Despite his concern for the terran’s wellbeing, he drove two full sectors in the wrong direction before finally diverting to one of the many Order-operated safehouses scattered throughout the city. The severity of the bump on her head wouldn’t matter if they were blasted out of the air by a Starforge clean-up crew.
After guiding the vehicle into the small garage and sealing the entry door, Tenthil climbed off the bike, lifted the human into his arms, and cradled her against his chest. He glanced at the surveillance screen on the garage wall, positioned beside the stairwell entrance; the feeds monitored all sides of the large building, watching for activity, but everything was currently clear. Tenthil carried the terran through the interior door, into the living space.
Like most of the Order’s safehouses, the furnishings were sparse but functional. Food storage and preparation shared a room with the bed. A door in the corner led into a bathroom with a narrow shower stall. Another door—designed to blend seamlessly with the wall—opened on a chamber containing weapons, ammunition, equipment, and a terminal to access the Order’s network.
He laid his terran on the bed and paused, briefly debating whether to scour the room for surveillance equipment and deactivate it. He opted not to; disabled feeds would rouse immediate suspicions back at the temple, drawing the Master’s attention to him that much faster. He could shroud himself from the cameras. That would have to be enough for now.
Tenthil turned away from the female to remove his armor, boots, gloves, and the upper and lower halves of his combat suit, setting it all aside for later cleaning. Dressed only in his undershorts, he walked back to the bed and stared down at her.
It was the first quiet moment during which he’d been able to truly look upon her, to examine her face in pure light and absorb its details. Her skin was pale, nearly translucent, offering hints of thin, blue veins at her temples and on her delicate eyelids. He placed a hand upon the bed next to her shoulder and bent closer. Thick, dark lashes rested upon her cheeks, and shapely brows arched over her eyes, leading to a straight, pert nose.
Tenthil moved a hand to her face and lifted several strands of hair that had fallen over it, rubbing it between his fingertips. Many species in Arthos had hair—Tenthil himself did—but hers was unlike any he’d encountered. Though it was straight and thick like his, it was softer, and possessed a subtle sheen beneath the overhead lights. He trailed his fingers down the strands, moving from black to vibrant blue; his knuckles brushed the smooth skin of her cheek that sent a wave of heat up his arm.
His gaze dropped to her mouth. Sweet venom flowed over his tongue as he recalled the feel of those pink lips against his. Soft, inviting, yielding. He swallowed thickly and lowered his mouth toward hers only to halt when he caught scent of blood—Cullion’s blood. Clenching his teeth against his desire, against the throbbing in his groin, against his need to touch her, Tenthil drew back.
He grasped her blood-stained shirt by the collar, punctured the fabric with his claws, and split the material from her neck to belly. He sucked in a sharp breath.
She was bare beneath.
His heart pounded, sped by the sight before him. Despite the blue blood that had seeped through her clothing to smear her pale flesh, she was the most beautiful creature he’d ever seen. Before her, he’d never felt such desire, had never fallen victim to his body’s cravings, had never abandoned self-control like he wanted to in her presence. Everything within him yearned for this female—for her touch, her scent, her taste.
He lowered a hand over one of her small breasts and brushed the pad of his thumb over her pink nipple, which hardened immediately. It was only then he realized his hands were trembling—not because the high of battle had finally faded, but because of his overwhelming, unfathomable need.
Never in his life had his hands been unsteady—it was unacceptable for what he was, for what he did.
Tenthil snatched his hand away from her, breaking that contact, and released a shuddering breath.
Fuck.
Straightening, he thrust his clawed fingers into his hair, tugging it back hard enough to produce sharp pain on his scalp, and growled. He backpedaled and forced himself to turn away from the terran.
What is wrong with me?
The question tumbled through his head, repeating itself, but he focused past it; at that moment, the answer was unimportant. His world had been one of shadows, violence, and death for almost as long as he could remember, and he’d learned long ago that thinking too far ahead of anything could easily cause more trouble than it solved. Tenthil worked best when he tackled one issue at a time.
