Savage Desire (The Infinite City Book 4)

by Tiffany Roberts

  Savage Desire

  The Infinite City #4

  Tiffany Roberts

  Contents

  Blurb

  Thargen

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  Also by Tiffany Roberts

  About the Author

  Blurb

  He’s violent, volatile, and loves a good fight. She’s small and sweet—and everything he craves. But can he make her his without hurting her?

  Thargen wanders the sprawling Undercity streets with one goal—a drink. Well, maybe a few drinks and a good old-fashioned bar fight to let off some steam. But the moment he sees Yuri working behind the bar, he’s overwhelmed by a new desire—her.

  Yuri is his opposite in so many ways—delicate, soft, beautiful—and he knows the primal, uncontrollable rage in his heart makes it too dangerous for him to have her. But he wants her. He needs her.

  What he doesn’t need is for himself and Yuri to be kidnapped and stranded on a hostile, unknown planet when their abductors’ ship crashes, but the universe seems to have different plans. Lost on a mountainside teeming with ravenous skeks, Thargen must rely upon his survival skills and the ferocity burning at his core to protect Yuri until they can get back home.

  But who will protect her from him?

  Copyright © 2020 by Tiffany Freund and Robert Freund Jr.

  All Rights Reserved. No part of this publication may be used or reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form by any means, including scanning, photocopying, uploading, and distribution of this book via any other electronic means without the permission of the author and is illegal, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, contact the publishers at the address below.

  Tiffany Roberts

  authortiffanyroberts@gmail.com

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or people, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Cover Illustration 2020 by Cameron Kamenicky

  Character Art by Sam Griffin

  Created with Vellum

  For you, because you’re freaking amazing!

  One

  Arthos, the Infinite City

  Terran Year 2107

  If Thargen squinted just right, these Undercity streets were not unlike a battlefield. The bright lights cast all the right colors—red for blood, orange for explosions, white and blue for sizzling plasma bolts and thrumming energy weapons. All that color was backed by grungy metal and patches of darkness, the latter of which simulated the holes blown through a soldier’s awareness by the chaos of battle. The voices of the pedestrians, who were speaking and shouting in a thousand languages, created a din reminiscent of war cries and death wails. Puddles of unknown liquid reflected much of it—at least when they weren’t obscured by the crowd.

  Most of the battlefields he’d fought on had been wet—if not at the onset, then by the end. Blood, fuel, hydraulic fluid, sweat, melted flesh; it all came together to create mucky, shimmering pools and a stinging stench.

  Why the hell are these streets always wet? It doesn’t rain down here.

  He scanned his surroundings without slowing his walk. The buildings on either side of the street stood at varying heights, no two alike in shape, design, or signage. A perpendicular street cut through the airspace overhead, elevated on huge pillars. Beyond all the buildings was a blend of darkness and machinery—bare pipes and ductwork, conduits, struts, supports, metal plates, and transmission antennas bleeding into the black backdrop. Tiny marker lights glowed throughout like sickly stars, serving as warnings for the endless streams of hovercars flowing through the open spaces above.

  The Undercity had plenty of air—all of it stale and recycled—but no sky.

  “By Klagar’s balls, I need a drink,” he muttered.

  Thargen had lived in Arthos for years and had walked this street more times than he cared to count, but he’d never been this…this what? Thoughtful? He’d never spent a moment worrying over what the Undercity’s puddles were made of, and there was no reason to start now.

  Rage circled the edges of his consciousness like a predator seeking a moment of vulnerability in its prey. His tribal ancestors had called it Hruk—the primal force within every vorgal that drove them to immense feats of strength, courage, and ferocity. The beast that dwelled in their hearts. And thanks to his years in the Rokkoshi Vanguard, his Rage was stronger and more savage than most.

  He needed a distraction to ward it off, needed a drink or twelve.

  Or he needed to bloody his knuckles.

  That quickly, he found himself scanning the nearby pedestrians. There were a few attractive females here and there, but he didn’t let his eyes linger on them. Sex could sate the impulses sparked by Rage, but it was dangerous. His aggression and savagery didn’t vanish when he stuck his cock into a slit—they just took a new form, a new direction. Losing control in combat had saved his ass on numerous occasions. But losing control in bed, especially with a female of a more fragile species?

  It was best for everyone if he kept it in his pants, even if that meant months—or years—of an aching groin.

  He focused instead on searching for someone who could provide him the fight he wanted, with the challenge he craved. Most of the people in his direct path either moved out of his way or were knocked aside by his forward momentum; they weren’t the ones. Even those who offered protests only did so weakly, displaying no willingness to back up their words with action. None of them had that spark he sought.

