WarDog: Book Twelve in the Galaxy Gladiators Alien Abduction Romance Series Alana Khan (i like reading TXT) 📖

We argue for a few more minimas, with every soul on board watching. When I saw both Captain Zar’s and Captain Beast’s mates fold their arms across their chests with looks that had both Captains grimacing, I knew I was fighting a lost cause.

Willa puts her hands on her hips and gives me the same look, her eyes slitted. Even WarDog chimes in, whining. I ignore him.

Maybe Willa’s right. As much as I would prefer to have her safe on the ship while I do the mission, I also come to the abrupt realization I don’t want to be separated from her ever again.

“I don’t like it, Willa, but I can’t fight you and everyone else on board. At the first sign of trouble, though, you have to go back to the ship.”

“I’m glad you still have two cabins,” Petra says after Zar approves my participation in the mission only if Willa accompanies me. “I have a feeling someone’s gonna be sleeping in the doghouse tonight.” She snickers as her eyes avoid mine. “No offense. It’s an Earth saying.”

Willa

The last few days have been an education in anxiety—controlled and otherwise. If I had just sat around worrying, I would have nibbled my nails to the quick. Luckily, I’ve been keeping myself busy.

Dax and Bayne helped me make a bow and arrows. I even have a cool leather quiver. I’ve been practicing archery in the ludus. Although I don’t think I could kill any wild game, I will look proficient enough to corroborate our cover story.

We’ve already docked on Fairea. Bayne and I look like we belong together as we wait for the ramp to lower. We’re both wearing tan leather pants and tunics. Dax helped us make soft moccasins, too. I even know what type of game we’ll supposedly be hunting, I looked it up on the Database to make sure I could stay completely in character. They’re like deer with shockingly ugly heads and four eyes. According to the Database there are no large predators in this part of the planet.

We’re parked in one of the offworlder parking lots near the fairgrounds. Most of the people from the Fool’s Errand visited here a while back and their descriptions were spot-on. It’s a giant Renaissance Festival—alien style.

I saw a cornucopia of aliens on Aeon II when I watched the canine shifter match, but it feels different here. At the gladiatorial games, the bloodlust in the air was so thick you could almost taste it. Here at the fair, people are more light-hearted. They’re here for a good time that doesn’t involve bloodsport.

The reedy sound of a flute drifts to me from my right and primitive drum beats assault my ears from the left. The smell of spitted meat wafts to my nose; I’m sure WarDog must love that.

People are wearing the garb of their ancestors, just as we do at Ren-Fests on Earth. I see everything from loincloths to velvet dresses with as much variation as can be imagined.

We don’t enter the fairgrounds, though, we skirt that and head to the hover lot. Shadow will drive us to the forest about an hour away.

After stopping at an outfitter store to stock up on camping necessities, we take off to the west.

Shadow is a large male, wearing his black leather kilt and sash. On the ship, most of the males wear loincloths or nothing at all, but this is like their uniform when we’re on land. It makes them look deadly and official, which is the exact impression Shadow is going for.

His left arm looks like it was severed in battle and he wears a high-tech prosthetic. He also has a prosthetic eye. He was a gladiator for a long time, but rumor has it that before his parents sold him into the arena, he was high-born. I’m not exactly sure what the story is, but rumor also has it that Daneur Khour was part of his fall from grace and descent into slavery.

Shadow’s smart and savvy and loves his mate like she hung the moon—or moons depending upon which planet we’re on. After he mated Petra, he decided not to fight in the arena anymore, but sometimes I wonder if he misses it.

“Let’s go over it again,” Shadow says as he competently hovers along the periphery of the vast fairgrounds.

We’ve drilled this a dozen times in the last few days so I launch without more prompting. “We’re Bayne and Willa, no last name. I’m Morganian, he’s of unknown parentage and grew up in an orphanage on Aeon II. If asked about specifics, he’ll say they didn’t allow him out of the building. I investigated the Intergalactic Database enough to be able to answer basic questions about Morgana.”

“We’re on our sweetmoon,” Bayne continues.

“Honeymoon,” I gently correct.

“We’re on our honeymoon and thought it would be romantic to live on the land, so we could rely on each other. We own a farm on Nativus.”

The three of us are sitting abreast in the front of the hover, our supplies are in the back.

Before I can continue with my canned speech, Bayne looks me in the eye, and says, “Willa, please go back to the ship,” his tone is a combination of an order and a plea. “This is too dangerous.”

Smart male. Over the last few days, I at least broke him of the habit of telling me it was too dangerous for a female.

We’ve had this argument over several breakfasts, lunches, and dinners as well as upon rising in the morning and before bedtime. It’s been between us like a living thing.

“I calm you, Bayne, and I think you might need me at your side to keep from shifting. Even Captain Zar agreed the honeymoon gave us a great cover story, and