Chapter 3
THREE
The female terran’s scent would’ve been all Drakkal could focus on were it not for the feel of her supple little body tucked against his side.
When he’d first put his arm around her shoulders and pulled her close, her tension had been unmistakable, but she’d offered no protest—unlike Murgen Foltham, who’d blathered on and on as Drakkal had walked the female out of the cell.
Only the closing door had silenced the durgan.
In fact, the terran hadn’t said a word as, following the map on Murgen’s holocom, they’d driven the hovercart to a rear exit that led from the zoo into the Undercity’s maintenance tunnels.
They’d been unable to take the cart beyond that point, and Drakkal had left Murgen’s destroyed holocom on the driver’s seat.
Drakkal glanced over his shoulder. The dimly lit tunnel stretched on behind him, as empty as it had been since they’d entered it. These tunnels crisscrossed Arthos, providing discreet pathways to the savvy.
Though being forced to travel on foot had slowed them down, Murgen’s predicament likely hadn’t been discovered yet. There was still time. And if things came down to a fight before they made it back to the hovercar, Drakkal had Nostrus’s blaster strapped to his belt.
The terran was as much a distraction as she was a motivation.
Drakkal had to remain mindful of potential pursuit, had to ensure they were following the correct path through these confusing tunnels, had to keep the terran safe—all while his groin ached and his cock struggled against the restraint of his pants.
Apart from his ceaseless battle against lust, this all seemed too easy. They’d walked out the back door of Foltham’s zoo unchallenged—no guards, no alarms, just a blast door that had opened after a prompt from the stolen holocom. Was Foltham’s security truly so lax, or was there more to it?
Arrogance. That gresh navari likely never imagined anyone would have the balls to pull something like this.
The female, too, didn’t seem quite right.
She’d been quiet and cooperative thus far.
Where was the fierce little creature Murgen had described?
Where was the warrior who’d injured several security guards?
She was Drakkal’s mate—there was no denying that—but she was more than she appeared.
She was cunning, and Drakkal knew nothing about her. He needed to remain wary.
Don’t be stupid.
Or stupider, anyway.
And yet his attention continually returned to her lovely scent, to her delectable little body—how he craved to peel off the jacket and bare her skin to him again, to feel that skin against him—and the fleeting, random brushes of her soft, warm breath over his fur.
Focus. Time to start thinking this out.
They’d escaped Murgen’s manor, but the danger hadn’t passed. Drakkal had crushed Murgen’s holocom and left it with the hovercart to avoid having it traced, but there was at least one other means by which Drakkal and the terran could be tracked.
He halted, placed his hands on the female’s shoulders, and guided her to stand in front of him, facing ahead.
She attempted to pull away, but Drakkal held her firmly in place.
He took extra care with his prosthesis; though he’d had the cybernetic limb for a year, he still sometimes underestimated its strength, and he had no desire to harm this female.
“Be still,” he said. He slid his right hand up her neck, sweeping aside her long, golden hair to press his fingertips over her spine.
She stiffened. “What are you doing?”
Drakkal paused, ears perking. Though her voice was hard, demanding, and guarded, it was also amongst the sweetest sounds he’d ever heard. His hunger for her intensified.
Clenching his jaw, he forced his fingers up slowly, moving them toward her skull. “Murgen likely implanted a tracker in you. Most of his type do that with their slaves.”
“I’m not a slave.”
Drakkal halted his fingers when he felt a tiny nub beneath her skin; it moved when he shifted his finger from side to side. “Something tells me he sees it differently. Hands on the wall.”
She turned, raised her hands, and flattened them against the wall. “The last guard who told me to put my hands on the wall wound up with a broken arm.”
Drakkal guided her head forward until her forehead also rested against the wall.
The threat she’d made was as comical as it was endearing, given their size difference.
Her bravado was almost enough to heighten his desire, but he’d been a fighter for long enough to know not to underestimate anyone based on size alone.
“You’ll want to try breaking my arm in a second,” he said, “but you’d just hurt yourself more.”
She widened her stance and took a deep breath. “Whatever it is you’re going to do, do it.”
He gathered her hair together, twisted it into a loose bundle, and moved it aside, clearing the patch of skin where he’d felt the tracker.