  His chest and throat tightened, his heart quickened, and his balls firmed up; Rage was exerting more influence now, preparing him for the scuffle it desired. But Thargen couldn’t lie to himself. He wanted it, too.

  A group of rough looking males were gathered at the entrance to a dark alley ahead. Each wore the same symbol on his clothing—a red sun with the silhouette of a battle-axe against it. They were Ergoths, an Undercity gang that claimed ties to some ancient warrior tradition or another. Maybe all five of them were enough to provide the challenge he needed.

  More likely they were just a bunch of pretenders hiding behind gang symbols to look tough.

  He walked past the Ergoths and continued his search as a voice in his head—barely comprehensible over Rage—said this was a bad idea. He should’ve stayed at the party, should’ve had another slice of that delicious cake Samantha had baked for Leah. He wasn’t so far gone yet that he would’ve caused trouble with his friends.

  Before he could pursue that path of thought any further, a figure caught his attention—a tralix who had to be nearly three meters tall. His skin was a mottled blend of blue and green with splashes of purple and pink on his shoulders and atop his head, and his bare arms sported a few jagged scars that looked like old energy blade wounds. The tralix’s hands
were big enough to individually engulf Thargen’s head—and probably crush his skull in one squeeze.

  Thargen’s heartbeat became rolling thunder, became the thumping of an artillery barrage. Rage induced strength flowed through his muscles.

  A one-on-one fight with a tralix in the middle of a busy street would make for one hell of a story.

  The tralix was walking toward Thargen, moving with the slow but relentless pace of a being that knew it would easily win any potential collisions with other pedestrians—and probably most small hover vehicles. Thargen drew in a deep breath. Tralix were notoriously easy to provoke; they viewed smaller, weaker species as things to be crushed whenever necessary.

  Now it was Urgand’s voice that spoke in Thargen’s head.

  Take it easy out there.

  “Fuck,” Thargen growled. He altered his path only a second before he would’ve collided with the tralix, stepping around the huge being without making contact.

  His chest tightened further, his guts twisted, and fire amassed in his throat. It felt like he’d swallowed a fresh plasma bolt. Rage did not appreciate being denied, and it had no qualms about making its displeasure known.

  Well it can go squat on a battle-axe. Twelve drinks it is.

  At least.

  Thargen increased his pace. He was close to the bar, and the sooner he arrived, the better. Even if he didn’t understand the whole terran birthday thing, he knew Shay wouldn’t be happy if he got into trouble and needed to be picked up from an Eternal Guard holding pen on little Leah’s birthday. And in some ways, Shay’s anger was more intimidating than a pissed off tralix.

  As though his urgency had thrust him through a tear in space, Thargen found himself suddenly at his destination—the entrance to a narrow alleyway, where glowing signs jutted out into the main street. The second sign from the bottom was all that mattered; it said BAR in Universal Speech. The best places cut through the shit. They didn’t need clever, catchy names so long as they had the goods. Booze basically sold itself.

  He turned into the alley, strode to the far end—through several of those unidentifiable puddles—and hurried down the steps to the bar’s entrance. He placed is hand on the door and pushed.

  Thargen’s shoulder and face slammed into the door, halting him abruptly.

  Uttering a confused curse, he staggered back. Rage simmered in his stomach and warmed his blood, briefly resurging during his disorientation. Why the fuck was the door locked? He’d been coming here off and on for the last year or so, ever since Drakkal and Arcanthus relocated their operation to this sector, and it had never once been closed.

  How could the place with the best gurosh in town be closed when Thargen needed a drink?

  It was only then that he noticed the sign on the door.

  NOTICE TO THE CITIZENS OF ARTHOS FROM THE CONSORTIUM COUNCIL OF PUBLIC HEALTH

  Thargen’s brow furrowed. What did the Council of Public Health have to do with a little Undercity bar?

  With a grunt, he forced himself to continue reading. Most of it was some sort of Consortium ordinance, written in that particular sort of obscure, legal language that made words lose all meaning and inflicted severe headaches upon any who tried to decipher it. But the parts toward the end made sense.

  Several patrons of this establishment have reported cases of violent illness that may have been caused by contaminated beverages served within.

  IN THE INTEREST OF PUBLIC SAFETY, THIS ESTABLISHMENT IS CLOSED UNDER CONSORTIUM AUTHORITY PENDING FURTHER INVESTIGATION.

  “Berrok’s bare ass, what the fuck does that mean? How is it the bar’s fault if some weaklings couldn’t handle their booze?”

  Sighing, Thargen turned around and started back down the alley. The gurosh in this place had usually managed to drown out his Rage after about a dozen tankards. There was no telling how many it would take at another establishment, or if those drinks would even taste good, or how willing the staff would be to call the Eternal Guard at the first sign of trouble.

