Tamed: A Prison Planet Romance (The Condemned Series Book 4)

by Alison Aimes

  Not even a grunt of acknowledgment.

  If not for the heavy rush of breath beneath the pelt, he might have been talking to a fur coat.

  The helpless ones were always the worst.

  “I don’t have time for this.” Old memories roughened his voice, cracking his façade. “You can’t stay here.” He reached for her, intending to give her a nudge in the right direction.

  The ball of fluff and fur exploded, a small hand wrapping around his forearm as small, sharp needles sank into his flesh.

  No, not needles. Teeth. She was biting the shit out of his wrist—with what felt like little fangs.

  Had he been wrong about her being human?

  He swung his arm upward, shaking his forearm in an attempt to throw her off. “I am not the threat.”

  She clamped on tighter, a tiny furry body wriggling like a fish on the line, her fur boots kicking in the air as she left the ground. The hood covering her face still in place as she bit him through a small slit that served as a mouth hole.

  Dropping his weapon, he grabbed for her with his other hand, intent on flinging her from him—and got his second surprise.

  His palm didn’t close around fuzz. Instead, it gripped soft skin. Something lush, warm and more than a handful. The pebbled point of a nipple poked hard against his calloused palm. Definitely human. Definitely female.

  His cock twitched.

  She screeched.

  A move which, for better or worse, unlocked her jaw—and sent her dropping to the ground, stumbling back as she tried to stay upright.

  Not exactly how he’d planned it, but mission accomplished.

  “Calm the fuck down.” So much for Mr. Nice guy. Wrist stinging, palm tingling, he noted the trail of blood snaking from wrist to elbow and the definite puncture wounds.

  What in the hells was she?

  She flinched as if expecting a blow.

  The stomp of boots sent him spinning around.

  Three gang members barreled toward him, their axes and shovels raised. At least four more hurried behind in a second wave of attack. One of whom was the giant with the bushy eyebrows. His face purple with rage.

  Now, this Grif could handle. Bad guys. Violence. Aggression. The simple purity of combat without any mess of emotions was where he did his best work.

  “Run!” He raised his ax while uncoiling his rope in the other hand.

  Something tapped the back of his head.

  A shock of electricity slammed through him.

  Ears ringing, hands twitching, he stumbled forward, his body no longer under his command.

  He fought to think through the haze. Except for the rare blaster, all the weapons on Dragath25 were primitive and old-school. So what the fuck was that?

  Blinking hard, he shook off disorientation. Only to be rocked by another brutal surge.

  His head wrenched sideways. His body twitched like a busted engine wire. He willed his hands to rise. They didn’t.

  His attackers reached him.

  The giant’s punch hammered his chin. Another male’s boot connected with his knee.

  Grif jerked his ax upward, finally regaining some control, but it was too little, too late.

  A pipe swooped up and under his jaw, lifting his body upright. Agony streaked down his spine. He lost his balance and ate dirt as his cheek slammed into the hard ground. Heavy boots came at him from all sides, pummeling his ribs, his spine, his kidneys.

  He tried to see if the covered female made it away at least, but the gang members obscured his view.

  He rolled onto his back and kicked out. One of his attackers crashed to the ground. He might be going down, but he was taking as many with him as he could.

  Blood and dirt caked his tongue, the taste of failure, the taste of his youth. One of his eyes no longer worked quite right. Same with one arm. Downed bodies piled up around him. He punched out with his one good arm and his boots, but they were like fucking locusts. More bodies, more fists, more heavy heels, their shrieks of bloodlust mixing with the stirred-up dust to paint everything red.

  Through the thrashing legs of his attackers, he finally caught sight of the cloaked female. As he’d feared, she was still frozen, standing where he’d last seen her.

  The only difference: there was a thick, heavy spear clutched in her hand, a troubling match in size and weight to the object that had slammed into the back of his head. Even more telling, its tip crackled with a golden glow that looked a hell of a lot like surging electricity.

