He crosses the finish line, slamming the cart to a halt.
Vael-Torin whirls around, a grin stretching across his face as he shows off his canines, looking incredibly pleased with himself.
I sit there, gasping for air, not even worried about looking composed. That was fuckingscary. I look back at the dust cloud, then up at his handsome face, and the weight of my fear lifts for a second.
We did it.
We are in absolute hell, and my friends currently want to skin me alive, but looking at my red dragon, I know I'm going to do whatever it takes to win this stupid game and make him mine.
CHAPTER 8
POPPY
The luxury jungledome the producers dump us in is a total dream, which is hilarious because my actual life is a disaster zone.
It’s an high-tech bubble tucked deep into a jungle that looks like a cyber punk fever dream. There’s a steaming rock pool, a platform bed the size of a small zip code, and an automated food dispenser that’s blowing my fucking mind.
But the absolute best amenity? Billie, the human producer, just used a high-pressure space gun to shoot a translation chip straight into my neck. Not a spa treatment I’d want on the regular, but the weird dial-up tones in my brain are finally fading into actual, clear words.
I’m going to be able to talk to Vael, really talk to him, and I am giddy over it. He’s big, he’s hot, he’s protective, and he’s mine.
And now we’re going to be able to actually communicate. Hopefully he knows how to communicate and not just talk at me like the other assholes I’ve dated.
Vael-Torin is across the room treating the automated pantry like a party-trick, thankfully wearing a clean pair of tech pants… and no shirt.
I don’t know how he would wear a shirt, considering the wings, but I’m thankful for the view nonetheless. I want to talk to him, want to get to know him, but I’m still woozy from the injection, so I’m taking my time.
I don’t want our first real conversation to include me barfing on him. Or fainting. Or barfing then fainting.
Not sexy. I sigh, and turn my head so I stop ogling him like a piece of meat.
There’s angry whispering outside the window. Oooh, eavesdropping? My favorite sport? Don’t mind if I do.
I scooch closer to the window next to the couch I’m currently draped over, pressing my cheek against the smooth glass.
Outside, standing under a freakishly large fern, is Selene—the terrifyingly quiet girl. Standing over her is Pol, the tattooed Draegon whose skin is currently tightening with rage.
"I don't give a flying alien fuck, yourHighness," Selene hisses, stiff as a board. "You keep your hands and your wings off me. I am not your servant, and I am sure as shit not your mate. You might have gotten me out of that cargo hold, but you promised me freedom, not another cell."
Pol lets out a deep growl that vibrates straight through the glass, his tail thrashing the bushes. "You selected me, female. The mating poison is already in your veins. You’ve been mine since that first night on that pirate’s ship. You will learn to yield."
Oh, I need popcorn. I wonder if the food thingie can make that.
"Make me," she snaps back, her eyes flashing. "See how many eyes you have left to look at your kingdom with."
“My eyes are busy looking at my mate.”
“I want to go home,” she says, her voice breaking. “Your planet is a nightmare, this competition is a nightmare, and I just want to go home?—”
He tucks her into his arms, whispering softly as her chest heaves. She doesn’t pull away from him.
“We will get out of here and make my planet a home for you,” the big alien tells her. “I promise you, Selene. We will have our revenge against my father.” The look in his eyes tells me he means business, and I cringe, because he looks like he’s ready to do a little casual patricide.
Yikes.
I scoot away from the glass. Note to self: do not, under any circumstances, make Selene and her partner mad. If I think my friends want to kill me, this dude is dealing with a woman ready to dismantle the entire Draegon government with a dull butter knife.
What a queen.