Placing his right hand on the side of her neck with his fingers beneath her jaw and his thumb pressed against the back of her skull, he forced her head forward to a sharper angle; her resistance was brief but surprisingly strong.
Raising his prosthetic hand, he formed the hardlight claw at the tip of his forefinger—a hooked blade that looked like translucent red crystal—and lowered it to the skin over the tracker. He slid one foot forward, bracing a leg between hers and pinning her against the wall with his hip.
She tensed. “What the fu—ah!”
Drakkal slid the claw over her skin.
The terran’s hiss became a low, pained hum as she slapped her hand against the wall. Blood welled along the incision and trickled down the back of her neck. Drakkal’s stomach churned; for a moment, he felt as though he were about to retch.
Blood had never bothered him before, not once in his entire life. Why now? Why did the sight of her blood—and the knowledge that he’d spilled it—make him sick to his stomach?
Swallowing thickly, he forced himself to work. He dismissed the hardlight claw and pinched the incision from its ends, opening it like a tiny, bloody mouth—a resemblance that caused a resurgence of his nausea, but he wouldn’t let himself vomit.
Stop acting like a fucking zhe’gaash and do what needs to be done!
The tiny, crimson-coated tristeel orb was barely visible amidst the glistening blood. He shifted his right hand, curled his fingers to extend his natural claws, and pinched the orb between them. He drew it out slowly, revealing the hair-thin wires attached to it a millimeter at a time.
“Hurry the fuck up,” she snapped. Her hands were curled into fists against the wall, and her entire body was rigid and trembling.
Drakkal clenched his jaw. He’d hurt her already, but he knew this was the worst part, and despite everything he’d seen and done in his life, he didn’t want to do this. He didn’t want to cause her more pain.
But this was the path he’d decided to walk. The time to choose had passed.
He pulled on the orb. The wires went taut, clinging to their anchor points somewhere deep in the terran’s flesh. Drakkal gave the orb another sharp tug, and the wires broke free.
A high-pitched cry burst from the terran’s throat, and she went slack. Drakkal hurriedly tossed aside the tracker, looped his prosthetic arm around her middle, and lifted his knee to take her weight onto his leg and keep her upright.
She inhaled deeply and flattened her palms against the wall, running them up and down slowly. Her exhalation was soft and slow as she released the breath, only to suck in another, as though breathing through her pain.
Drakkal’s insides twisted and flipped. He’d spent years physically harming people in arena bouts and had never felt remorse over it.
But hurting her, hurting his mate…it was too much.
He dropped his right hand to his belt and felt along it until his bloody fingers touched his small first-aid pouch.
After a few moments of fumbling, he tugged a bandage out of its little dispenser and raised it to her neck.
“We’re done.” He pressed the bandage over the wound. The bandage activated immediately and faded into her skin, sealing the cut as it vanished.
Slowly, he removed his leg from between hers, allowing her to support her own weight a little at a time.
She was still for a little while before she hesitantly eased away from the wall and turned to face him.
She swayed unsteadily, and her body sagged toward him.
Drakkal’s heart leapt. He caught her upper arms, stopping her before she fell.
Had he done too much damage, pushed her too hard, inflicted too much pain?
His familiarity with terran anatomy was relatively shallow; he wasn’t sure how much punishment they could endure.
He needed to bring her home to the compound. Urgand had been studying terran medicine for the last year—ever since Arcanthus took Samantha as his mate—and would be far better equipped than Drakkal to examine and treat this terran.
Her palm settled on his thigh. For an instant, Drakkal’s blood reheated with desire, and conscious thought ceased.
She slid her hand slowly up toward his waist. Her touch, even through his pants, sparked an electric current across his skin that made his tail twitch and his fur stand on end.
He craved more of it—now—despite their situation.
“No,” she said, stepping back to press herself against the wall, “we’re not done.”
Drakkal’s brows and ears fell; her tone, now firm and confident, snapped him back to reality. He glanced down to see the blaster he’d taken from Nostrus—the blaster he’d dropped into the empty holster on his belt—in the terran’s hand, its barrel pointed at his chest.
Whatever he might’ve expected from a female in her condition, especially given what she’d been through, it wasn’t this. And her hand was absolutely steady—not even the faintest tremor moved the blaster.
Well, Drakkal, you did it. You were stupid. Again.
“Step back,” she commanded.