Tormented (The Condemned Series Book 3)

by Alison Aimes

  “Shit.”

  “Yes,” she agreed. “It is unlikely, too, that New Earth’s population would be the only target. 223 desires to have everyone under his thumb, including all the inhabitants of Dragath25.”

  This time, her cellmate was silent for quite some time.

  Too long, in fact. For some reason, she didn’t like it.

  “How’d you get that scar snaking down your ribs?” She finally let slip the question she’d wished to ask since their first encounter.

  A grunt was his only response. Clearly, he was still processing her revelations.

  “I’ve had several of similar length,” she volunteered, taking a page from his earlier tactic and hoping the tendering of harmless intel would encourage him to reveal more. If she’d known his nerves were so deadened there she would have concentrated her strikes elsewhere—though perhaps gaining such information wasn’t the only reason for her question. “One from a laser gun,” she continued. “The other from a knife. The first hurt far more.”

  “I didn’t see any marks on you, besides the small dagger tattoo on the underside of your right wrist.”

  So, he had he been looking. Interesting.

  She rubbed at the slightly raised skin beneath the design. All operatives had some such markings to mask the nano-bomb’s microprocessor imbedded beneath the skin. When pressed in a specific sequence, it deactivated the nano-bomb. Of course, the sequence was not provided until the mission was complete. Attempting to remove either device from the body resulted in immediate activation.

  She’d been given ten lunar rotations, minus travel time to and from Dragath25, to complete this mission. Before her run-in with the felon, she’d been about to accomplish it in two.

  “My scars were erased through reconstruction,” she answered at last. “The Facility requires all female operatives to be as perfect and blank a canvas as possible. It’s considered more attractive to marks. Scars, less so.”

  “Not really what one with scars wants to hear, robot girl.”

  She didn’t understand the edge to his voice. In her opinion, scars told a story. Made someone memorable. She, on the other hand, had been required to hide all her stories, and her pain, on the inside. Which begged the question. “Are those scars the reason for your skin design?”

  A long pause. “You gathering intel or just curious?”

  She considered. “Both.”

  “I can live with that.” The clank of chains indicated he’d shifted position. “The design does cover up some of the scarring, but that’s not why I got it. My friend and crewmate Grif did it for me when we were down in the mines. He’s creative, always had been.” The felon’s voice had softened, that soothing lilt growing even stronger. “Should have been an artist or a poet, but life got in the way and made him a soldier, just like the rest of us.” He cleared his throat, as if suddenly realizing he’d gotten off track. “Anyway, he needed something to do with his hands and I needed a diversion.”

  From what? she wondered, then questioned why she cared to delve further. None of the acquired intel was proving useful at present.

  “I let him decide,” her cellmate continued. “He chose a raging phoenix rising from the ashes. Guess it goes without saying he’s the optimistic sort.”

  So, the felon didn’t consider himself quite as redeemed as his friend. “He did good work.”

  “Does good work,” corrected her prickly cellmate. “Not did. Does.”

  “Perhaps.” She didn’t say it to be cruel, but to be truthful. It wasn’t certain the man was dead, but with every passing heartbeat, his chances for survival, like theirs, grew less and less.

  Her cellmate’s hammering ceased. “Do you hear that?”

  The sudden tension in his voice stopped her in midstrike. “I don’t…Yes, I—”

  “Get back!”

  Something hard and big plowed into her—the felon moving faster than she would have thought possible—giving her time only to turn her body slightly, her hands rising for impact, and defense.

  The force of their momentum slammed them into the far corner. A clap as loud as thunder rocked her ears.

  The ceiling groaned.

  JADE’S PALM pressed to her cellmate’s larynx.

  His rough palms circled her neck.

  “I’m not your biggest problem right now.” The ceiling above rattled once more as if to punctuate his point. “Nor was this meant as an attack.”

