“Sounds exactly like my kind of place.” Thargen offered the borian a wide, toothy smile that was meant to be charming and friendly, though he knew it wasn’t—he’d looked in a mirror recently. Intimidating was probably more accurate.
Thargen didn’t miss the way the guard’s eyes shifted to the Vanguard tattoo on his cheek. Those symbols were as much a badge of honor as a sign of warning.
Silence filled the space between Thargen and the borian, broken only by the background sounds—hovercars zipping by high overhead and distant conversations, mostly. Well, there were the persistent whispers from Thargen’s Rage, too, but he wasn’t listening to those right now.
“Fine,” the borian finally spat. He turned to the wall beside the door, punched something into a small control pad, and stepped aside as a heavy-duty tristeel drawer slid out of the wall. “Check your weapons here.”
Thargen laughed as he reached down to unbuckle his belt. “Nothing but good old-fashioned bare-knuckle brawling in here, huh?”
The borian’s scowl deepened. “You make trouble, vorgal, and my team will have to drag your bloody, unconscious ass into the alley when we’re done with you.”
“Don’t tease me with a good time.” Thargen tugged off his belt and placed it—along with his holstered blaster and knives—in the drawer.
The borian grunted and tapped the control panel again. The drawer slid shut with a clang. An instant later, it vanished, leaving the spot totally indistinguishable from the rest of the wall.
Thargen raised a hand, holding the tips of his forefinger and thumb a few centimeters apart. “Do I get one of those little tokens or tags or whatever for when I pick my stuff up?”
The borian gestured to a wall-mounted scanner. “Hold up your ID chip. It’ll register to your weapons.”
“You can’t just remember which were mine?” Thargen asked as he stepped forward and raised his left arm. “Feels like an invasion of my privacy.”
The control panel beeped softly.
The borian positioned himself in front of the now concealed drawer and folded his arms across his chest. “You going in, or you waiting for me to realize how stupid I’m being?”
“Yeah, yeah. Want at least a couple drinks in me before you drag me into that alley, and since you aren’t buying…”
Thargen barely held in his laughter when the borian’s already expression darkened save for the tiniest glints of heat in his pupils. It would be easy to capitalize upon the borian’s irritation, easy to escalate this to violence—easy to succumb to Rage and give it the outlet it craved.
He pushed through Starlight Trance’s front door. It let him into a short, dimly lit hallway with dark walls and flooring. The hall was quiet, almost preternaturally so, but for an underlying pulse so deep it was more felt than heard, steady and frantic like a heartbeat at the height of Rage. Brows falling low, he continued to the double doors ahead. They slid open, vanishing into the walls on either side, before he could even reach forward to touch them.
A wave of sound swept over him—not a thumping heartbeat but a drumbeat, layered with other instruments to form relentless, repetitive music that lost little of its power despite the sound dampeners undoubtedly in place to contain it.
The dance floor was directly ahead, at the base of a low, wide set of steps, and it was beautiful chaos. The press of bodies made individuals indiscernible from one another. The dancers writhed and bounced to the rhythm, many of them sporting vibrant, glowing designs on their clothes and skin that turned into blurs of color, obscuring their features and making them even harder to tell apart. Lights flashed in sync with the various instruments all over the club—on the walls and ceiling, on the bits of floor visible between legs and feet, and in the form of floating holographic shapes in the air that constantly moved and morphed.
The scene was hypnotic, a blur of mesmerizing colors dictated by that pounding music. But even amidst the spectacle—or perhaps because of it—the guards were easy to spot. They were all big, all stood relatively still, and the vibrancy and motion around them turned them into dark, brooding statues positioned around the edges of the dance floor.
It was the left side of the huge room that ultimately claimed Thargen’s attention, however—the side that was dominated by a long bar. Behind it were more bottles of alcohol than he could count and rows and rows of mugs and glasses, all lit by steady pink and purple backlights that stood out from the chaos just enough to serve as a focus to anyone who found themselves thirsty.
