Chapter 17 #2
Her small, rounded shoulders lifted in a shrug.
The gesture didn’t match the gravity in her voice.
“A shuttle docked with us just before we breached the planet’s atmosphere.
From what I gathered, I believe it carried the male Qurbaga intended to give Lilibet to.
” The words dripped with disgust, her face twisting as if she’d tasted something rotten.
A low growl rumbled from deep in my chest, surprising me with its ferocity. Tark echoed the sound immediately. He might not speak my language, but he recognized the unmistakable fury of a protective mother when he saw it.
“Who is he?” I demanded, my voice dripping with barely contained rage. I wanted to know exactly who to shoot on sight, so I could put a blaster bolt between his eyes the moment I saw him.
“I don’t know,” Binwee admitted, her face creasing with frustration. “I haven’t managed to lay eyes on him yet.” Her lips twisted slightly. “But some of the harem girls who, serviced him, said he looked similar to you.”
“Like me?” I blurted, my voice cracking with shock, then my stomach clenched into a tight knot as the implication hit. “Do you mean human?”
“Perhaps.” Binwee reached out and patted my trembling hands, her small fingers surprisingly warm and steady against my skin.
“There have been persistent rumors circulating about the rise of an organization called the Consortium, a group working directly against the Alliance when it comes to humans. We’ve been investigating their activities for months, following every lead, but we couldn’t definitively link the organization to anyone other than Ambassador Yaard.
” Her voice dropped to a grim whisper. “But if a human is involved in participating in the enslavement of his own species....”
She didn’t need to finish the sentence. The idea that a human would willingly help enslave his own kind made bile rise in my throat, acidic and burning.
Binwee gave me a moment to gather myself, watching as I fought to control the storm of emotions threatening to overwhelm me.
When my breathing finally steadied and the trembling in my hands subsided to a manageable level, she nodded and led us out into the corridor, her small form moving with deadly grace.
The small Framaddi female led us through the ship with the confidence of someone who had memorized every bolt and rivet.
The passages felt eerily hollow without the usual bustle of guards and crew.
Our footsteps seemed to echo despite our careful movements, and every distant creak of the hull made me tense, my heart jumping into my throat.
The walls here were different from those in the kitchen, polished to a mirror shine and lined with softly glowing panels that cast everything in an unsettling blue-green light, like we were walking underwater.
“The dungeon entrance is just around this next bend,” Binwee whispered as she pressed against the wall. “Then down two levels through the....”
She stopped mid-sentence, holding up a clenched fist. From around the corner came the distinctive shuffle of boots against metal flooring, accompanied by a low, off-key humming—some tune I didn’t recognize.
My heart hammered against my ribs as a lone guard rounded the corner.
He wore the standard Kwado guard uniform—dark armor plates over a bodysuit—but held his helmet tucked under his arm, revealing a face that looked bored rather than alert, eyes half-lidded with fatigue.
Clearly, he hadn’t gotten the memo about the mass poisoning in the dining hall.
The guard’s eyes widened in shock when he spotted us, his mouth opening to shout an alarm, his free hand reaching for the communicator at his belt. But Binwee was already in motion.
The plasma blast was so quick, I barely saw her draw the weapon. One moment, he stood glaring at us. The next, he crumpled to the floor, his armor clattering against the metal plating, the sound echoing down the empty corridor.
I stared at Binwee in amazement. She blew across the tip of her blaster, scattering the wisps of smoke that rose from the barrel, looking absurdly pleased with herself. “Sixty years of target practice,” she said with a wink.
Tark gave an appreciative grunt and gestured respectfully toward Binwee’s weapon, his dark eyes bright with admiration. It seemed that marksmanship was a universal language.
The dungeons weren’t what I expected. Obsidian stone lined the walls, and the floors were a garish mosaic, surfaces so smooth and polished that our images reflected back to us in distorted, wavering shadows.
There was a row of empty cells stretching down the corridor, the doors hanging open to reveal nothing but darkness within.
At the end of the long hallway, a heavy silver metal door stood slightly ajar, a thin sliver of sickly yellow light spilling through the gap like a diseased wound.
Binwee motioned for silence as we approached, her small blue finger pressed firmly against her lips.