  As though those uncertainties weren’t enough, a new realization struck him as he neared the alley’s exit—he didn’t even know any other bars in the sector. This had been the only place he’d come to since leaving Nyssa Vye.

  He stopped just outside the alley and turned his head to check along the street in both directions. People moved up and down the street in long streams, occasionally breaking apart or altering their courses like water flowing around boulders in a rushing river.

  Thargen knew this street. He’d walked past that cheese shop dozens of times—and had smelled it many times more. He’d bought surplus military equipment from Nokorg’s Vorgal Outfitters, only a few storefronts away from the alley. He even had a few hazy memories of inebriated walks home during which he’d paused to stare at the diners inside the nearby restaurant, wondering if the wide, tall windows were meant to display the people inside as being on the menu.

  He turned left—because it was just as good as right—and worked his way into the flow of foot traffic. Rage clawed at his mind. He tried to ignore it, to shove it back down into the recesses of his subconscious, to silence it so he could focus on his search, but it fought him at every step.

  That internal battle soon clouded his senses to the world around him. He was aware of his feet moving, of people around him, of lights and sounds, but it was all distant and unimportant. Rage demanded his attention; it wanted control.

  When he finally growled and shook off that haze, it took a few moments for his vision to clear. For that time, all he could hear was the pounding of his own heart. He looked up to find himself on a street he did not know in a sector he could not name.

  Thargen lifted his wrist to check his holocom. Nearly two hours had passed since he’d left the closed bar.

  What was it that he’d heard Sam and Shay say?

  Time flies when you’re…looking for fun?

  No, that didn’t sound quite right. But it didn’t make a difference. He didn’t need abstract terran sayings right now—especially when his own people had so many, like a blade doesn’t care if your gut’s empty or full when it punctures your flesh. What the hell did that mean? Of course blades didn’t care—they were tools with no minds of their own.

  Not that he would’ve been surprised if he were told that some scientist had built a knife with its own adaptive artificial intelligence.

  Would be interesting to have a conversation with my weapon, though…

  Anyway, all he needed was a damned drink, not more empty words. And now he was in an unfamiliar sector, one that looked relatively modernized and clean, where the buildings were packed together a little less densely, the streets were decorated with the occasional living plant, and the pedestrians were dressed just a little bit nicer than most places he went. Perhaps many of the differences were subtle and, individually, easily ignored, but all together, they made Thargen feel like he’d wandered into a different world.

  He should’ve felt out of place here, should’ve been aware that his military-style casual wear probably stood out like a tretin at a volturian dinner party, should’ve simply turned around and gone back the way he’d come. He also should’ve been concerned that he’d lost two hours of time and several kilometers of travel with little recollection of it but for the bars he’d passed…but Thargen had never been one to concern himself with such matters.

  A few minutes later, he stopped on the outskirts of a street that was bathed in the cool glow of blue and purple signs, many of which were animated to draw attention to themselves. But only one sign caught Thargen’s eye—partly because its vibrant pink letters were a flash of heat amidst the cooler colors, but mostly because the bottom word on that sign was DRINKS.

  He ran his gaze over the rest of the sign. MUSIC and DANCE were the next words up, topped off with a holographic image depicting people of undetermined species dancing in a very intimate fashion. The place was called Starlight Trance, and the signage firmly established it as a place he would never have entered
under normal circumstances.

  Thargen lifted a hand, tucking back a few loose strands of hair that had escaped his braids. His fingertips skittered over the hard, uneven scar tissue on the right side of his head. He could barely remember a time when he didn’t have those scars, and yet they still felt wrong, still seemed out of place.

  “Damn, you’re in a fucking mood tonight, Thargen,” he muttered. “All this thinking and brooding just means I’m spending too much time with Arc and Drak. Between them and little Leah, I’m going soft.”

  Without wasting another second, he turned and strode to the entrance of Starlight Trance, which was right on the main street—a big door set in a recess a few meters wide and about half as deep. He would’ve preferred a dank, seedy alleyway entrance.

  The security guard posted at the door was a borian with broad shoulders and narrow hips who stood a few centimeters taller than Thargen. He didn’t have any visible weapons, but his stance was strong and confident.

  Thargen walked up to the guard.

  The borian arched a brow. “Move on, vorgal.”

  “Not gonna buy me a drink, then?” Thargen asked.

  The borian scowled, extended a thumb, and gestured down the street. “Keep walking. This isn’t your kind of place.”

  Thargen frowned and folded his arms across his chest. “You serve gurosh?”

  Jaw muscles bulging, the borian offered a curt nod.