The patrons gathered at the bar were easier to identify. There were a lot of volturians and borians, many of them dressed in casual finery that would’ve made Thargen’s skin itch had he worn similar. Most had glowing paint and adornments on their clothing and skin—beyond the natural, glowing markings of the volturians—and the lighting at the bar only enhanced the contrast between light and dark.
Absently bobbing his head to the infectious beat, Thargen approached the bar. There were at least five bartenders serving drinks. He meant to gauge their speed against the number of people waiting in front of each, to perform that subconscious calculus that was the only sort of math he tended to do in his adult life—which one will get me a drink fastest—but his attention froze on the middle bartender.
The female was small. Delicate. She couldn’t have stood much taller than a hundred and sixty centimeters, just about to his chest. Long, lustrous black hair fell past her shoulders and framed her face—a face he couldn’t quite make out through all the conflicting darkness and neon light. But he could see her full lips, which glowed bright pink.
Thargen grinned and ran his gaze over the rest of her. Her bare arms were adorned with intricate, luminescent designs, and she wore a short neon-painted crop top which displayed her flat stomach. His eyes caught on a tiny, bluish glint at her belly button—a piercing, catching reflections from the various light sources as she moved. Insignificant as it should’ve been, it sent a surge of lust through Thargen like he’d not felt outside of Rage for a long, long time.
He’d met his first terran when one had come to see Arcanthus two years ago, and though she’d been in and out of his life in the blink of an eye, the other three he’d met since then were good friends—they were family. Especially Shay, who understood Thargen on a deep, soldier-to-soldier level despite having never actually served in a military force. But none of them had sparked such desire in him, not even remotely.
He found himself suddenly eager to meet this terran, too. That eagerness was undoubtedly driven by the fact that she was petite and beautiful in a way only terrans seemed capable of, and something about her easy though slightly awkward smile made her seem approachable.
There were so few terrans in Arthos—so few terrans in his life—and they all seemed so out of place in this often rough, unforgiving city. Odd as it was, his instinct was to protect this terran, just like he would’ve protected Sam, Shay, and Leah.
White teeth flashed as the female grinned at the volturian in front of her. She set down a glass, grabbed two bottles from beneath the counter, lifted them high, and twisted them. Two streams of liquid poured into the waiting glass, one ultraviolet and the other white. When she was done, she set the bottles down and pushed the drink toward the volturian, speaking words Thargen couldn’t hear, before moving to the next patron.
Though that subconscious math suggested one of the other bartenders could get him a drink faster, Thargen fell into line at the terran’s section of the bar—not that the jumble of patrons could rightly be called a line even by the most generous standards. Normally, he wouldn’t have hesitated to shove his way to the front. These situations were first come, first serve, and with all the light and noise it was usually the loudest patron who received their drink first. But something held him back now.
Maybe it was because he wanted to make a good first impression on the terran, or maybe it was just to allow himself more time to watch her. She moved with confidence, poured every drink with a flourish, and freely of
fered smiles to everyone. Her features became a bit more discernible with each step closer he took.
When he arrived at the bar, he leaned an elbow atop it and watched her serve a tall, lanky cren. She was petite all right, but her form-fitting black pants showed off her feminine curves and a pert little ass that would fill his hands perfectly.
He suddenly found himself wanting a drink of her more than anything else.
Thargen’s heart sped when she finally turned to him. Her thin, shapely brows rose slightly, and her gaze met his.
Her eyes were green—like him.
She’s mine.
Two
Whoa, Thargen, slow down. Where the fuck did that come from?
The female smiled wide and raised her voice to speak over the pumping music. “Hey! What can I get for you?”
Though she’d smiled at everyone Thargen had seen her serve, this smile seemed like it was just for him.
How about a taste of you?
He smiled around his tusks, hoping it looked warm and friendly instead of his usual savage or intimidating. “Gurosh. In the biggest mug you have.”