From inside the chamber, I heard the wet, meaty sound of something striking flesh repeatedly—thwack, thwack, thwack—each impact making me flinch.
The metallic scent of fresh blood hung thick in the recycled air, making my stomach churn with dread.
If Qurbaga had hurt Diarvet, I would kill him myself.
Maybe let Tark use him for target practice.
Binwee pressed her ear against the door, listening intently for several heartbeats, her eyes narrowing in concentration.
Tark did the same on the opposite side, his dark eyes growing hard with barely contained fury as the sounds of violence continued.
After sharing a grim nod of understanding with the Peecha, Binwee motioned for us to draw our blasters.
The weapon felt heavy in my trembling hands.
She positioned herself in front of the door, took a deep breath that expanded her small chest, and slammed the door open with her shoulder.
The sight that greeted us made my blood turn to ice.
Diarvet sat bound to a heavy metal chair in the center of the chamber, thick restraints cutting into his wrists, ankles, and forehead, holding him immobile.
His beautiful blue and gold scales—once so vibrant and mesmerizing—were now scourged with countless wounds.
Deep gashes crisscrossed his chest and arms like a grotesque roadmap.
Blood dripped steadily from his injuries, pooling onto the floor beneath him in spreading puddles that reflected the harsh overhead lighting.
His head hung forward, exhaustion and agony etched into every line of his body.
He looked so beaten and broken that it was all I could do to keep from dissolving into helpless sobs.
I hadn’t practiced as a nurse in years—not in any real capacity—but the familiar mindset flooded back through me like muscle memory, sharp and instinctive.
Clinical detachment settled over my racing thoughts like a protective shield, bringing with it the ability to compartmentalize the chaos around me, to hold my emotions at bay while I assessed and prioritized with ruthless efficiency, mentally triaging the overwhelming situation into manageable pieces.
Qurbaga stood next to the chair, something that resembled a cat-o’-nine-tails dangling from his webbed fingers.
The weapon’s multiple leather strands were dark with Diarvet’s blood, and metal barbs at the tips glinted wickedly in the light, each one crusted with flesh and scales.
At the sight of us bursting through the door, his other hand moved with surprising deftness to pull a blaster from his belt, the muzzle coming to rest against Diarvet’s temple.
“Well, well, well, my little human,” Qurbaga drawled, his voice dripping with pleasure while his bulbous eyes gleamed with malicious satisfaction. “How nice to see you again.”
A low, rumbling growl emanated from deep in Diarvet’s chest, the sound vibrating through the chamber like distant thunder. Despite his battered condition, the eyes he cut toward Qurbaga held nothing but pure, undiluted rage. The fury of a warrior who refused to be broken.
“I wish I could say the same,” I shot back, my voice steadier than I felt. My entire body felt like it was shaking from the inside out, every nerve ending buzzing with terror and adrenaline. I would not give Qurbaga the satisfaction of seeing me crumble.
“You stole something from me,” Qurbaga said in that sickeningly scolding tone he used when I did something he didn’t like. It made my skin crawl with a flood of distasteful memories—memories of his hands on me, his breath on my neck, his voice whispering threats disguised as endearments.
“Lilibet is a person, not a piece of property,” I hissed through clenched teeth, my hands tightening around the blaster’s grip until my knuckles went white.
I wanted nothing more than to put a plasma bolt right between his bulbous eyes.
But I wouldn’t risk it, not while his weapon pressed against Diarvet’s skull.
My mate’s gaze found mine across the chamber.
Even beaten and bloodied, he radiated a strength that took my breath away.
“Oh, but she is my property, and I have promised her to someone very important,” Qurbaga chided, the cat-o’-nine-tails making a wet, clacking sound as he lifted his free hand to tap a finger against the comm bracelet on his wrist. Calling his guards, no doubt.
I heard Binwee’s faint, knowing chuckle from behind me.
“I will never let you touch her,” I snapped, putting every ounce of hatred and disgust I felt into those words.
Qurbaga smiled widely, thick lips stretching across his amphibious features in a grotesque parody of pleasure. His bulbous eyes shifted to focus on Binwee, and a deep frown darkened his frog-like features.
“I am disappointed in you, Binwee,” he said with the tone of a parent scolding a wayward child.