every advantage. I dart my tongue out and lick my lips, and make a small, breathy murmur. The kind of thing I know females do when they want to entice a male. At the same time, I press my hips forward and whisper something to him that he can’t understand, because it’s in English. A dead language. Words I’ve only recently learned.

“My name is Mirelle, and I’m a freedom fighter.”