His human claim, p.1
His Human Claim, page 1
part #5 of Captives of the Dominars Series
His Human Claim
By
Stella Rising
Copyright © 2019 by Stormy Night Publications and Stella Rising
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
Published by Stormy Night Publications and Design, LLC.
www.StormyNightPublications.com
Rising, Stella
His Human Claim
Cover Design by Korey Mae Johnson
Images by Dreamstime/Artofphoto and Dreamstime/Sdecoret
This book is intended for adults only. Spanking and other sexual activities represented in this book are fantasies only, intended for adults.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Additional Books in the Captives of the Dominars Series
Stella Rising Links
Chapter One
Darcy
I stare at the small green bottle of traka spice for at least a minute before putting it in my shopping basket. Looking all around, I check to see if anyone is watching. In another part of town, I’d never be able to buy traka spice—the stores can’t keep it in stock. Here, on the north side, they can hardly sell any. No one wants to buy alien products in Moorestown, no matter how delicious it might be.
Mr. Charles won’t care about that, I tell myself. Grinning, I stroll down the aisle, grabbing ground beef, cilantro, cheddar, and the other items on my list. The spice will add an exotic tang to a quesadilla that he’s going to love. I can see his smile now as he bites into it.
Oh, Darcy, this is fantastic, he’ll say.
Thank you, sir, I’ll reply, blushing. He looks so happy when I make dishes he has to eat with his hands—like it’s some old game he used to play when he was young and now it’s all coming back to mind. His grin, full of boyish innocence and effortless charm, makes my stomach flutter and dance.
My mother would point out, He’s old enough to be your father.
Yes, Mom, but just barely.
I get it. Mr. Charles has to be nearly fifty, and I’m twenty-four, but I don’t really care. He’s still so handsome and charismatic.
The cashier sneers at me as he rings up the traka spice, tossing it in my canvas bag hard enough I think it might break.
“Hey, could you not do that?” I snap, sounding angrier than I intend.
“Oh, excuse me,” he growls back. “I’ll be careful. Wouldn’t want to get sent to a prison planet.”
I could argue with him that I’m not a Dominar—I’m not the one who invaded Earth, and I didn’t ask them to come here and take over. What’s the point, though? If he wants to hate the aliens, I’m not going to change his mind. It’s been five years since they invaded—I think if they were going to kill us all, they’d have done it by now.
As I leave the store, the bright, clear Florida sun and sky warm my tanned skin, and my thoughts turn back to Mr. Charles. I’m so wrapped up thinking about his quick laugh and easy compliments that I gasp in shock, stopping myself at the last second from colliding with a jogger.
“Watch out!” he calls quickly, patting my shoulder as he passes by. Taller than me by a foot and barely perspiring, he smiles apologetically before turning to keep going. His clean white tank top clings to a broad, muscular frame; clearly he lifts when he’s not nearly running people over in grocery store parking lots.
No, that’s not fair. Soft curses die in my throat as I realize I’d been too preoccupied to notice him. “Sorry!” I call out, though the jogger’s already mostly out of sight. Oh, well. I’d have liked to get a closer look. He’d been quite a specimen.
Put Mr. Charles’ personality in that man’s body and watch out...
Now safely in my ancient maroon Camry—retrofit to use rechargeable Dominar batteries rather than gas—I let my naughty thoughts run wild a bit.
That jogger is the kind of guy I ought to be attracted to—hot and handsome. He smiled at me for just a second before moving on, but I can picture it in high-res: perfect white teeth with thick, pretty lips and a casual friendliness in his bright blue eyes. What I wouldn’t do to see him sweaty and smiling like that again...
Driving to work, my mind swings like a pendulum between Mr. Charles and the jogger, but the closer I get to my employer’s beautiful home, the more my thoughts stay on him. Pulling up his long driveway, I type in the ten-digit access code at the gate and wait as thin bars wrapped in barbed wire separate and swing open. Turning to the camera mounted at the terminal, I grin and wave in case he’s watching. I hope he is: I’ve put on a tight white top and a red skirt that’s probably not the most practical for work, but I wanted to look good.
Mom says it’s weird that a man so wealthy—and handsome, she admits—lives alone. I suppose she’s right—but it’s not my job to analyze his psychology; I’m there to clean his house and cook his meals. Maybe he just wants some privacy; what would be so wrong about that? Plus, he has such a lovely home, with a private stretch of beach along a cove all to himself—where could he go that would be any nicer? His mansion is beautiful—built from dark stone and covered in flowing vines, it reminds me of a small castle. Gardens built inside the property walls blossom with gorgeous flowers, and small fountains attract birds that always sing happily. It’s hard not to think of the place as something out of a fairy tale.
I punch in another code at the front door, careful to balance the grocery bag in my arm—a trick I’ve mastered in the year I’ve worked for Mr. Charles—and then ease my way inside. “Hello!” I call out, looking around.
“I’m in the kitchen!” comes a reply in his deep, velvety voice.
