Mastered by the Zandians (Zandian Brides 3)

She sits on the edge of my bed and takes my hand. I almost start crying at the touch, and grab her hand with both of mine. Then tears do fall, because it’s another human, and she’s not in danger.

“I was a slave. The Zandians rescued me, and I was mated to one of them. Now I’m free and I live here, part of the Zandian society.”

“But Zandians take humans as slaves. Buy them. Use them. Everyone knows it.”

“They do buy them.” She strokes my hand. “They are needed here. The Zandians are nearly extinct and there are only three living Zandian females capable of child-bearing. Humans are the next best mates for Zandian males.”

“So you are breeding slaves.”

“It’s complicated.”

“Complicated means not free.”

“I need to check your shoulder. May I?” She gestures to my body.

I look down. “Yes.”

I watch her strip back the bandage, which barely sticks to the wound.

“Good.” She sounds pleased. “The edges are sealing nicely. When they brought you in, bone was exposed and you’d lost a lot of blood. Not to mention the burn damage.”

“How did it heal so fast?” I’m mesmerized. “It’s not possible.”

“The healing pack helped.” She picks up something from a side table. “It’s a new kit developed by one of our human physicians in training.”

“Really?” I lean forward, attention at full alert. They have humans, training to be physicians on this planet? Just think of the good it would bring if I could get one of them to Jesel.

“Yes. But I think what really helped was the blood donation from two Zandian warriors on board the ship.”

“Zandian blood?” I frown.

“You don’t remember?”

I shake my head. “After I was injured, I don’t remember much.” I do remember the two Zandians, though. Their square-jawed faces and horns. Their alert eyes. Their enormous muscle-bound bodies, strong and taut.

Heat pricks between my thighs and I’m startled by my reaction. Was it from hearing I might be turned into a Zandian breeder? I shudder, yet the heat only increases. The thought of those large Zandian males rutting into me makes me shift my hips and squeeze my thighs together. Would they be as agile in sex as they are in battle?

I shake my head to throw that thought back to the ether and lie back, watching Bayla.

Every time she looks away from me, I attempt to scan the room, to memorize the layout, the exit, the items. When my eyes cooperate, that is—my vision keep skipping and blurring out. It’s good news. There are so many wonderful things here that could be fashioned into ad-hoc weapons; even in my weakened state, I could kill this human without trouble.

But I won’t. She’s my own species, and I will never hurt another human, an innocent one. Of course, if the human behaves like—I shudder, pushing away old, rotten memories from childhood that need to stay hidden.

“Are you looking for something to use as a weapon?” She smiles at me.

I frown at being so easily read. “I’m curious about my surroundings.”

“I know you’re a fighter. We all know it.”

I don’t respond.

She takes my hand again. I let her.

Her voice is low. “You’re in a unique situation. Mirelle, yes?”

I nod. The touch of her hand is so kind, it creates an uncomfortable shifting in my chest. Mother Earth, the injury really has me all messed up. I need to get my head on straight.

“You’re not a slave, but you’re also not free.”