He needed to check her for wounds and tend them as best he could—that was the priority now.
He couldn’t afford to stop and imagine how different his life could be with her in it.
Clenching his jaw, he spun around and returned to the bedside. He ignored the ache in his groin as he took careful hold of her, worked her arms out of her sleeves, and rolled her onto her side to pull away her shredded shirt. He stilled when his gaze settled on her back.
Dark, thin bruises crisscrossed her back, each one surrounded by irritated red skin indicative of mild burns.
Tenthil knew the marks for what they were—wounds from an electrolash. The Master had used one on him before in hopes of curtailing his tendency toward insubordination. His own back tingled with the memory of the pain he’d suffered.
The fury that had prompted him to action earlier rekindled, replacing the oddly sweet venom in his mouth with the bitter. His claws lengthened as his muscles tensed. He should have taken his time with Cullion, should have made the bastard suffer for hours, for days, before granting him the release of death.
A low growl rose from his chest as he grasped her collar on both sides and pulled. The ornamented metal bit into his fingers, but he ignored the pain. With a groan, the latch broke, and the sides of the collar bent outward. He tossed the neckband aside.
The faint scarring around her neck—barely perceptible against her pale skin—further fueled his now-impotent rage. But with no immediate threat to her, his instinct turned in another direction—he wanted, needed, to draw her close and comfort her, to nurse her wounds, to make her know everything would be all right. There was no more need for fear.
She was his. And he would protect her from anyone, anything, until his dying breath.
Five
Abella’s head throbbed; the pain pulsed from her temples to encompass her entire skull, amplified by every beat of her heart. She’d never had a headache this severe, not even after she’d overindulged at her first college party.
Groaning, she pulled her knees to her chest to curl into a tight ball, but she stopped abruptly when she remembered the wounds on her back. Any move to stretch her back muscles over the last week had agitated the angry bruises left by the electrolash, producing intense pain. Yet there was no tightness now, no discomfort—not even a twinge. All she felt was the caress of a cool, soft sheet against the bare skin of her back.
Bare skin?
Abella frowned, lifted her head, and opened her eyes, blinking against the light until her vision cleared. A wholly unfamiliar room greeted her. It was a little larger than her bedchamber in the manor, its practicality and absence of decoration in harsh contrast to Cullion’s tendency toward gaudiness. Several rectangular panels on the ceiling, which was the same dull gray as the walls, provided the dim white light filling the room.
The furnishings were minimal, utilitarian, unconcerned with aesthetic appeal. It seemed like the studio apartment of a man who was never home, the kind of man who slept and ate only because those things were necessary to fuel his body.
Brows low, Abella sat up. The movement brought on a wave of dizziness; she winced and pressed a hand to her head as though the gesture could steady her. The blanket fell to her lap, baring her breasts, and her frown deepened.
Where the hell was she?
And where the hell were her clothes? She never slept naked.
> The click of a latch called her attention to the door across from the foot of the bed. She looked up, and her breath caught in her throat. He stood in the doorway, wearing only a pair of black pants, his damp silver hair hanging about his bare shoulders.
Everything returned to her in a rush—she remembered being released from the isolation chamber, being bathed and prepared for an audience with Cullion when this scarred stranger entered in her room. She remembered…blood.
Cullion’s blood.
The air fled her lungs as she stared at the stranger, who stared at her in turn. His eyes dipped, reminding her suddenly of her nudity.
Cheeks flushing, she gathered the blanket and pulled it over her chest, clutching it there. His gaze returned to hers, pupils dilating to swallow a little more of his silver irises, and even though her breasts were no longer on display, her nipples hardened as though he’d physically stroked them.
She tightened her fingers around the blanket. “Is he…really dead? Cullion?”