Grinning, I kick myself into gear and move, eager to see him. I find him at the counter, dropping lemon slices into a pitcher of iced tea. Dressed in khakis and a white button-down shirt, he watches the ice cubes tumble as he stirs the drink. Inhaling his subtle cologne, catching notes of sandalwood and rose, I stare a second. Flecks of gray season his hair, but it’s still plenty thick. He’s clean shaven, boasting a face free of heavy lines.
“Thirsty?” he asks, smiling.
“Sure, thank you,” I say, getting a glass from the cabinet. As he pours it, I unload groceries into the fridge.
“What’s this?” he asks, spotting the traka spice.
I tense up; I probably should have asked first. How does he feel about the Dominars? I’m not even sure; he doesn’t really talk about them.
“You’ve never had an alien product before. I thought you might want to try it,” I explain. “And... I’ve never tried it either,” I confess. I’d rather risk his displeasure than lie.
He opens the bottle and gives it a sniff. “Oh, wow. Come here.” He holds out the bottle toward me so I can smell it too. When I do, I feel a wave of excitement—the fragrance possesses a nearly indescribable profile of flavors: I expected a tang, like mesquite, but it’s so much more than that. It’s spicy and a little sweet, with all of the distinct aromas in balance with each other. It’s unlike anything I’ve tasted on Earth—which I suppose is to be expected, since it’s supposedly from a planet called Ohalessa.
“You like it?” he asks.
“Very much.”
He grins. “Me too. Thanks for getting it. What are you making with it?”
“Beef quesadillas. Do you think the traka will go well with cilantro?”
Mr. Charles pats my hand. “If you make it, I’m sure it will be fantastic.”
My skin tingles where he touched me, and my cheeks feel like they’re aglow.
Taking a seat at the kitchen table with his iced tea, Mr. Charles leans back and takes a sip. “Quesadillas. It reminds me of the time my partner... Paul... and I got lost in Mexico. Did I tell you that one?”
“No,” I reply, spreading out the ground beef on the skillet. “Who’s Paul?”
Mr. Charles pauses a moment, and his smile dips, but it comes right back. “Just someone I consulted with.”
Yeah, ‘consulted.’ I’m not stupid, I know that means it’s none of my business, but whatever. “Oh. Well, what happened?”
“We were there on a business deal, but it... well, that’s not important. After our meeting, we’d been driving around and realized we didn’t know where we were,” he explains as I get out the butter and tortillas.
“You didn’t speak any Spanish?” I ask.
“Hola, adios. Donde esta el baño? That was about it. We figured we’d keep driving until we recognized something, but then the car broke down...”
I keep listening, letting the richness of his voice tickle my senses as I make dinner. Cooking beef and melting cheddar make my mouth w
In fact, I can’t find any information about him on the Internet either—and I’ve looked. If he was some kind of big shot business executive, shouldn’t there be articles about him somewhere? It makes me suspicious—or, it should. I’m more fascinated than wary.
“What happened then?” I ask, stirring in a bit of the traka spice.
He sighs. “What were we supposed to do? I grabbed a guitar and he took the trumpet, and we went out there and played.”
“Were you any good?” I ask.
“Oh, no, it was a disaster. But I kept smiling and playing like nothing was wrong until it was time to leave.”
Laughing, I shake my head, then taste a bit of the beef. Flavor hits me like the ignition of a space launch. I almost drop the spoon, it tastes so good. Stepping back, I point to the beef and nod. “You’ve got to try this.”
He takes the spoon from me and samples the meat. “Oh, god, that’s amazing, Darcy.”
“Thank you, Mr. Charles,” I say, draining the cooked beef into a bowl. “And that’s a really funny story. So then they drove you back?”
“Yes, they did. But they made it clear we’re not meant to be in a mariachi band.”
I chuckle, trying to picture him in one of those outfits. No, it’s not exactly his style, though he’d still look pretty good. My heart pounds in my chest as I imagine if I’d been in that café, hearing that poor man strumming at a guitar he’s never played. It would have been so sad and funny at the same time.
“You know, that’s not a story I tell very often,” he says, standing beside me, watching me work. “It’s a little embarrassing.”
“Yes, it is,” I joke. “But thank you for telling me.” I smirk at him like some kind of conspirator, enjoying the idea of sharing one of his dirty secrets—like I’ve been privileged with information he only tells those he’s...
Is that what’s going on? Am I reading the signals correctly? I haven’t had a boyfriend since college, and even that was a few years ago. Now I’m not so sure if I’m crazy or if this is really happening.
“Darcy, you know I think the world of you, right?” he asks.
I don’t know how to reply, so I just nod. The room spins, so I lean against the counter to keep my balance.
His eyebrows rise and his smile drains away. “It kills me to do this, but I have to let you go.”
No!
“It’s nothing you did,” he adds quickly, raising his hands. “You’re wonderful, Ms. Lovell, but I’m moving.”
“When?” I croak.
His face pales. “I have a plane to catch in the morning.”