  Realization dawned. He’d tried to save her and she’d served him up on a platter to 223’s gang using some kind of weapon he’d never seen before.

  So much for his rescue. So much for her helplessness.

  Everything went dark.

  2

  He would only have one chance.

  The manacle circling Grif’s neck rubbed his skin raw as he yanked the stunted plant from the cracked clay and shoved it into the bag at his feet. Sweat poured down his chest, muscles pulling tight after another full morning of work and his last beatdown.

  Six rotations as a slave in 223’s gang’s hellhole and he hadn’t learned to play nice. Not by a long shot.

  Beneath hooded eyes, he surveyed the wired perimeter, looking for weaknesses.

  The lead guard, who Grif had christened Bully, loomed two arm’s lengths away, his fat paw caressing Grif’s stolen rope. The bastard loved to use it as a whip whenever he got the chance. Three other guards: Scar Face, Big Ears, and the Giant—still nursing a grudge over their first encounter—stood nearby.

  All the fuckers were pure evil. Nothing gray about that, just the way Grif liked his lines.

  They were supposed to be overseeing the working prisoners, but their attention kept straying behind the massive boulder that marked the outer rim of the slave work area. The cries and grunts making it clear what the off-duty guards were doing with the slaves they’d dragged behind there.

  “Our turn soon.” Scar Face grabbed his dick, his gaze shifting back to the working slaves.

  Jaw clenched, Grif moved to stand in front of Hope and Melody, the youngest prisoners trapped in this shithole, no regard given to their age or sex.

  He couldn’t help what had happened to the girls before his arrival, but he would damn well control what occurred from here on out. Didn’t matter that he was chained like a fucking animal, or beaten to a pulp, he was never letting them be dragged behind that rock while his heart still beat in his chest.

  It was bad enough their mother was over there servicing 223’s men while he let it happen. But she’d gone “voluntarily”—drawing the guards’ attention so her girls wouldn’t—and he refused to let that sacrifice be in vain.

  The stem in his hand snapped in two.

  “Twist it as you pull it from the ground.” Melody’s soft instructions coaxed him back to attention. Stick thin with tangled brown hair and freckles, her voice was young and innocent, even if her eyes weren’t.

  “With these meaty paws?” He wiggled his fingers and forced a smile. “I’m lucky I can pick anything at all.”

  Her lips tilted upward even as she ducked her head and returned to her task. He took it as a victory.

  He was determined to give Melody and her sister more to smile about soon, which meant getting them out of here as soon as humanly possible.

  Also, he wanted his fucking whip back.

  “Tyson.” Grif swiveled to his right. A flurry of activity near the rock had caught his attention.

  “Right here.” His friend popped up, his blond, bearded face lined by its usual scowl. “What’s up?”

  He and Tyson had become conspirators the rotation Grif had gained consciousness in the gang’s slave camp with cracked ribs, two eyes swollen shut, a bruised jaw and kidney, a sprained arm, and a mass of bruising. His worst beating in a long while, and that said something.

  He’d been trying to figure out his next move when Tyson appeared, ripped apart his own ragged clothing, and bound the worst of Grif’s
injuries.

  It had been a long time since anyone outside his team had earned his loyalty or trust. Tyson was now in that tight circle.

  Plus, the way the male protected the two younger girls as if they were his own said all Grif needed to know about the male’s worth.

  “There’s something going on.” Two guards hurried toward the locked gate at the front of the pen. “Stay close to the girls.”

  “Line up!” The Giant’s whip snapped.

  Scar Face emerged from the other side of the rock, dragging the girls’ mother and a dark-haired quiet female named Cam, who held her hand against a bleeding cut at her cheek.

  Grif’s rage grew.

  Scar Face shoved the two females toward Bully. “Secure these cunts.”

  Bully shackled them to the long chain that linked all the prisoners together, the small key he used clicking into place with an ugly snap.

