Mastered by the Zandians (Zandian Brides 3)

Because I’m going to be given to the two warriors who captured me, as their mate. Here on Zandia.

Not a slave, they said.

Please.

It’s just semantics. If I’m stuck here and I can’t go home, and I have to serve two new masters, what part of slave doesn’t fit?

They’re coming here to collect me, their new property, from the med pod. I’m a prisoner being led to execution as I stand up and wait.

Bayla is solicitous, hurrying around me, gathering up a kit of bandages and medications. Salve in a shiny silver tube. Clothing, folded in a neat pile, the edges concise and even. A brush for my hair, a tin of soap that smells sweet and refreshing. “This is from flowers grown on Torin’s homestead,” she tells me, as if I care who that is or what she does. Although curiosity surges when she adds, “She also invented this lotion, which will help your scar tissues shrink over time.”

“She did?” I pick up the silver tube and examine it, as if the outside will give me hints about the woman who created it. “A slave?”

“Not a slave.” Her voice is even, but I can sense her slight frustration that she has to say this over and over to me, each time we talk about a female human on Zandia. “A human who’s a Zandian citizen, now. She’s created many useful products for our planet.”

“If humans are brought here by force, and not allowed to leave, then technically, we’re slaves...right? No matter how you dress it up.”

I can tell she wants to talk about this more, because her face gets that determined expression I now recognize.

I like Bayla, actually, a lot. She’s clever and kind. And to be honest, I’m intrigued—more than a little—by how brainwashed she is about life here on Zandia, and how supposedly wonderful it is for human females.

She’d be a great acquisition to bring back to Jesel. A being with her brains and medical skills? We need someone like that—badly, in order to even keep limping along. But breaking through her shell of captor-love will be a challenge.

I’ll have to pretend to fit in here, if I can. Bide my time. Earn trust. Then surely there will be a chance to steal a craft and escape. Get away from here in such a way that they won’t come after me. I don’t know what that way is, but I’m smart. I’ll figure it out. It’s my goal to save humans, and maybe landing on this planet was my fate. Because there are so many human women here who need to be rescued.

Something occurs to me, and I touch my neck. Empty.

I swallow and put down my hand. It’s nothing in the grand scheme of things.

“Are you looking for your bangle?” Bayla opens a box and I hear a soft click of the latches. “The chain is broken, but the charm is intact. It was all tangled up in your hair with blood.” As she hands it to me, she adds, “I saved it. It looked important.”

I suck in my breath and my fingers tremble as the chain drops into my palm with a soft swoosh.

“Thank you.” I clear my throat.

“Is it a flame? Made of silver?” She leans in, curious. Like a friend, not a captor.

Her interest is not unwelcome. And I’ve never really had a friend; something in me greedily soaks up these crumbs of human interaction.

“Yes.” I nod once. Open my fingers to reveal it, then clench them tightly.

“It’s exquisite.” She sounds eager. “We don’t have silver here on Zandia, but it can be imported. Of course, decoration isn’t the most important thing right now.”

“It wasn’t for decoration.” I squint, forcing my eyes to cooperate. The chain is just snapped. With pliers and solder it will be a simple fix—but no. Not now, it won’t.

“Is it a talisman of some kind?” At my expression, she closes up. “I’m sorry. I won’t ask more, if it’s a sensitive topic.”

I nod. I can barely think right now, let alone tell her my whole life story. About my mother, and sister, and how my father and I rescue women in their honor. How the flame was a gift from my mother, whom I never even got to know.

“Look, I have an idea.” She goes to the counter and comes back with a thin white filament. “Surgical floss. It’s very strong. You can use it to tie the ends of the chain together so you can still wear it.”

My hands are shaky, so she takes t

he necklace from me, and deftly attaches the pliant string. “Here. Try it out.”

“Thank you.” Having the necklace back is a comfort, although it hangs a little lower than before, which feels strange and different. I run my index finger over the flame and take a breath. “That was very kind of you.” Or clever. It could be merely a carefully crafted move to earn my trust, get me to lower my guard. Try to brainwash me like the other human women here. It’s what I’d do, in her place.

“And that surprises you.” She doesn’t say it like a question.