Page 2 of A Merciless Bargain

I quirked an eyebrow. “Really? When you speak English?” I questioned, though inside I was screaming. Shit! Shit! Shit! That confirmed Vadhea had hired him. This was bad. Very bad.

“I downloaded all of Earth’s languages,” he explained. “Before I decided human Runners are not worth the money,” the Foulan continued, unaware of my internal plight. “Too easy to catch.”

“Hey, I was an athlete,” I retorted. “A track star.”

He didn’t respond.

“I can run really fast,” I explained, assuming he didn’t understand what I meant.

“So?” he asked, confused. “I caught you.”

“Hmm, okay, that’s true,” I relented. Whatever.

The Foulan’s black eyes roved over my figure. “Disrobe,” he ordered.

The request wasn’t sexual. I knew why he wanted to see me naked. Humans weren’t built like Foulans. My hair and eyes could have been altered to appear human. He knew my body likely wouldn’t have been. “Why?” I asked anyway, stalling.

“I dislike being lied to,” he snapped.

“Then you should want me to stay a Foulan,” I joked weakly.

“Disrobe,” he repeated, my joke not even earning a chuckle. The alien Enforcer didn’t have a sense of humor.

“No,” I tried to refuse, though my heart rate jackhammered. “Who hired you?” I pleaded, needing to confirm it was Vadhea.

The Foulan frowned, his surprisingly clean-shaven face darkening. “Disrobe,” he said a third time, ignoring my question. “Or I will do it for you.”

The thought of disrobing pissed me off. It was cold out. But the thought of the Foulan disrobing me bothered me more. They were like Earth’s version of a werewolf. Part man and part wolf. Typically hairy—which was why this one’s clean-shaven face was such a surprise. He looked quite good, if I was being honest. The black hair and black eyes were very typical of his species. Unfortunately, so was strength and a no-nonsense manner. I didn’t want him accidentally hurting me or tearing my clothes. When I figured my way out of this, I’d need my clothing intact.

Starting with my shoes, I used a heel to slide each foot out. My socks I left on, both to defy the order and because the ground was fucking frigid, even with them on. I gave my leggings a slight tug at the waistband to separate the fastener, similar to a silent Velcro. Despite their tight-fitting design, that allowed me to shimmer the leggings over my hips and down my long legs. Once folded, I placed them on my shoes, my brain trying to figure out how to get away. I didn’t see a way to do it until dressed again.

Maybe delaying was a poor tactic.

Instead, I sped up. I yanked the black vest’s front fastener and slid the vest off. My hands gripped the bottom of my black blouse and I did the same. I risked a glance at his face, standing there in my underwear, shivering in the icy wind.

What I saw shocked me.

His eyes had dilated and his face flushed. Did he find me attractive? That was unusual for a Foulan. Bowyer, my purchaser, had been an exception, wanting a human female more because he liked the exotic. Most Foulans didn’t find humans attractive. Frankly, they often considered us beneath them because of our diminutive size and lack of hair.

But not this particular Foulan, it seemed. A plan began formulating.

Now I slowed down, taking my time undoing the bandeau across my chest. When my breasts sprang free, I couldn’t help but notice the bulge in his pants.

Was he getting a woodie? No way.

I hooked a finger into my black panties, watching his face as he watched my finger guide the panties down my legs. I stepped out of them and leaned over to place them on my growing pile of clothing.

Speaking of growing.

There was a definite bulge in the Foulan’s pants.

He stepped forward, his rough hand cupping my left breast, then running it along my ribcage. He paused at my waist before angling toward my mound. His fingers rubbed along the thatch of hair. Then he cupped my sex, startling us both. I moaned at his hand’s movement.

Instead of continuing, he sprung away from me. “You have hair, though not nearly enough,” he concluded, his voice husky, unlike before.

For a Foulan—I knew he meant what remained unspoken.

“You do not feel surgically altered,” he continued, again more to himself than to me.