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  Given to the Alien

  Mates of the Brehki Exiled

  By putting a collar on me, he’s put a target on his back.

  Sabrina Kade

  https://sabrinakade.wordpress.com/

  https://www.facebook.com/sabrinakadeauthor/

  https://www.amazon.com/author/sabrinakade

  Copyright ©2020 by Sabrina Kade

  ASIN: B0862DTXXY

  Cover Illustration by Lunatic Covers

  Typography & formatting by Sabrina Kade

  Editing services provided by Valerie Karras

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the copyright holder.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Contents

  MATES OF THE BREHKI EXILED

  Prologue

  Alora

  Alora

  Alora

  Alora

  Torryn

  Alora

  Torryn

  Alora

  Torryn

  Alora

  Torryn

  Torryn

  Epilogue

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  MATES OF THE BREHKI EXILED

  By putting a collar on me, he’s put a target on his back.

  Abducted from Earth by alien sex slavers, I’m told what to do, who to be with, and how long I’ll be used. Until one day without warning, a blue horned alien saves me, saying I’m his mate.

  Torryn vows to kill anyone who tries to take me away, but I was never meant to be his in the first place. Luck may have brought me to him, but when my real owner returns my luck may have run out.

  Warning: This book contains a blue horned alien hero, an abducted Earth female, hot alien action and a guaranteed happily ever after. No cheating. No cliffhanger.

  Prologue

  Alora Novak. It’s a pretty name, isn’t it? No? Well, I suppose it doesn’t matter because it’s not the name I go by anyway.

  I didn’t use to think about the importance of things such as names. I didn’t realize how much weight they carried. But a name can mean anything. A name can say something regarding family. It can mean strength. It can be passed on from one generation to the next. It can show value. And nicknames can hold an even deeper meaning. A nickname is more personal. The lucky ones give themselves a nickname while others are often given a nickname beyond their control. They may not like the nickname or what it represents, but, if enough people latch on to it, refusing to let it die like a summer breeze, it becomes as good as their given name.

  Or, in my case? As bad as it can be.

  For nearly twenty-four years, I proudly carried the name Alora Novak. Pretty little blonde thing with a body that was a little too curvy at times, but which, after getting my shit together, became slim and lithe. Alora doesn’t lend itself to nicknames, and my last name is cooler than my first, so I didn’t care what people called me. Alora or Novak? It didn’t bother me. I loved both. I loved who I was.

  And maybe one day I will love myself again.

  Those twenty-four years no longer matter. Looking back, it’s almost like a dream. I was going to high school, getting through college, and then starting a new job. At some point, my memories became blurry. I was such a fool back then because I genuinely believed I was invincible: ready to find a man and build a future (and hopefully a family). That’s what people did. That’s what people do! They live their lives and eventually leave one family to create another. And while I was so close to having it, in the blink of an eye, it was all taken away.

  My name. Stripped away.

  My job. Lost.

  My family. Did they ever exist in the first place?

  Suddenly, nothing mattered. Now, the only thing I need to focus on is staying alive.

  And, despite being kidnapped by aliens, collared and put on the market on an icy planet, I do plan on staying alive.

  Alora

  This can’t be my life. I lie to myself sometimes and say that, somehow, I’ve ended up in a dream world, only mine is so much closer to a nightmare.

  I rub my arms, wondering how I ended up here and if there’s any hope for escape. My captors haven’t mistreated me—not exactly. At least, not for someone who was abducted from her bed in the middle of the day, knocked unconscious, and awakened in a place that doesn’t look, smell, or remotely remind me of Earth.

  My cage is shockingly like the cells I saw on reality TV shows, with bars on one side and a bucket to clean and relieve myself. Occasionally my captors slither beyond the bars, but the sentient slug things leave me alone for the most part. I’m naked, and yet, somehow, that seems to be the worst of my problems because, while most of my skin is unblemished, there is a weight that I cannot ignore. I lift hesitant fingers, praying that the object secured around my neck won’t be there, but, of course, it is. The texture reminds me of leather between the small barbs that are so much like the texture of a cat’s tongue. I flinch, not wanting to think about why I’m wearing what seems to be a collar. I’m alive. That’s what matters. These grey oozing, Jabba the Hut aliens haven’t cruelly touched me in any way that I can remember. Between being kidnapped and waking up in this cage, I suppose anything could have happened. I don’t know, but most days, I think that’s probably a good thing.

  Aliens. There’s no other explanation for what’s happened to me.

  I remember the beaming light in my room despite it being just after lunch. I remember floating through the sky towards an object appearing more fiction than science.

  And then—darkness.

  And now, there’s a collar. There are unintelligible conversations and leering eyes.

  And, while I’m relieved that no one assaulted me or worse, something else must be coming.

  I’m afraid.

