Total pages in book: 123
Estimated words: 119846 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 599(@200wpm)___ 479(@250wpm)___ 399(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 119846 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 599(@200wpm)___ 479(@250wpm)___ 399(@300wpm)
She strode to the closet and began pulling out shirts, holding them up against herself for size. Finally, she picked an oversized men’s shirt—probably meant for a Kindred-sized male or something close—and shrugged it on over the sparkling green evening gown.
As soon as she had it on, Noelle let out a long sigh, voice trembling with relief.
“Ah, that’s better.” She tugged the hem down, finally able to cover her breasts and her soft, curvy body.
Burn couldn’t help thinking privately that he’d enjoyed seeing her luscious tits and her berry-dark nipples. But he didn’t blame her—he’d hated that fucking loincloth too and the way it left him exposed and vulnerable for the amusement of others.
Suddenly, his stomach growled, long and low. He grimaced, glancing at Bright, who raised an eyebrow.
“I heard that—you must be as hungry as I am,” Bright remarked.
“Gods, it feels like we haven’t eaten in days,” Burn muttered, rubbing a hand over his abs. They’d been given food the night before in the Skow prison ship, but only a third of it had been edible—if you could call it “food” at all.
“I’m hungry too,” Noelle said, one hand unconsciously rubbing her belly. “Do you think we ought to go find the kitchen?”
“If we want to eat, I guess we’d better go,” Burn growled, his tone dark but resigned. “The Trollox said the chef would feed us—right?”
“Right—and maybe we can get some information out of him,” Bright speculated, sounding hopeful. “Come on—let’s go.”
Burn led the way, his body still tense with the urge to protect and defend. He didn’t trust this place—not the cavernous halls or the too-quiet echo of their own footsteps, or the lingering stench of the Trollox that seemed to cling to every stone and stick in the house.
As they moved through the massive corridors, he kept one eye on Noelle, making sure she was safely sandwiched between him and Bright. Every instinct screamed at him to protect her, to keep her close, to do something to get them out of this place.
Gods, what kind of food do Trollox eat anyway?
He remembered stories from his childhood, warnings about the monsters—the ones that devoured the flesh of weaker species. He’d never wanted to be a vegetarian before, but suddenly the idea of eating anything prepared in this kitchen made his skin crawl.
Still…better than starving, he thought reluctant. For now, anyway. We have to keep up our strength if we’re going to get out of here.
He just hoped they would find a way out soon.
40
BRIGHT
The hallway seemed to stretch on forever, the deep pile carpet swallowing Bright’s boots with every step. Each stride was a labor, his legs sinking almost to the ankle in the plush green fibers. It was like wading through moss in an alien jungle—each footfall muffled and heavy, each movement slow. Noelle, caught between him and Burn, was struggling worse than either of them, her smaller frame sinking down into the carpet with every soft, slow step.
“Gods, this place is ridiculous,” Bright muttered, glancing over at her. She stumbled, nearly going to her knees. In a flash, Burn scooped her up into his arms, cradling her effortlessly.
“No, Burn—I’m too heavy—put me down!” she protested, cheeks flushing with embarrassment.
“Don’t say you’re too heavy—you’re not,” Burn growled, marching forward with her pressed to his chest as though she weighed nothing at all.
Bright smiled to himself. It was so Burn—protective, possessive, always ready to carry the weight for the rest of them.
He’ll never admit it, but he loves being needed, Bright thought, watching the easy way Burn held Noelle, their female tucked safely in his arms.
The kitchen door at the end of the hallway was as oversized as everything else in this giant’s house—over twice Burn’s height, carved from dark wood with a tarnished brass handle as thick as Bright’s wrist. Burn nudged it open with his hip and stepped inside.
The kitchen was cavernous—soaring ceilings, tile floors the color of tarnished copper, and an enormous island in the middle that looked big enough to host a feast for fifty. An industrial-sized stove dominated one wall, its surface scattered with giant pans and bubbling pots. The cold unit was a monolith of brushed steel, easily fifteen feet tall, with doors wide enough to fit a small hover-car. Even the sink was massive—a deep basin filled with stacks of huge dirty plates, splattered with all manner of sauces and scraps.
At the stove, a towering alien was busy orchestrating a culinary symphony. He had four muscular arms, each one moving independently. One stirred a pot with a long-handled spoon…another sprinkled herbs into a sizzling skillet…the third flipped something meaty on the griddle…and the fourth was chopping vegetables with a knife the length of Bright’s forearm.
The alien chef wore a stained apron over a squat, barrel-chested body, and his skin was a smooth, pebbly blue-green with patches of iridescence that caught the light from the hanging lamps. A pair of round black eyes peered out from beneath a heavy brow, and two nostrils flared on a snout that looked better suited for rooting through a forest floor than working in a kitchen.