4. Chapter Four

Chapter Four

B ecca

I step into the largest convention room in the Grand Starlight Hotel, still thinking about how odd it was to wake up in one of the fancy hotel rooms after having spent the past four months living in the slave barracks underneath the parking garage.

Weirder still was waking up next to another person. Not just any other person, but a huge, green, muscled gladiator whose massive body was puffing out heat like a furnace. Because he weighs so much, the mattress dipped, and I rolled against him during the night. I woke up with my head on his chest.

I smile to myself as I recall how Pyne ended up in bed with me last night. After our initial argument about sleeping arrangements, he'd challenged me to a game of "Cosmic Constellations"—a popular card game I’ve played in the slave barracks.

"If I win, I get the bed," he'd declared with a mischievous glint in his eye. "If you win, I'll sleep on the floor without complaint."

I'd agreed, confident in my skills. But as we played, I found myself distracted by his gentle humor and the way his face lit up when he made a particularly clever move. Before I knew it, he'd won fair and square.

True to his word, Pyne had claimed his spot on the bed. But instead of gloating, he'd simply patted the space beside him and said softly, "There's plenty of room for both of us, Becca. I promise to be a perfect gentlemale."

Something in his tone, kind without a hint of sarcasm, made me relent. And now, after waking up beside him, I'm surprised to find I don't regret my decision one bit.

This morning, we kept our boundaries as we showered. Now he’s at my side, the picture of a solicitous partner, his hand on my back. The sparks arcing from the point of contact to my sex must be from lack of sleep.

I try not to blame myself for being horny. Slaves aren’t given the luxury of sex unless you want to have furtive couplings in dark corners with males as desperate as you. Since that’s not my style, I’ve been celibate for well over a year. It makes sense that my traitorous body would respond to a handsome muscle man who smells better than he has a right to.

After we were done fighting for territory last night, and I agreed to let him sleep in my bed, we got along well. He was actually kind, which is a first since my abduction.

I wonder about the scars Pyne bears beneath his tough exterior, the aspirations he might have had before the cruelty of the universe made him a gladiator. I want to know the male behind the bravado. It seems we both might be more than what we appear at first glance.

Since my freedom depends on this competition, I assess the convention room, which is filled with gleaming stainless-steel surfaces, state-of-the-art baking equipment, and a dazzling array of lights and cameras. It appears they spared no expense in creating this intergalactic baking arena.

As I evaluate our competition, my optimism fades as I see each of the other nineteen pairs in neatly pressed matching uniforms that seem designed to look appealing next to their skin. They all have team logos with what I assume are their names embroidered in Universal over their hearts. I’m painfully aware that I’m wearing jeans and the plain white chef’s jacket and toque someone brought from the hotel kitchen to my room this morning.

Beside me, Pyne is naked from the waist up, which Arisha said would work in our favor. I certainly hope so, because right now, we look like the red-headed stepchildren of the competition. I feel like I’m on a pee-wee football team slotted to play against the Super Bowl champions.

Perhaps my partner notices my optimism spooling out of me like air from a popped balloon, because he catches my eye and gives me a reassuring nod, as if to say, “We’ve got this.”

Taking a deep breath, I try to calm my racing thoughts. I never asked for this—to be thrust into the spotlight and forced to compete in some twisted baking competition. But I’m here now, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to let myself be intimidated by the likes of Arisha and her ridiculous show and her accidentally forgetting my name. Besides, if I win this debacle, I’ll earn my freedom.

Speaking of Arisha, she’s striding onto the stage. Her hair, makeup, and costume people have made her look even prettier than she was yesterday. Her sequined dress glitters, her makeup makes her lavender skin glimmer, and her hair looks lustrous, all done up in an elaborate fashion that’s all the rage this year. She beams at the assembled contestants and studio audience, her teeth a startling white against her complexion.

“Welcome, one and all, to the first-ever Cosmic Confections Competition!” She flashes an even bigger smile as her amplified voice bounces off the walls. “We have gathered the best bakers from across the galaxy to compete in a series of thrilling challenges that will test their skills, creativity, and teamwork.”

She gives a quick rundown of each team, their bios written in a punchy style with lots of over-the-top adjectives that give plenty of reason for people across the galaxy to cheer them on.

“Our twentieth team, who we dubbed the Galactic Love Muffins, were a last-minute entry. Bucket is a human slave who, if she wins, will earn her freedom.” She pauses as the studio audience applauds wildly. I guess everyone loves a rags-to-riches story. “Her partner, Pyne from planet Verden, was a last-minute substitution, snatched from the certain death of the gladiatorial arena and tasked with learning a new trade.”

Blowing a stream of hot air through my lips, my short-lived dream of winning this competition and gaining my freedom disappears. Hearing our descriptions, especially compared to the other chefs, makes it abundantly clear we have no chance at all. Zero. Zilch.

Arisha continues her spiel, hyping up the studio audience and the viewers at home. I tune her out, focusing instead on my circumstances as I give myself a pep talk. I may not have signed up for this, but I’ll be damned if I’m not going to give it my all. Who knows? We might just wind up as the winning underdogs, right? That’s delusional, I know, but there’s no reason not to try.

