Page 12 of Rogue: Planet Athion
“Let’s go get oiled up.”
Anton made a face and shuddered. I couldn’t help but laugh. The body oil they insisted we smear on ourselves was icky and cloying, and the outfits were designed to showcase as much flesh as possible; it didn’t help that the arena floor was grainy abrasive sand that stuck to the oil on our skin. Post-fight washes were always bloody and gunky.
I held out a hand, and he took it, allowing me to haul him up so he was inches from me. He tilted my chin up with the crook of his finger and brushed his thumb along my bottom lip.
“Once we get out of here …”
“I’ll invite you in for coffee.”
His smile was disarming and lopsided, and my heart squeezed painfully in my chest. He dropped his hand and gently grasped my fingers. I slipped my hand into his, and we walked out of the room to the changing rooms.
* * *
“What is this stuff?” Xavier sniffed the glob of goop in his hand.
The oil was in hardened form but melted over our skin when smeared.
I rubbed it into my arms and over my shoulders and then glanced at Anton. “Can you get my back?”
He stepped up behind me and ran his hands across my shoulder blades and down my spine. The outfit I was wearing covered my breasts, and a thin strip of fabric ran down my abdomen to connect with a pair of shorts that barely covered my ass, but my back was bare. It was indecent and uncomfortable, but I was used to it because the Trads liked to see the wounds, they liked to see the blood. The guys had a similar outfit, and it left nothing to the imagination. I’d learned to keep my eyes up.
Anton finished oiling my back, and I turned to do his. His brown skin was perfect and velvet under my fingers. His muscles contracted under my touch as I smeared on the goop. When I was done, he glistened enticingly. He turned to face me, and our gazes locked for a long beat as the memory of our shared kiss flitted through my mind. He smiled, small and intimate, but then the moment was shattered as Jurak strode in, horns and tail on display. His eyes were wild, and his teeth were bared as if ready to attack. He paused just inside the entrance to the changing room and raised his head to sniff the air, and when he dropped his chin, his attention was focused on me. He strode right for me, barreling across the room as if he meant to charge right through me.
“Shit!” I backed up on instinct.
Xavier intercepted him and shoved him hard, sending him back several steps. “Cool it.”
Jurak growled and shook his head, chest heaving.
What was wrong with him? This wasn’t the Trad that had come to see me yesterday to remind me that we were a team.
Anton joined Xavier in blocking me from the Trad. But Jurak was already calming down, because the scales on his biceps had sunk back into his skin. His shoulders rose and fell as he breathed deep.
“Save it for the arena,” Anton said evenly.
“I’m trying.” His tone was deeper and rougher. “Fuck, I just need to …” I caught the flash of red in his eyes through a gap between the guys’ biceps. “Rogue, you need to stop.”
Stop? “I’m not doing anything.”
Xavier shot me an arched look over his shoulder, and his words from the other day came to mind. He’d intimated that he could smell my arousal, that the Trads would also be affected. Was this what was happening now? No, the trio had been around me for weeks, and aside from my first week here, they hadn’t acted this way toward me. This was something else.
I pushed past the guys, and Jurak made a lunge for me. Xavier shoved him back. I took a moment while my pulse recovered from the almost attack, and then anger reared its head.
“Hey! Enough.” My voice was a whiplash. “What the fuck happened towe’re a team? I’ve got enough on my plate being a target for the Pack, I don’t need to worry about you taking a swipe too. Save the fucking aggression for the arena. Save it for Zantar.”
He blinked slowly and then the ridge of scales that had appeared on his forehead melted away, and his horns retreated into his forehead. He closed his eyes and exhaled.
“A team,” he said gruffly.
“Yeah, a team.”
He nodded slowly. “I’m good.”
The scales were gone, and he’d taken on his human form again. He was okay. “Get oiled up.”
I backed up some more, and then the guys let him pass, but I kept my eyes on him as he made his way to the other side of the changing room to get ready and oiled. Only a fool would turn their back on a volatile Trad.
Jurak stripped, showcasing his lithe, toned form. He pulled on the minuscule outfit that molded to him like a second skin and then, with his back to us, began to oil up.