  “I know that. Or you’d already be dead.” She sucked down a sharp breath. Wishing she could see. Straining to hear every noise. Every creak from above, barely audible over the shrieking of the wind, a ticking time bomb.

  Even without vision, she knew what had happened. The dust storm had dropped a massive boulder on the transport ceiling. Though the roof still held, it might not for much longer.

  Which could be good, if it produced an exit they could use to escape. But bad, if it crushed them before they had the chance to use it.

  “I though the roof was going to give.” His voice was low, as if even the slightest sound might cause the metal above to topple.

  “In which case, taking shelter at the corner, where the structure is strongest, was a wise move,” she conceded.

  “Exactly.” A short pause. “So why the fuck is your hand still at my throat?”

  She blinked. His raw frustration so visceral it was almost as if she could skim her palms along his slick, muscled flesh and absorb the sensations herself.

  An unfamiliar ache flared to life in her center.

  They were enemies. The animosity between them palpable. Yet, he’d instinctually acted once more to protect her.

  She wasn’t sure what to do with that knowledge.

  “Assassin?” he prodded.

  She cleared her throat. Gave herself a mental slap. “I never let down my guard.”

  “Somebody’s got to be first.” The hands around her neck contracted ever so lightly, his thumb accidentally sliding across her skin, sending unwelcome shivers down her spine.

  “That somebody won’t be me.”

  A long, slow intake of breath. “I guess we’ve got a standoff.”

  The silence between them stretched, the battering wind and rocks fading into the background as the mouthwatering scent of man and power filtered into her lungs and hard steel pressed against her belly. Huge. Thick. And growing by the heartbeat.

  She’d felt it before when their chains had been tangled and managed to ignore it. For some reason, it wasn’t proving as easy this time.

  She shifted, trying to gain some space, and only managed to send the massive thing poking deeper into her belly. “Any chance you could do something about that?”

  “Sure. Move your hand and me and my dick will be on our merry way.” No shame. No embarrassment. In truth, he sounded kind of smug. Her irritation grew—along with a growing ache between her thighs. Her nerve endings suddenly flush with an awareness that shouldn’t be.

  “It will take a lot more than that to get a reaction from me,” she lied.

  “Was that a gauntlet I just heard thrown?”

  She wasn’t the best judge, but it almost sounded as if he was amused. It wouldn’t surprise her. He’d already proven to have an ill-timed, twisted sense of humor.

  “No,” she answered. “I was not issuing a challenge, simply stating a fact. Like, the way I might say Dragath25 has two moons or you drop your guard when delivering a left-hand strike.” She spoke over his protesting growl. “Or how I’m not like you. I do not react to everything. I think first. Then act.”

  “Then how come the hand not at my throat is stroking my back like I’m a kothi cat?”

  She froze. A whoosh of relief sliding through her as she catalogued the hand in question still raised to guard her face for a block. “I am engaged in no such activity.”

  “Too easy.” Another twisted chuckle. “And from your reaction, it’s clear the possibility crossed your mind.” His voice dropped lower, a seductive rasp that raised goosefles
h on her arms. “Good to know you robot girls have the same urges as the rest of us, after all.”

  “Nothing about me is easy, felon. I promise you that.” A slight tug at her shoulder. The beginning of an ache. Soon it would grow. Holding one’s arm poised at someone’s throat wasn’t meant to be done forever. “How long were you in the mines?” Gathering intel was always a useful distraction.

  “Two planetary rotations. Some of my crew died. I didn’t. End of story.”

  She doubted that. “You feel guilt.” It was intended as a simple observation.

  He took it as an insult, his body tensing. “No shit. That’s how non-robots, non-killers go through life. Lucky for you, your kind doesn’t feel. It only destroys.”

  “I’ve never considered myself lucky,” caught up in his mess of emotions, she answered more honestly that she usually would, “but I won’t dispute your claim. Operatives do not have the luxury of spending time on building things or creating. We exorcise disease. Eradicate problems before they become a cancer. It is useful to the health of the planet. But it can be difficult, dangerous, and…lonely.”