  There are days when I’m not as scared as I should be. I was arrogant at first. I thought of escaping, attacking one of those slimy four-hundred-pound beasts when they slithered into my cage to drop off food or dump out my bathroom pot. I’ve never found the courage to do it. There’s something about their dead, nearly pupilless, dull-golden eyes that makes me hesitate. If they’re confident enough to enter my cage, I should probably be afraid of them. Then again, if they’re not fucking or attacking, that can only mean they are saving me for something.

  But what? What can await me beyond these bars?

  Alora

  I don’t know how much time I’ve spent in this barred box with slug aliens. Occasionally, some of them glance in my direction and speak in their slurry, bubbling speech. They sometimes argue, waving all four of their flimsy arms around, attached with dark grey suction cups that don’t exactly remind me of a friendly octopus. My dark eyes are wide as I watch a pair arguing right outside my cage, one of them brandishing his arms towards the side of his face and then directly at me.

  Whatever they’re talking about includes me, and that one isn’t happy about it.

  He points at me in the same way as the other, slurping and sloshing his thick, green lips, and then slaps the other across the side of the head. But the one flapping doesn’t change his mind. He keeps pointing and arguing. I think a fight is about to star
t, but when the angry one relents and spins entirely in my direction, I can’t help but slide back into the deepest corner of my cell.

  They’re coming to get me.

  I don’t know why, but they need me for something.

  My heart pounds furiously when the angry one unlocks the cell and slithers inside, malice written all over his glossy features. I want to throw up when one of those thick, tentacled arms grabs mine and pulls me to my feet. I squeak, but he ignores it, pulling me alongside him until we’re outside the cell. The other slug falls in line beside me, taking my arm in, dare I say, a gentler, if no less disarming grip.

  My eyes dart from the ceiling to the floor, to any windows I notice as we move about the space, heading towards an unknown destination. There are windows in this foreign building, but beyond them are only the colors grey and white. There’s not enough time to focus on what’s beyond these walls. And, though there are other cages, they’re either empty or occupied by a curled-up alien creature huddling in a corner. I’m left to assume that whatever fate waits for me cannot be a good one, but then I’m not so stupid as to pretend anything good will ever happen to me again.

  These are, after all, my kidnappers. My jailers. They don’t speak to me directly, and they pay no attention to my naked body, which most likely means they want nothing sexual from me. That should be a relief, but, if not sex, what the hell could alien kidnappers want?

  Trying to remember that things may not be as bad as I’m convinced they could be, I quicken my pace to match theirs, not wanting to risk anything that may incur their wrath. Even slithering around, they tower over me, probably well over six feet, or closer to six and a half. And of course, they outweigh me. I was in a skinny phase when they kidnapped me, so now my ribs are showing. Back home, this would have been exciting news. Now, I miss the extra flesh on my breasts and fat on my hips. I miss the insulation. I miss the padding. This thin, I’m more breakable. Vulnerable. Just a squeeze from one of these beasts could leave me with a broken bone.

  The slugs stop, and one pushes a door open before shoving me into the space.

  I stumble, barely able to catch my footing, and I spin around to see them follow me inside and shut the door.

  “Bar deh.” One of them points a thick, green hand over my shoulder.

  When I turn, this room is eerily reminiscent of a doctor’s office. A metal cot almost six feet long fills nearly the entire space. A filing cabinet is close to the cot, with drawers underneath and tools scattered over the surface. My heart pounds like a jackhammer, and I consider making a run for it.

  “Bar deh! Bar deh non!” The same one who spoke before now sounds angry and impatient.

  And, though I’m longing to cry, I do what I think he asks, and take a seat on the cot. The temperature is almost freezing, and memories of A Christmas Story come flooding to the front of my mind with visions of that little boy getting his tongue stuck to a freezing telephone pole. I wiggle around, checking to make sure I’m not frozen, and, thankfully, other than an embarrassing sound, I seem to be safe.

  The other slug beast begins to move. He slides past, only giving me the briefest of disapproving glances before he stops in front of the low filing cabinet, pulling open one of the drawers. My teeth chatter as he searches, and I quickly realize the other slug is there to make sure that I don’t try anything funny. I remain still as a statue as the other works, clicking and clucking away at something that reminds me of a power drill.

  Power. Drill.

  The moment I squirm, the slug closer to me lunges forward and locks two powerful arms around each of mine, holding me in place. When my eyes lift to meet his, his expression is as dull as ever, despite his near painful grip.

  “Ne’un gunda.” His voice comes out like a wet hiss. Too panicked and frightened to fight, I fall dangerously still, convinced this is all he’s asking of me. His grip lessens, and I relax slightly, barely noticing that the other slug heads in my direction with the power drill in hand. I fight off a scream.

  They’re going to kill me. Or experiment on me. It seems almost cliché, but I must assume that movies about being abducted by aliens hold some truth. I pinch my eyes shut, prepared to take whatever these monsters have to give me, and something cool slides into my ear canal. I’m about to cry out, about to fight, when suddenly there’s a loud click, and a faint ringing sound takes over any other sound in the room. A shot of pain rocks through me, but the slugs hold me still, and I hear the power drill land somewhere out of sight with a dull thud. The two slugs press me onto my back as I squirm and cry. Their voices both sound fuzzy in my ears. Until they don’t.

