Alluvial. Valos of Sonhadra Book 1

Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

PRETA

"Friggin' leafcutter ants," Drogan pretends to complain as he unzips my suit.

One of the species being used in the project is hormiga culona. Little gifts from the Amazon; delicacies consumed for their high protein, and prized for their incredibly potent aphrodisiac qualities.

The research team is doing a little more than feeding me liquified ants, but I blame the culonas for a lot of things.

"Worst job ever?" I ask as he helps me out of my sleeves. I keep my undershirt on, even though Drogan's eyes always seem drawn to my chest. Today is no different; he looks at my cloth-covered boobs mournfully enough that I have to resist the urge to shove my face into his shoulder and guffaw.

It's not that I need assistance getting undressed; it's that he knows I need sex right now, and he's doing everything he can to make sure we take advantage of our incredibly small window of opportunity.

He jerks down my stunning, atomic-orange jumpsuit, shoving it around my thighs. "Mmm," his hand drops to his fly, and the zzzziiip! of metal over metal teeth is getting my pulse racing even faster. "I wouldn't go that far, Preta Sol." His lips quirk up on one side, and it's sexy, and kind of sweet, and it concerns me a little—how much I like his face.

Him. I like him.

Drogan's got the classic good looks with the piercing, jade-green eyes, the high, prominent cheekbones, and the ridiculously thick bottom lip I'd previously thought belonged only to movie stars and models. His looks are enough to make him trouble. His endearing streak is the surprise; a disastrous one. It's a complication. He is a complication.

I squint at him and put my hands on his shoulders. "Less smiling; more sex, please. Time limit, remember? I distinctly remember that I already begged you to tear all my clothes off."

"Work, work, work," he says, quoting one of my favorite old shows as he pretends to take off his uniform.

That's right. His uniform.

Drogan is a guard.

I'm a prisoner.

This is the Alphapod section of the Concord, an orbital prison ship, and he's only joking about the uniform because we don't actually have time for him to undress.

My shoulders hit the wall, his hand grips my ass, and my leg climbs to his hip like this is a dance routine we've done, oh, three hundred times in approximately one hundred and sixty-five days.

That first slide into me? Uunnfff.

Yet... no magic.

"Higher?" he asks before he hooks my knee over his arm. This angle change is nice, but I'm riding on the edge and can't make it over and if I don't come soon I feel like I'll die.

"Here," his voice is strained and husky as he pulls out, and drops his arm so the back of my orange-clad leg slides down his—formerly—crisply-pressed black sleeve before he turns me so that I face the wall.

I stifle a moan as he thrusts back in, and his hand wraps around my throat, his thumb clamping under my ear, his fingertip digging into my chin, his grip keeping me locked in place.

I'm frustrated, still not getting there, when his other hand spears into my hair and pulls my head back.

Startled, I try to stand up, but he tugs the fist holding my hair firmly, until my head drops back enough that my eyes meet his and—

He kisses me.

Not on the lips—my forehead. He doesn't let our eye contact waver, either—his intense greens staring into my bewildered browns, and it's oddly tender, and foreign, and it's such a shock to my system that my core gives a delicious clench.

It sets off the world's most pleasurable implosion.

He growls and releases my hair so that he can drop his hand to my waist and use the leverage to piston into me until he comes too.

I'm still floating down from the orgasm high and trying to process what just happened when he curses and swipes a nanocloth between my legs for the world's quickest clean up.

That's right: no condom for a mess-less encounter. This is a prison in space. Supplies do get up here, but they go to the people with rank.

Drogan's the new guy, a spot so far down the totem pole, he's really only a step ahead of a prisoner in the hierarchy here. At first, he was able to beg, borrow, and pay exorbitant prices to get condoms, but we ran out of the supply in no time.

His lips hit the side of my face, pressing right over my dark, curly flyaway tendrils—in effect, gluing them to my sweat-sticky skin. "No time for round two; sorry, babe."

I groan, and he squeezes my hip in commiseration. His voice is softer than I expect when he asks, "Gonna make it, Sol?" His tone says; hold on.

I don't have a choice: the camera is going to sweep back in our direction, and this corridor is about to lose its blind spot.

He chivalrously assists in setting me to rights before he's dragging me alongside him. My eyes scan him, from his dark hair—the 'could-be-dirty-blond-might-be-brown' buzzfuzz he keeps it at—to the way his uniform stretches across his muscles. Mmmmm.

I'm in the middle of ogling how Concord-issued clothing somehow does all the right things for his chest, so I do see his arm come towards my face, but I twitch when I feel a teasing flick against my neck; this I was not expecting.

My gaze shoots up to his to see he's smirking at me, and he looks... it isn't a cocky 'bitches-find-me-sexy' expression that he's wearing. It's a playful, fond look. It's a... it's a dangerous look, because while Drogan does nice things like conscientiously thinking of post-coital cleanup (which is super nice considering I don't have access to washclothes without permission at predetermined times), and sneaks me the special Icelandic-style yogurts from the guard breakroom, and kisses my forehead, acting like—treating this... couple-y. Like we-have-a-future-y.

My breath rasps out as I revisit the horrifying realization I was struck with weeks ago: THE RESEARCH TEAM KNOWS.

By now, they have to know. The doctors and lab techs do not strike me as incompetent; they can't have missed the fact that I'm pregnant. My case for this theory? They haven't performed surgeries on me in weeks. It can't be a coincidence. Sometimes, as they stick the monitoring nodes to me, and everyone can hear—everyone can see—my heartrate jackhammering from the fear, I want to shout at them, 'Just SAY it!' But. If they don't know, I'm certainly not going to enlighten them.

If they don't know, then the longer I can keep quiet, and survive, the more time it gives my family to assemble a rescue mission.

Whenever I lie awake at night, thoughts chasing each other around and around like a coyote broke into my sleep-sheep's pen and is running them down hard, I keep returning to the fact that I have an implant to prevent fertility. I'm still shaking my head in disbelief at our situation. Maybe the chemical cocktails they've been pouring into me overrode a hormone or something.

But wouldn't the team have expected that?

Did they think I'd stay celibate? After the leafcutter treatments? Orgasm-denial sadists!

I don't know, and it doesn't exactly matter—the knowledge of how doesn't do us a damn bit of good. Drogan must have suspected this possibility though. Or perhaps it was simple male-that-rides-bareback paranoia that drove him to take over the assignment of passing out feminine hygiene products, and start paying special attention to my usage needs—specifically, when I had a lack of needs.

That's when Drogan changed.

He'd already been sneaking me sweet things; both literal and figurative. As soon as he knew though, he's been...

Good. He's been so good.

I wish he'd stop. I can't excise the fear spreading through me like a cancer; I know how this ends. By now, he has to know too.

The beep of his card against the scanner brings me to full focus. Drogan's face is nearly back to his usual mask of hot impassiveness when he guides me inside my humble abode, where I'm celled with real criminals. Unlike some of them, I did nothing to end up here. When I arrived here, I was innocent. My stomach sinks with the knowledge that that time is long gone.

Just before he straightens, Drogan's facade cracks, and he winks at me. His fingers brush against mine, and I meet his eyes. I appreciate the contact; this little connection.

I didn't expect this. He's all foul-mouth and rough edges at showing it, but Drogan cares about me.

He cares about me like I've been trying not to care about him.

This is bad. This is wrong.

He shouldn't try to make it easier for me. He should be furious. We both know they're going to make me kill him.