“You got it.” She grabbed a tall glass mug from the racks behind the bar and set it under the tap, opening the flow of delicious, golden gurosh. “Haven’t seen you around here before. You new?”
“Usually stick to the nicer volturian clubs, you know? I fit in better at those places.”
She laughed and eyed him up and down. “They kick you out because you put them all to shame?”
Thargen’s lips stretched into a grin. “Yeah. Guess something about me made them more aware of their own inadequacies or something.”
Someone harrumphed nearby. Thargen turned his head just in time to catch a glare from the well-dressed volturian beside him. The volturian turned his nose up, snatched his drink off the bar, and walked away.
Thargen laughed. “See? I can’t help it.”
The terran ducked her head with a snicker and shut off the tap. “Totally not your scene.” She set the mug in front of Thargen, tapping the counter next to it. A scanner appeared beneath the surface. “Scan your ID here.”
“What is it with this place wanting to scan my ID?” he grumbled, reaching into his pocket to fish out a credit chip.
She grinned. “A mysterious stranger, huh?”
“Mysterious? Nah, I’m no good at mysterious. What you see is what you get, and no, it’s not too good to be true. But that fucker at the front door already made me scan my ID once, and that’s more than enough for me today.”
“This one’s just to open a tab for you.”
He tossed the chip onto the counter. “This should cover whatever I drink tonight.”
She picked up the chip and pressed the little button to display the amount of credits loaded onto it. Her eyes widened. “Oh wow. You’d have to drink a lot—like a lot a lot—to spend all this.”
Thargen lifted the mug to her in a salute. “Guess I’d better get started while the night’s still young.”
She laughed. “Well, looks like I’m your personal bartender tonight. Enjoy. I’ll check back with you in a minute.”
Tipping his head back, Thargen took a long swig of gurosh. It was cold but fiery, stinging but sweet; it was everything he’d been looking forward to since he’d left home earlier. He stopped himself after two-thirds of the drink were drained and set the mug down.
For a few moments, he squeezed his eyes shut and focused on the lingering burn of the gurosh, letting all the other sounds and smells around him fade away. It’d be a while before the booze hit him hard enough to drown out his Rage, but this was a start.
When he opened his eyes, he let his gaze wander the club, noting the positions of the security staff and the doors he could make out through all the clashing light and darkness. It was always good to have an idea of where everything and everyone was in case shit went bad.
And it usually went bad for him.
The dancers continued their revelry, mostly through pelvic gyrations and bodily contact only a step removed from dry humping, and the music continued its frantic beat. He could only imagine how loud it was on that dance floor.
He sipped the remainder of his drink a little at a time, his eyes drifting time and again to the terran. She was in constant motion as she served the patrons, and her smile—that beautiful fucking smile—never wavered. He found himself chewing on his bottom lip whenever his eyes dipped lower. That piercing at her navel was especially alluring; he wanted to twirl his tongue around it.
His cock throbbed, fueled by a spark of Rage—but that Rage felt different, somehow.
When she finally made her way back toward him, her smile widened—or at least it seemed to. It could well have been his subconscious making him see what he wanted to see.
“Ready for another? Or something else?” she asked.
Normally, he stuck with gurosh; it was the drink preferred by his friends, and it also happened to be a vorgal drink. But this seemed like a good night to venture away from the typical, to break his routine—especially since his routine had already been broken.
“What do you recommend?” he asked. “Any good terran drinks here?”
She laughed; the sound was warm and light. “Not quite enough demand for those to convince the owners to import any alcohol from Earth yet, I’m afraid.”
“Well, how about you surprise me then? I always order the same damned thing. Help me get out of my rut.”
The terran narrowed her eyes, pursed her lips, and shifted them to the side in thought. Then she grinned. “I got it.”
She placed a shot glass on the bar top, grabbed a bottle of glowing, bright-red liquid, and flipped it, filling the glass halfway. She picked up a smaller, darker bottle as she put the first away, but only allowed two drops from the second to fall into the glass. The mixture bubbled for an instant, and the glowing red liquid turned vibrant purple. “Try that.”