Finally, Arisha gets to the heart of the matter. “For our first baking challenge, each team will have four hours to create a gravity-defying cake that represents their home planet. The cake must be at least three standard feet tall and incorporate elements of their planet’s culture, geography, and cuisine. The winners will be determined by our panel of expert judges, based on taste, presentation, and creativity.”

Terror races through my body. A gravity-defying cake? Representing a planet? His? Or mine? Are we going to crash and burn on our very first challenge? I glance at Pyne, who looks just as dumbfounded as I feel.

“We’ve got this,” he says, clearly trying to bolster my spirits with absolutely no basis in reality. “You’re the baking expert. I’m the muscle. Together, we can create something amazing.”

I nod, my mind a gray cloud of sludge, refusing to work.

Pyne’s humongous palm presses the small of my back as he leans his mouth to my ear. “We could win this, Becca. We have a chance, but you have to at least try. Tell me what to do. I’ll do my best to help you.”

His words make the gray sludge melt away, replaced with hope as my mind races with ideas.

“If you don’t mind, can our cake represent Earth?”

I’m surprised when he nods, easily giving in to my request. “I’m thinking we do a spherical Earth cake—with different layers representing the crust, mantle, and core. We can use fondant to create the continents and oceans on the surface and maybe incorporate some iconic Earth geography like the Eiffel Tower, Taj Mahal, Mount Rushmore, and whatever else we have time to fabricate while we wait for the cake to bake.

Pyne grins, his tail swishing behind him. “I love it. And for the gravity-defying part, we can use a hidden support structure made of sugar glass. I’ve seen it done in some of the baking shows the females watch on my ship.”

I raise an eyebrow, impressed. “Hidden depths indeed, Pyne.”

He smiles, a playful glint in his eye. “Just wait until you see me in action, sweetheart.”

As it turns out, Pyne’s “action” in the kitchen is less impressive than his swagger. Despite his eagerness to help, it quickly becomes clear that this gladiator is more skilled at wielding a sword than a spatula.

“Hand me that pot,” I say, elbow-deep in cake batter.

Pyne stares blankly at the assortment of cookware. “The round shiny one?”

“That’s a mixing bowl, gladiator. The pot is the deep one with the handle.”

He grabs a saucepan and holds it up triumphantly. “Aha! Knew I’d get it.”

I suppress a smile at his enthusiasm. “Great. Now fill it with water and put it on the stove to boil.”

As Pyne fumbles with the unfamiliar appliances, his tail keeps getting in the way, knocking over ingredients and utensils. I dodge flying spatulas and catch tipping bowls, trying to maintain some semblance of order amidst the chaos.

“Oops, sorry!” he yelps as his tail sends a cloud of flour exploding across the counter. “I swear, this thing has a mind of its own today.”

“Maybe we should tie it down,” I suggest, only half-joking.

Pyne wags a finger at me. “Kinky, Becca. At least buy me dinner first.”

I roll my eyes, fighting back a grin. “Focus, Mr. Cosmic Charmer. We’ve got a cake to bake.”

But as the minutes tick by, it becomes increasingly clear that our Earth cake is more likely to end up a mess than a masterpiece. The fondant continents are lumpy and misshapen, the sugar glass support keeps collapsing, and the layers are more leaning-tower than perfect-sphere.

“Do you think we should add more… flour?” Pyne asks, peering dubiously at the sagging cake.

“Any more flour and it’ll be denser than a black hole,” I sigh. “Face it, we’re doomed.”

When the final buzzer sounds, we step back to survey our sad, lopsided creation. It looks like a kindergartener’s arts and crafts project gone horribly wrong. My chest is full, my throat tight as I imagine my manumission papers flying away on imaginary sci-fi wings.

The judges barely contain their winces as they approach our station. They poke and prod at the cake, exchanging skeptical glances.

“Well, points for… creativity?” one judge offers weakly.

“I’ve seen more appetizing asteroid fields,” another mutters with a grimace.

In the end, we come in second to last. The only team worse than ours was the Bletharian team whose cake was burned to a cinder. They had the audacity to insist it would be a delicacy on planet Blethar. Despite their protestations, they were eliminated.

Arisha points the losing team toward the large doors as the announcer bids the team goodbye.

“With the first competition out of the way, we’ll let our teams off early today. Tomorrow will start with an immunity challenge before the baking begins. I suggest our contestants get a good night’s sleep.”

The superior sneer on that pretty face tells me all I need to know about how hard tomorrow’s tasks will be. Any hope I had of having a fighting chance has disappeared in a puff of Bletharian smoke.

“I think it was the close quarters and unfamiliar gadgets. I’m a gladiator who spent every day of his life exercising and honing his skill. I’m normally quite agile. Tomorrow I’ll be better.” He slashes me with a genuinely apologetic glance.

“Guess we better hope tomorrow’s immunity challenge plays to your strengths, gladiator.”

He puffs out his chest. “Oh, I’ve got plenty of strengths, sweetcakes. With the right task, I’ll shine.”

As we exit the cooking arena, I glance back at our misshapen cake and can’t help but laugh at our disastrous first attempt. But beneath the humor, a flicker of warmth blooms in my chest. Pyne may be a walking disaster in the kitchen, but his blustery charm is starting to grow on me.

Who knows? With a little luck and a lot of improvisation, maybe we can turn this unlikely partnership into a recipe for success.