Alien Desire by Hannah Haze

Chapter twenty two - Tor

The incoming message signalling the rescue ship’s imminent approach arrives half an hour before the ship will land. I’m ready to go. The trunk contains all the belongings I have and it is already packed up. I’m dressed in the one clean skin suit I’d left untouched for this day and my hair is freshly braided.

Emma remains barricaded in the sleeping bay. I take her breakfast and tell her she needs to be ready to go. As usual she ignores me. All I can hope is that the sight of the rescue ship will bring her to her senses and I won’t be forced to break down the door and haul her out.

The thirty minutes pass as if dragged through treacle. The whirr of the computer slows, the clouds crawl across the sky and even my heartbeat lengthens. I stare up at the white mass of cloud blocking my view of space, searching for any sign of the spaceship. A dot, a break in the cloud, a disturbance in the atmosphere. My eyes start to blank out and I blink and blink, determined not to miss it.

And then finally it comes. I hear the roar of engines high up in the sky, long before the clouds part rapidly and the silver dome of the ship’s bottom appears above me.

I stride out into the cold and tip back my head to watch. I expected to flood with relief at the sight of my brethren come to save me, joy at the familiar gleam of Astia metal and the unique sound of rushing wind that only our ships make.

Instead, a strong wave of foreboding hits me. I wonder if it was a mistake. If forcing Emma is irreparable and I have wrecked the most precious thing I’ve ever had.

But it’s too late now. What’s done is done. Fate has come to collect us both, drifting slowly and carefully through this planet’s atmosphere, the sphere of the ship dark against the white clouds and growing larger and larger. Wind blasts around me, and I brace myself in place, my braid whipping about my head.

And then it is here, hovering meters from the ice and halting. I stand tall and straight and wait as the great ramp lowers with an angry hiss, landing seamlessly on the frozen ground. I squint to make out the waiting figures within.

Immediately, I know something is wrong. Lord Bryn strides from the ship flanked by four guards — four heavily armed guards. The scent of Alpha aggression rushes towards me and automatically I ball my hands into fists.

It seems my father has not sent a rescue mission after all.

The hostile group marches down the ramp. I don’t recognise the guards. There is no one I can appeal to or hope to win to my side.

I pretend not to notice their confrontational stance and step forward to greet Lord Bryn in the usual manner.

“Lord Bryn.” I dip my head, my right palm on my chest. “Thank you for coming.”

The old Gryton does not return the greeting as he should, nor does he bow his head in reverence to an Alpha Prince of Astia. Instead, he inclines his chin and two of the guards step forward, their long spears drawn.

I raise my hands, commanding them to stop, and glare at the lord. “What is the meaning of this Bryn?”

His guards continue their march towards me but I hold my ground.

“Halt!” I shout and they do, stopping right before me. My hunched shoulders relax just a fraction.

Then suddenly one guard swipes his spear, knocking me around the head. The blow is so hard, my brain ricochets against my skull. I stumble backwards.

Before I have time to challenge this assault, I’m struck a second time. This hit makes my ears ring and my vision swim. But I shake my head, determined to remain on my feet.

“Do not strike me.” I growl. “I am a Prince of Astia. Son of Lord Qudrat, descendant of Byrok. You should be kneeling before me.”

Lord Bryn sneers. “We are far from Astia now, Prince. And it will be you who kneels before us.”

The guards snarl at me and one draws back his weapon to swing it at me again. I duck and pile towards him, slamming my shoulder into his side and launching my fists into his face.

I don’t know what they mean to do — take me prisoner or kill me — but I won’t let them do either. They don’t know it, but I have an Omega to protect, an Omega with my child in her belly. I will not leave her to the mercy of these renegade Grytons.

Rage soars through my body. My heart thumps and my vision narrows, focusing on the threat. How dare they attack me! I will kill them! I will tear them all to shreds.

The guard pummels me with his spear, but I have him on the defensive. He stumbles and groans, lifting his arms to protect his face as I thump him once, twice, three times.

The Alpha need to fight, to protect, burns in my blood. Beneath my knuckles, bone snaps, flesh bruises. It drives me on.

But then, another guard grabs my shoulders. I’m flung backward.

I swing at them both. Scrape my nails into the gut of the first guard, hearing him scream, and bite down hard on the arm of the other.

I am animal. Feral. Wild. I will fight with everything I have. By all and any means. They will not defeat me.

I endure blows, strikes and punches to my body and my head. I hardly notice them in my rage. I growl as I lash out over and over again.

They will not capture me. They will not take me down.

But I am outnumbered. Five to one.

The other two guards join the foray. I take a fierce smack to the jaw, a stab to my ribs. My feet are kicked from beneath me. My arms contort behind my back.

They force me down to my knees. I twist and turn against their grips, but I’m locked by the strong arms of four soldiers.

“See Tor. You are on your knees already. And they said you were a keen fighter. One of the best.” He snarls at me.

“You want to fight me one on one in a fair fight?” I shout.

The lord smirks.

“No, I thought not,” I say. “You were always one to keep your hands clean and send others to do your dirty work.”

I struggle against the guard’s grip and another slaps me around the face so hard stars dance across my vision. A third jabs me with the butt of his spear, as the fourth kicks my spine with his hard boots. I wince. Every part of my body screams with pain now.

But I won’t give up. I will die fighting.

Spitting at the ground, I eye Lord Bryn with menace. “I will kill you for this,” I tell him.

“I think you will already be dead,” he jeers.

“On whose command?”

I can tell this question intrigues the guards. Their bodies stiffen slightly. It is clear only the lord knows who has sent the request to have me killed.

“It is no concern of yours.” He steps forward and grabs my braids, forcing back my head and exposing my throat. “Remove his head.”