Thargen reached forward, took hold of the glass, and threw back his head, downing the contents in a single gulp. If gurosh was liquid fire, this was something on a whole new level—closer to drinking plasma, maybe, with a burn so strong that it obliterated his sense of taste for a few moments.
He winced, lips peeling back, and released a breath that burned almost as much as the drink had. He raised the empty glass and eyed it with an arched brow. “Damn, what the fuck is this stuff?”
She laughed. “It’s a cren drink. They call it void venom.”
How had his cren friends not told him about this stuff yet? They were getting an earful when he went home.
Grinning, Thargen settled the shot glass on the bar and slid it toward her. “And what do they call you?”
She snorted and rolled her eyes as she refilled his glass. “Puny terran.”
“I’d say beautiful terran fits better. You have a name, or that it?”
Despite the uneven lighting, Thargen saw her cheeks darken before she shifted her eyes away from him.
“Yuri,” she said, sliding his drink back toward him. “My name’s Yuri.”
Thargen’s fingertips brushed over her hand for an instant as he took the drink from her, long enough for him to feel how soft, smooth, and warm her skin was. His hand was easily twice the size of hers.
“Yuri,” he repeated, lifting his drink in another salute. “Name’s Thargen. To new friends.”
The blush on her cheeks only darkened further. “I’m not allowed to drink during my shift.”
“Ah, well”—Thargen downed the drink, hissed against the burn, and slid the glass to her again—“I’ll have to have one for you, then. Don’t worry, it’s on me.”
She chuckled and poured him another void venom. “I’ll be back. Don’t pass out on me.”
“Gonna take a lot more than a little cren drink to knock me out,” Thargen said with a laugh before gulping down the next shot. He shook his head hard, willing away the sting, and slammed the empty glass on the bar top. He was already feeling a buzz that would normally ta
ke eight or nine mugs of gurosh; he’d have to slow down if he didn’t want to make a complete fool of himself before long.
While Yuri helped some of the other patrons, Thargen turned his focus to the collection of bottles and glasses lined up on the wall behind the bar. The lights hitting them seemed so much more vibrant and colorful now, and the music, punctuated by that relentless beat, was that much more hypnotic. Suddenly, he wanted to dance, wanted to feel the bass in his chest and the press of bodies all around him, wanted to get swept up in that hypnotic rhythm.
And you aren’t nearly buzzed enough to pretend you don’t know how that would end, you idiot.
He frowned. Maybe it would be fun out there for a little while, maybe it would be freeing to lose himself to the music. But eventually, the sweet bliss of oblivion provided by the alcohol would fade and the noise, the heat, and the crowd, would trigger something deep within him. They would stir up memories he couldn’t summon himself and wake his Rage, and then what? A fistfight in his old bar wouldn’t have caused any fuss for anyone, but here it was likely to see him arrested by the Eternal Guard.
One of the other bartenders approached him and asked if he wanted something else. Thargen shook his head and kept his hand around the shot glass. His attention crept toward Yuri again; she was pouring drinks a few meters away. When she bent down to retrieve something from under the bar, his eyes dropped to her ass. A fresh wave of lust shot through him, and his cock twitched, straining against the confines of his pants. He groaned; fortunately, it was drowned out by the music.
He’d gone a long time without sex, and for good reason—he didn’t want to hurt anyone, at least outside a fight. So why was he allowing himself to ogle a terran now, knowing nothing could come of it, knowing she’d break so damned easily? Why was he torturing himself?
I want her.
But I can’t fucking have her.
Despite his healthy buzz, Rage roiled beneath the surface of Thargen’s mind, and his good mood deflated. He thought he’d learned his lesson long ago—good things could never be his. Yuri seemed like a good person. A kind person. He wasn’t naïve enough to think that she couldn’t be acting, playing a part to make her patrons a little more generous with their tips, but he didn’t think that was the case. She seemed genuine.
Savage Desire (The Infinite City Book 4) Page 2