  His hold loosened, as if her admission had surprised him. “So, not such a robot, after all.”

  “Choosing logic over impulse is not the same as being a machine.” The crinkle of his hair against her thighs, the heat of his hard body, all proof that, for better or worse, she definitely felt. “But, yes, I won’t pretend there weren’t times I wished my employers’ ban on attachments was less absolute.”

  “Don’t go all fragile on me now.” He sucked down a sharp breath. “If you think bullshit soft words will work on me, think again. I lost the ability to fall for that kind of damsel in distress baloney a long time ago.”

  Her spine snapped straight. “I’m no damsel in distress. I never will be. But what I said was far more truthful than your statement. You don’t feel? Please,” she scoffed, “you feel too much.”

  It was as if she’d stuck him with an electric prod.

  His body jerked and then stilled, the acrid scent of bitterness and pain singeing the air. Along with menace.

  “What the fuck do you know?” Lightning fast, he slammed his forearms together, immobilizing the arm she’d placed against his throat. In the next heartbeat, he was free and rolling away.

  She couldn’t help but be impressed. The show of fast reflexes and strength like nothing she’d encountered before.

  It also made her wonder why he’d held back in the first place.

  She shot to standing and squared off, arms raised to defend, the heavy rasp of his breath indicating he was near the edge of his control.

  And all the while the strangest sense of loss whispered through her. As if she missed his flesh against hers.

  Which only made her more determined to shore up the initial breech.

  “Looks like I won the standoff.” She crouched low in case he leapt. “It won’t be my last victory, felon. Remember that.”

  Another low growl. “Bait me again and I won’t be responsible for my actions.”

  Such a hothead.

  “Grandiose claims without a shred of ability to back them up,” she observed. “More proof my initial statement stands. You. Care. Too. Much.”

  “Wrong, assassin.” Each word was slow and deliberate. “I cared once. I don’t make that mistake anymore. Not since they died.”

  She wondered if that small tidbit was his attempt to shame her into silence. If so, it was a miscalculation. Gaining intel was what she did. Well, that and kill. “Who is this they and how did they die?”

  Another long stretch of silence, broken only by the groans and creaks of the ceiling and the corresponding shudder of the hold.

  “They were murdered,” he said at last, answering only one part of her bold question. “By the same Council you work for.”

  6

  “Dragath hell.” Chain slipping, Ryker’s knuckles connected with the door for the hundredth time. Operating in the dark was a bitch and a half.

  His cellmate remained silent. Approximately five planetary hours and counting. Of course, he couldn’t tell without a timepiece, but he’d always been good at estimating—and plus, his stomach was starting to protest the lack of a last meal in a big way. Which meant the assassin was likely getting hungry as well.

  He opened his mouth. Snapped it shut.

  They hadn’t spoken since their last interaction, where he’d proven her right in every respect, lost the standoff, and spilled his guts.

  Not one of his finer moments. But what did he care what she thought of him anyway? She was a Council assassin and a robot…even if she didn’t exactly feel like one lying beneath him. Or act like one when she spoke of loneliness and her wish that her employers’ ban on attachments was less absolute.

  What the fuck was he supposed to do with that information? Certainly not give a shit. That’s for sure.

  He slammed the chain down again—and got nothing for it but another ricochet of pain up his arm. No matter how hard he hit, the metal refused to give. Creating an actual hole was looking more and more unlikely.

  Something whispered across his neck.

  “What the fuck?” On instinct, he slammed his hand to his neck—and felt something spongy splatter. “Nasty.”

  He wiped his palm on the nearby wall, smearing who the hell knows what, and registered a mounting throb at the back of his neck. Probing, he encountered what felt like a tiny divot in his skin. Likely a small puncture. Nothing too bad. Which was good because—

  Pain flared in his neck and crested outward. His ears rang.

  He lost his balance. Listed to the side. His palm catching the wall.