The stranger nodded. Her heart fluttered as he stepped closer.
“It’s over?” she asked. “I’m free?”
He moved closer still, his toned muscles rippling beneath his pale gray skin, his eyes intense.
“Um…my name is Abella. What’s yours?”
The stranger paused at the foot of the bed; for a moment, she thought he’d finally reply to her, that she’d finally hear his voice. Instead, he placed his hands on the bed, climbed atop it, and crawled toward her.
Her breath quickened, and she scooted back, keeping a tight hold on the blanket. “What…what are you doing?”
He moved with the surety and grace of a stalking panther, shrinking the distance between them until he was close enough for her to feel his heat, to feel his weight pull the bedding taut over her bare thighs. He leaned over Abella, caging her between his arms, and dipped his head to press his lips against her neck. He drew in a slow, deep breath. A growl rumbled from him, and his claws flexed on the bedding.
The shocking feel of his lips on her skin sent a thrill straight to Abella’s core. The sensation was so powerful, so frightening, that she panicked. She placed her hands against his chest and pushed; he was startlingly solid and heavy.
A look of surprise crossed his face as he tumbled over the edge of the bed, landing on the floor with a loud thump. Abella scrambled off the other side of the bed, dragging the blanket along to keep herself covered, and backed away.
The stranger rose slowly and turned to face her; his expression was unreadable.
She had a sense that he’d moved with deliberate slowness; she’d seen how quickly he could move back in the manor and had no doubt he could’ve been across the bed, arms banded around her, before she’d even gained her feet if he’d wanted to.
“Did you steal me from Cullion just to make me your slave?” she asked, glaring at him. “Because I won’t be. I will not spend even one more day as someone’s property.”
The fire in his eyes never dwindled; it burned perpetually, burned for her. One corner of his mouth tilted up.
“Did you hear me?” Abella demanded, anger overcoming her good sense—she had no leverage in this situation, no power, no leeway to dictate the terms of their relationship. “I won’t be your slave, or your whore!”
The stranger’s gaze lingered on her for a few more seconds before he turned and walked to the far corner, which contained what appeared to be kitchen equipment. He opened a cabinet, took out a tray, and placed it inside a microwave-like device. He pressed a few buttons, and a progress bar appeared on its display.
Abella’s anger intensified. It was terrible enough to realize she’d been kidnapped for a second time rather than saved, but to be ignored, to be so casually dismissed, on top of that was infuriating.
The only thing that had changed was the face of her owner.
From the corner of her eye, she spotted another door, this one on the wall against which the bed was positioned. She slowly moved toward it while the stranger’s back was turned
She shifted her eyes to the door on the same wall as the headboard and slowly stepped toward it while his back was turned. When she was within a few centimeters of the door, she leapt for it, curling her hand around the handle and turning it.
But the handle didn’t budge. Growling, Abella threw her weight behind it, the cords of her neck standing out as she strained against the uncooperative latch. Only after her face was heated with exertion did she notice the small control panel on the door frame, displaying a set of alien symbols.
There’d been a translator implanted in her head when she was brought to Arthos, granting her understanding of every language she’d heard during her time here, no matter how strange it sounded to her ears. But the translator did not extend to written language.
Not that it would’ve helped her in this situation—there was undoubtedly some sort of coded lock engaged on the door.
Something beeped in the kitchen. She turned her head to see the stranger approaching her, a steaming tray balanced on one hand. The aroma of hot food struck her in that moment, making her mouth water and her stomach growl.
The stranger met her gaze and pointed to the bed with his free hand.
Abella shook her head. “No.”
He dipped his chin in a shallow nod. She’d never realized how powerful so small a gesture could be—he wasn’t offering her a choice.
“I said no.”
The stranger narrowed his eyes. Abella braced herself as he stepped forward, but he moved past her without making physical contact. He stopped at the foot of the bed, laid the tray atop it, and faced her again.