  “Shouldn’t have done it,” one of them says in perfect English.

  “Had to. Buyer says it needs follow directions.”

  “Bad idea. Shouldn’t have done it.”

  “Done now.”

  Hearing the beasts speak in my language should fill me with some excitement. After all, I haven’t spoken to anyone since my abduction other than screams and crying, but now? Relief is the last thing I’m feeling. I hear their voices, and though it’s processing as English in my brain, I know their language hasn’t changed. They’re not speaking my language. Whatever they punched through my ear allows me to understand theirs. I lie still under their floppy arms, blinking up at the ceiling as the blazing, frosty white light glares at me from overhead.

  The voices fall quiet, but their grips are tighter than ever. They’re probably wondering what I’m going to do next. They knew what the device would do to me. Now, they want to see how I’ll handle it.

  “Did it work?” the one asks.

  “Maybe can’t talk,” says the other. “Lower species. Maybe younger than we thought.”

  “Buyer no said wanted youngling! Said wanted—”

  “I know what said!” the one blubbers, forcing me to pinch my eyes shut once again. Their voices are even more terrifying now that I can understand them. Part of my brain still picks up on the burbles and garbles, only now I know what they mean.

  Lower species, the one said. I guess that’s how they view me. And though it shouldn’t come as a surprise considering I’ve been locked up naked in a cage for who knows how long, the words still hurt. And that’s when something else occurs to me.

  They spoke of a buyer. For me.

  I’m not even sure what this means.

  These slugs took me from my home, stripped me of my clothing and my dignity. And not even for themselves. They stole me for someone else. They’ve sold me to someone else.

  My life no longer belongs to me.

  Maybe this life with the slugs will be like heaven compared to whatever hell they’ve sold me to.

  I can barely think. I’ve considered all of this already, but hearing the words with no possibility of misinterpretation? It makes it all the worse. My eyes burn with unshed tears, and I fight with all I have to keep them from falling. But I’m scared, more scared than at any time since a bright light blasted into my room and pulled me through the roof towards the stars.

  This may not be the end of my hell, but the beginning ... which means I can’t cry. So, despite how much I want to start sobbing and asking questions and demanding answers, I keep my mouth shut. My lips tremble, though, and once the slugs stop bickering and lower their gelatinous chins in my direction, I do everything I can not to cry in front of them.

  “You understand now?” I notice the one has slightly kinder eyes than the other, but that doesn’t mean a whole lot. He’s the same slug that pushed the power drill into my ear, so I’m not feeling particularly open to conversation.

  “It not work,” says the other, shaking his head.

  “This is what buyer wants!” He flaps a heavy hand in the air and something wet and oily flickers across my skin. “He want to communicate. I gave shot. She has.”

  “So why no speak, En’tak? Why?”

  The kinder one, En’tak, frowns briefly, looking closely at my eyes and mouth. He cocks his bulbous head to the side, and I swear
massive drops of what I can only hope is perspiration fall to the ground. “She no speaks, no mean not understand. You understand us, pul’et?”

  I don’t answer him, but I’m starting to realize there’s no point in remaining quiet. This slug—En’tak—knows what I’m doing. I’m difficult in his eyes, I’m sure. But I also can’t ignore the word he called me. Pul’et. That’s not my name. Hell, that’s not even my species, but it’s not translating, so it must be a name. En’tak didn’t translate it, but I realized that, within the moment, I processed the word as a proper noun. Which can only mean pul’et is the same thing. But what does the name mean? Why is he calling me that?

  The one with no name tightens his grip around my arm. “You speak now, pul’et. Need make sure not broken. Buyer be mad. Lose much credibility, and eventually, credits. En’tak, I’m right. She needs speak. Make sure not broken.”

  I take in a trembling breath, watching as the other, En’tak, seems to consider his partner’s demands. I guess I understand to a certain extent. They took me from home. They want to make sure their little pet is good and healthy for whoever this buyer is. There’s no way I’m going to get out of this room without speaking. And even then, they may find another reason not to be pleased with me. What would happen then?

  Just speak. Say something. Prove you’re not some lesser being.

  Not that their opinion should matter. I suppose if they’ve gone this far with me, there’s nothing I can do to prove I’m not some plaything or slave or pet for whoever paid for me.

  The thought is jarring. Back home, I could talk my way out of a lot of things. It would only take a bat of my eyelashes, and I could talk my way out of a ticket. Leaning over the counter at a bar usually got me a drink or two. Flirting with a professor often changed my grades from a D+ to a C. Sometimes, even a C- to a B. My life back home was an easy one. But I’m not at home. No amount of flirting or smooth-talking will convince these slugs I’m not something to be bought and sold.