  What in the hell? Shaking his head, he pushed upright. Fought for balance. And toppled right back into hard metal.

  “What’s wrong?” His cellmate’s voice sounded far away.

  He slid down the wall with a grunt, his feet giving out beneath him. The pain misting away as the weird buzzing in his head overwhelmed everything else.

  Kind of like when he and Valdus used to pound a little too hard at the sanctioned alcohol dispensaries. Back when they’d been young. Back when life had been simpler. Back before it had all fallen apart. He chuckled. They’d had a lot of fun then.

  “Felon? Are you…laughing?” The delicious smell of rhozeberry filled his lungs once more. Damn, if he hadn’t missed it.

  Cool, soothing hands clutched his shoulders. “This better not be a trick.”

  The thickness of his tongue made answering difficult. “B-bite.” He forced the word out. Then wanted to laugh at how stupid he sounded.

  “Where?” Her hands were already moving over his skin. Touching. Exploring. Too bad it was under these circumstances. She might be everything he despised, but there was no pretending the female wasn’t hot. The feel of her silky skin alone sent his dick into defcon one, and then you add in that smart mouth, bad-ass confidence, and hint of vulnerability—

  “I appreciate the assessment,” her tone was even drier than usual, “but I’d prefer to hear about you right now.”

  Shit. Had he said that out loud?

  “Ryker? Focus.” A slight shake. “I need you to tell me where you were bitten.”

  “Neck.”

  She shoved him forward, sending his head bobbing. No finesse. I kind of like that about her. No, correction, he did not. He liked nothing about her. Especially not that perfect ass. Or those long legs which would wrap nicely around his hips as he fucked her hard.

  “Enough.” Something sharp sliced across the nape of his neck.

  “Hey!” He shot upward, raised a hand, only to have it slapped down.

  “Keep still. I need to bleed the area. How about talking a little less, for once? I’m trying to concentrate.” Something soft fluttered at the back of his neck. Breath? Soft fingertips? He was too foggy to know for sure. But it was nice. Real nice.

  Fact was, it had been a long time since anyone had caressed his skin. He couldn’t even remember what Saralyne
e tasted like anymore. All that filled his mouth when he thought of her was ash and regret, failure and loss. And death. So much fucking death.

  But not his assassin. No, she smelled strong and tart and alive. Like she’d taste so damn good. Like a survivor. Like hope. Like someone who couldn’t be broken.

  Turning his head, he nuzzled the warm, bare skin at nose-height. Inhaled deep. Yup. Frost-covered honey. The good stuff buried deep. His favorite kind of treat.

  She shuddered, nails digging into his back. “What are you doing?”

  His lips twitched upward. “Not talking. Just as ordered.”

  He traced the perfect plump curve of her breast with his nose. How could something so warm and soft be so hard and brutal at the same time? And why the hell did that turn him on so damn much?

  “Felon, I’m warning you.” A sharp tug at his scalp.

  He groaned. His cock going hard as stone. That little slice of pain and the thread of need in her voice driving him fucking wild.

  “B-busy.” His tongue flicked out, capturing the tight, hard bead. He reveled in her mouthwatering taste. The explosion of sensations. None of them pain or regret.

  “Janus stars, felon.” She jerked in his hold.

  He hadn’t heard her curse before. He liked it. Liked the fracture in her tight control—and the fact that he’d been the one to make it happen. Sexy. Like the rest of her evil, cold-hearted ass.

  “So many references to my ass, I’m losing count. But I’m busy, too. Trying to save your idiotic rear end.” Another sharp tug. But the huskiness in her tone and the tight nipple beading against his tongue gave her away. She wanted him, too.

  “You’re fucking gorgeous. You know that?”

  All he got in return was a sigh. Or maybe a moan? He nuzzled her sweet skin again. He wanted to drink it in forever. Nothing turned him on more than the thought of tongue fucking her until she’d lost every bit of that bullshit control.