  Shoulders curled in, both females stared at the ground. The girls’ mother, Luna, did what little she could to protect her children, but she barely looked at them when they were together. Truth be told, she barely looked at anyone, her gaze empty and hollow, as if she’d already left this world behind.

  The urge to kill rose, sharp and pure, in the center of Grif’s chest. He couldn’t wait to annihilate all the scumbags associated with this place. Including the furball who’d put him here.

  The memory of that glowing spear was one more mistake he’d have to live down. He’d been so caught up in that Boy Scout, White Knight bullshit, he’d failed to see she was no innocent, until it was too late.

  Never again.

  She was the enemy. He’d gotten that through his thick head now.

  Still, he wasn’t entirely ungrateful. Without her interference, he would never have been brought to this place. Never known there were people like the girls in need of rescuing. Or scumbags like the guards and Furball in need of a reckoning.

  “Move, you worthless trash!” Bully’s shout cracked down the line. “To the gate now.”

  The sharp hiss of air was Grif’s only warning. Lunging in front of Hope, he absorbed the sting at his back, curling his body over hers.

  She looked up, her stare a mix of guilt and gratitude.

  He shot her a wink. For some reason, she and her sister worried over him. It was unnecessary. His tolerance to pain had been honed long ago.

  “I say we move.” He managed another smile. With Tyson at the girls’ other side, he ushered them toward the gate, alongside the other prisoners.

  Curiosity hummed beneath Grif’s skin. They’d never been lined up by the exit before.

  “Have your pickings ready,” barked Scar Face. “No extra movements or you’ll be sorry.” He shoved the gate wide.

  Grif sucked down a breath. Towering over the others in line, it was easy to see what lay beyond.

  Her.

  Furball was still covered in that strange, shapeless pelt from head to toe, the golden tipped spear gripped firmly in her palm.

  This time, however, a massive beast stood by her side. It was so big its back was nearly in line with the top of her head. Its thick, muscled body was reminiscent of the water buffalos that had once roamed Old Earth. Except this beast had six legs, shaggy feathers, and a birdlike face, with a sharp, stubby brown beak that snapped open and shut as it pawed the ground with its webbed feet and long claws.

  Grif exploded.

  Hands outstretched, he shouldered past the other slaves, dragging the whole, shocked line with him.

  His target gasped, her grip white-knuckling around that pulsing spear. The creature at her side reared up on its two hind legs.

  The chain at Grif’s neck snapped taut, checking his forward motion.

  “Wrong move.” Bully’s thick forearm snaked around his windpipe while the Giant and two others seized his arms.

  Grif resisted, refusing to let them win. His gaze locked with iridescent blue, barely visible through the eye slits.

  She stuttered back another step.

  His satisfaction was short-lived.

  Big Ears rushed to the chain that connected him to Hope and yanked, wrenching a cry from the small girl. “Behave. Or it won’t be just you who suffers.”

  “I’m listening.” Palms up, Grif let himself be dragged back into line.

  Five lashes scourged his skin.

  Grif gritted his teeth and stayed motionless.

  It was hard, though, to keep from smirking. Especially with the stolen key pressed tight against his palm.

  Drawn in by Grif’s distraction, the idiot guard Bully had put him in a chokehold, and Grif had seized the opportunity.

  Now, he could unlock his fellow prisoners’ chains and free them all.

  He just needed to wait until night when his lock-picking efforts would be hidden by the dark.

  Then, it would be the guards who paid.

  “Give me that.” Scar Face yanked Grif’s bag of stalks from his hands and marched forward, dumping the meager load into a large brown pouch strapped to the animal’s back.

  Furball remained still and silent, her spear at the ready.

  “Thanks to this big one,” snarled Bully, “you’ll all learn about true suffering tonight.”

  Grif’s chest went tight. The other prisoners had no idea their luck was about to change.

  He risked a glance at Hope and Melody. Both girls were pale and shaking.

  “Don’t be scared. Those guards aren’t going to touch you.”

