When I don’t get a response, I awkwardly turn towards the door, keeping my body weight pressed against Vexar’s side.
My stomach drops.
The cell door is shut. Not just mostly closed. Shut.
6
CLAWS
AMARA
AT FIRST, I thought it was a mistake, like maybe they bumped the door shut by accident, but I’m seriously doubting that now. It’s been at least thirty minutes, and no one’s come for me. I don’t get it. I just committed a serious ‘criminal’ offense in front of two guards, and instead of handcuffing me and sending me to my doom, they locked me in here … with an un-sedated gladiator.
I’m trapped. Locked in a box.Again.
I try everything to get the door open—pulling, pushing, kicking, screaming—nothing works. I even toss a handful of bloody gauze through the meal slot in the door, hoping someone will notice it and let me out. But when I check the hall through the slot a short while later, the gauze is gone, and I’m still here.
This is bad. Really, really bad.
My heart pounds in my throat as I lean against the locked door and try to keep my mind from revisiting that living morgue. My head throbs. Chest burns. And every time I close my eyes, all I can see is that bright square of light.
But I can’t keep spiraling. I need to calm down and get control of my situation.
I drop into a squat and push my hands against the floor in an attempt to ground myself. I let my emotions flow without interference, and eventually, I find my way to acceptance. I can’t do anything about the locked door. I made a choice. I chose vengeance over a life of imprisonment. Humanity over safety. I knew there’d be consequences.
Feeling a little steadier, I push myself back to my feet and let out a dark laugh. If there is a God, they certainly have a sense of humor. After years of dodging bullets in war zones, I finally retire, only to find my death on an alien planet, not in a war zone, while trying to save the life of a wounded warrior. Go figure.
A shaky groan pulls my attention back to Vexar. He’s stirring, but still not conscious. Which is good. His body needs time to recover before his brain gets involved. Also, Solta said he opted out of medical care, and I don’t know if he’s going to be pissed I kept him alive.
I glance at the long claws that tip each of his fingers and can’t help but imagine the kind of damage they could do. If he wakes up and wants me dead, there won’t be anything I can do to stop him. But I can’t just let him die. So, my choices are: Sew him up and risk him mauling me to death, or let him die and gift the Magistrate another dead slave.
Yeah. Option two isn’t happening.
I move to check his pulse, and the moment I touch his skin, a warm tingle shoots down my spine. It’s strange enough that I jump, but subtle enough that I’m able to ignore it. His heart rate’s holding steady, but without a baseline for his species, I don’t know if that’s a good thing.
“Any chance you know what your heart rate should be?” I askjokingly.
When I glance up, my stomach flutters like a pre-teen girl seeing her first crush. In my defense, he’s shockingly beautiful. Beautiful in the same way a deadly ice storm is.
My eyes trace the sharp line of his jaw up to the high rise of his cheekbones and over the strong angle of his nose. Until now, I hadn’t taken a second to really look at him, and I’m … transfixed.
In the low light of the cell, his horns cast dangerous-looking shadows, like two black snakes curling up from his hairline. I’ve always associated horns with herbivores, but this guy is definitely not a herbivore. Everything about him screams, “predator”.
Even lying down, I can tell he’s at least seven feet tall, probably more, and so broad he looks almost stocky. I should be frightened, but the only emotion I feel is a quiet sense of awe, like the first time I saw a great white shark.s
My lack of fear is probably unhealthy, but considering my looming death, it sort of makes sense. Besides, I’ve already talked to the guy and he seemed … nice? Funny? Flirty? I don’t know. He just didn’t seem like a monster.
After gettingVexar and the surrounding area as clean as possible, I stare at the med-bag lodged beneath his thigh. Everything I need is in that bag, and I’m dreading having to find a way to dislodge it. The bag might as well be lodged underneath a fallen tree.
I bend at the waist, stretching my tired legs, and groan when I realize my knees are covered in Vexar’s blood. “Fuck, I miss pants.” Wearing a dress has its upsides, especially in the heat, but right now, pants would be nice.
I could clean my legs, but I have limited resources and I’d rather not waste them. Besides,I’ll most likely be dead before nightfall. No need to worry about alien pathogens if I’m dead.
With a final sigh, I move to the edge of the bed.
“Alright, Amara, time to suck the day’s dick.” I reach for the med-bag’s handles, and … can’t reach. Too far.
I swear, if I ever find the person who designed these rooms…