“Tomorrow?” I shout. I can’t believe this. And here I thought... we were going to... “Why?”
“It’s complicated,” he says, acting nervous for the first time. Sweat beads on his forehead, and he’s fidgeting in place.
Then the kitchen lights go out.
“What the hell?” I mumble as Mr. Charles grabs my wrist.
“Come on,” he says, pulling me to the foyer. I don’t resist, and in seconds we’re standing out in front of my car. “Move your feet, Darcy. We’ve got to go!”
I’m about to argue, but since I left the car unlocked, he gets in. “Hey!” I shout, climbing in after him. “What the hell is—”
“I’ll explain, just drive!” He rips the keys out of my hand, stuffs them in the ignition and turns it.
I must be out of my mind, because I step on the gas.
“Ram it, Darcy!” he says when he sees the front gate.
“What?” Everything is happening so fast, I can’t even keep up. He’s shouting something, but my heart’s pounding so loud it’s drowning out everything else. My hands grip the steering wheel so hard they’re going numb. Lingering notes of traka spice fade out as my mouth and throat go dry.
“Dammit, move!” Mr. Charles kicks my leg out of the way and jams his heel into the pedal. Acceleration pushes the car so suddenly my body slams back into my seat. “Hold on!” he screams as we plow through the gate, knocking the wired doors off their hinges and cracking the glass of my windshield. I scream and flinch as if I’ve been shot, breath punched from my chest. This is crazy, a nightmare that I have to believe will end any second.
“Fuck! What the hell!” I cry. Somehow my instincts take over, steering hard to regain control as we skid out onto the street. I knock over two trashcans before straightening out, but I hardly notice. I jab my heel into Mr. Charles’ ankle to get his foot off the gas pedal. “What the fuck are you doing?”
Mr. Charles sighs. When I turn to look, he’s staring at me like I’m some foolish child. “Darcy, I love you, but do you really not get it? I’m running. I’m a wanted man, and they’ve finally found me.”
My chest ices over until I feel brittle inside. There were so many red flags—his evasiveness, the lack of information online... I should have known. In a sense, I did—my suspicions took a backseat, but they were always there. Being with him—even if we were never really an item—was too much fun. Maybe I should have listened to my gut.
“Look, if you want to stop and kick me out, I’ll understand,” he says.
His voice sounds distant, like it’s coming through a bad phone line. He speaks tiredly, sounding old to my ears for the first time.
“Darcy?”
“I heard you,” I grunt.
He’ll understand? That’s just great. I haven’t even had a chance to think about what it is he’s done that made him a fugitive. He could be a serial killer, for all I know. Shouldn’t I be more scared? I’m peering out the cracked glass of my windshield like it’s a little inconvenience; at any second red lights could flash me from behind. I should be beside myself. Maybe I’m too furious right now to be properly afraid.
Turning a corner, I check the rearview mirror to see if we’re being chased. I have no idea where the hell I’m driving. Pulling over and taking him up on his offer sounds pretty good. I want to ask how he could do this to me, but it doesn’t feel fair. He treated me well. I’ve loved working for him. Isn’t that worth something?
“How bad is it?” I say, circling the block.
“It’s not great.”
“You... kill anyone?” It’s probably dumb to ask someone that, but I’m the one driving—what’s he going to do?
“Never,” he says. “Do I seem like a violent person to you?”
“No, not really. You’ve been good to me, Mr. Charles. So, tell me where we’re going, and I’ll try to get you there.”
I can’t believe I’m doing this. Was there something in that traka spice that turned me into a crazy person? I wish I could believe I’ve been hallucinating this entire situation.
He smiles and takes my free hand in his. “Thank you, Darcy. I guess a hotel?”
I nod, wondering where the closest one is, when my car’s engine stalls. “Shit,” I mutter, trying the ignition. “Sorry,” I say, giving it another shot. “It’s an old car.”
“It’s not the car, Darcy,” Mr. Charles sighs.
I look up, out the window, and see it: a small Dominar ship hovering low overhead. Radiant and sleek, its pilot stares right at us. Then the bottom of the craft opens up, allowing half a dozen Dominar agents to drop out, drifting through the air in their powered battle suits.
“I’m sorry, Darcy. Thank you for trying,” Mr. Charles says, getting out of the car with his hands raised.
I watch the scene unfold before me like it’s a bad dream. Aliens converge on my boss and take him away; it only takes a minute, but time slows so I can witness every painful second.
Then one of the aliens strides over toward me and opens my car door. “Darcy Lovell,” please step out,” he says, his voice soft but stern.
I stare at him, transfixed. Seeing his sky blue skin doesn’t shock me—I’ve seen Dominars before. What stuns me is the fact I recognize him. He looked human the last time: it’s the jogger, the one I nearly ran into at the store.
“You...” I mumble, looking at where he touched my shoulder.
“That’s correct,” he says, holding out his hand. A shimmer of glittery dust rises off my top and collects in the alien’s palm. “Darcy Lovell, you are under arrest.”