Abella turned toward him. “No. How many times do I need to say it? I want to go. Outside. Back to my people.”
He advanced on her.
“Stay away from me!” Abella raised her hands—as though she would be able to ward him off—and stepped back. She bumped into a solid surface and started, glancing back to find the door behind her.
She’d never realized how quickly a person could come to hate an inanimate object.
When she looked forward, the stranger was already there.
Slipping one arm behind her back and the other beneath her knees, he swept her off her feet effortlessly before she could react. He drew her against his chest; his heat radiated into her, surrounded her, despite the blanket pinned between their bodies. She struggled as he carried her toward the bed, but her resistance was fruitless—his hold, though not painful, was as strong as steel. He wasn’t going to let her go, not until he was ready to.
The frustrated tears welling in her eyes only made Abella angrier. She hadn’t allowed Cullion to break her, and she sure as hell wouldn’t let this stranger do so either. She was tired, weak, her head hurt like a motherfucker, and all she wanted was to finally go home, but she was not broken.
She punched his shoulder as she sniffled. “I said no. I won’t be your slave. I won’t let you-you…”
The stranger stopped and gently sat her on the edge of the bed. She swept the blanket around her sides to cover herself as he released his hold on her and stepped back, dropping into a crouch to meet her downturned gaze. His pupils had reverted to slits again, granting her full view of the mercurial silver of his irises; there was something feline about his eyes that granted them an air of mystery and danger.
“Tenthil,” he said, his voice a harsh, grating whisper.
Abella blinked, and a tear trekked down her cheek. “What?”
He lifted a hand and tapped is claws against his chest. “Tenthil.”
“Your name?”
Tenthil nodded. His lips twitched, but she couldn’t tell if they’d been shifting toward a smile or a frown before they reverted to a neutral line. He pointed to the food again.
She dropped her attention to the tray, glancing up at Tenthil uncertainly. “That’s…for me?”
With another nod, he took the edge of the tray between the pads of his forefinger and thumb and dragged it closer to h
er. “It will help.” He raised a hand to the back of his head, indicating the same spot her skull had struck the wall at Cullion’s.
The way he spoke reminded her of when she’d contracted laryngitis as a child, and her voice had refused to work. Was speaking as painful for him as it sounded? Perhaps he hadn’t been ignoring her, after all. Maybe it was just difficult and physically uncomfortable for him to speak.
Did that mean he was going to help her? All she needed was a little glimmer of hope, a tiny spark, and she could get through this.
Abella tucked the sides of the blanket beneath her armpits to clamp it in place, picked up the tray, and placed it on her lap. The food was unlike anything she’d eaten in the last four years—she suspected she’d been fed scraps from Cullion’s meals all along but could never say for sure. This stuff looked like canned dog food, but it smelled all right, she was hungry enough after her time in the isolation chamber that she didn’t much care about appearances.
Hesitantly, she grasped the pronged spoon from the shallow indentation it rested in, scooped up the mixture, and brought it to her lips. She met Tenthil’s eyes as she slipped it into her mouth.
The texture was reminiscent of thick beef stew, the flavor existing in that gray area between not bad and not good. She ate it anyway, one bite after another, wolfing it down like she’d never eaten a single meal before now. It wasn’t until she’d scraped the tray clean and was raising it to her face to lick away the juices that she realized Tenthil had watched her, unmoving, the entire time.
Cheeks warming, she lowered the tray. “Thank you.”
Tenthil nodded and took the tray from her, the pads of his fingers brushing against her knuckles for an instant.
She pulled her hands back, reminded of her nudity beneath the blanket. “Do you have any clothes I can wear?”
He carried the tray into the kitchen, dropped it into what was either a trash compactor or a washer of some sort, and turned his head toward Abella. His gaze dipped, and his pupils dilated. As black overwhelmed the silver of his irises, Abella realized his eyes weren’t empty when they darkened like that; they were full.
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