  They refused to look at him.

  The weight on his chest grew, memories clawing at his chest, raking old wounds open wide. The moment darkness arrived, he’d make sure the girls were never terrified again.

  In the meantime, he tucked the key into the waistband of his loincloth for safe keeping.

  “Grif,” Tyson sidled close, his voice tight with fear, “you’ve gone too far. The girls—”

  “Had to be done.” He kept his voice low. “The time is almost at hand.” He could only hope Furball was staying long enough for the suns to go down.

  “I don’t…” The man’s spine snapped straight. “Do you mean what I think you do?”

  “Yes.” It felt good to be able to offer his friend concrete hope.

  “I…I can hardly believe it.”

  “Believe it. I’ll see your girls, you, and their mother to safety if it’s the last thing I do.”

  “I know you’ll do all you can,” his friend paused, his expression nowhere near as hopeful as Grif would have liked, “but sometimes force of will isn’t enough. None of us can control destiny, and food isn’t the only thing the covered creature takes with it when it goes.”

  “You and you! Move it.” Bully’s shout cut off the rest of Tyson’s warning. The guard pointed at two young female slaves near the back of the line. “You’re going with the food. Part of the trade.”

  Grif’s gut shrieked into alarm overdrive. Now he understood Tyson’s warning. Furball was a flesh trader, too.

  “The big guy, also!” A rough shove slammed into his back. A glance over his shoulder revealed the smirking Giant. “Never pays to be a troublemaker. Especially when it comes around.”

  Beside him, the girls wailed.

  “I’m not going.”

  “You’re going. I’ve been dying to gut you since our first fight, but this will have to do. Don’t worry about the girls.” The Giant cupped his nasty balls. “I’ll take good care of them.”

  Before he could speak, another voice rang out. “No.”

  His gaze whipped around.

  Furball was pointing at him, her finger shaking with such vigor her whole pelt rustled. “No,” she repeated, the O drawn out, transforming the word into an exotic, melodic sound he would have thought was pretty—if it wasn’t issuing from her mouth.

  “Them.” Furball’s wagging finger pointed past him.

  There was a blur of movement, then two females, one of whom was Melody and Hope’s mother stumbled forward and it was clear exactly who Furball was
pointing at. The nearby slaves cringed and back away.

  The girls screamed in protest. Tyson, too.

  “Shut up.” Scar Face backhanded Tyson, toppling him to his ass.

  Grif roared, only to pull up short when Big Ear’s whip rose and pointed toward the girls. “Any closer and they’ll suffer.”

  Grif stilled.

  Bully seized the girls’ mom, even as she fought and screamed, her hair flying in her face, her heels digging into the dirt. “No! Not me. How could you? No!” It didn’t matter. They dragged her toward the feathered beast and its treacherous owner.

  Grif surged forward. This could not be happening. Not when he was so close to freeing them all.

  The guards were ready.

  The manacle at his neck snapped taut. “Not twice in one day, scum.”

  Out of the corner of his gaze, he glimpsed six guards holding tight to his chains, their knuckles straining. Three he could have shaken off, maybe even five, but six was too many. Especially when he needed to be conscious and mobile enough to save the girls tonight.

  Two hard boots slammed him to the dirt. He tasted blood and grit.

  Black spots danced in front of his eyes. An all too familiar sensation. Help me. Save me.

  Furball looked on, indifferent to it all as Melody and Hope’s mother was chained with the others and her girls sobbed.

  His rage amplified, inky blackness surging through his veins and his soul. The reminder from his youth the final straw. He didn’t do well with helpless.

  Fingers finding purchase in the ground, he strained to rise, his gaze locking with hers. I will find you.

  The pelt shivered.

  All too soon, she swung onto the creature’s back and yanked its leash. The beast lurched forward, its big body rocking side to side. The slaves—five females in all—dragged behind, the girls’ mother throwing one more glance over her shoulder as she was taken away.