Claimed by Cipher (Grabbed Book 5)

by Lolita Lopez

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright © 2020 Lolita Lopez

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  About the Author

  Also by Lolita Lopez

  Claimed By Cipher

  Grabbed #5

  By Lolita Lopez

  Night Works Books

  College Station, Texas

  Copyright © 2020 Lolita Lopez

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at the address below.

  Night Works Books

  3515-B Longmire Drive #103

  College Station, Texas 77845

  www.roxierivera.com

  Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

  Cover Image © 2019 Neo-Stock

  Claimed By Cipher/ Lolita Lopez – 1st ed.

  ISBN 978-1-63042-039-0

  Prologue

  Splinter Stronghold

  22.7 Miles Outside Willow's Tears

  Planet Calyx

  Pain is weakness leaving the body.

  Wracked with agony, Terror repeated the mantra that had been drilled into his brain from the first day at the academy. The sizzling arc of electricity ripped through his body, causing every muscle in his body to seize violently. When it finally—mercifully—stopped, he twitched and jerked for a few seconds before managing to suck a harsh, almost sobbing breath into his lungs.

  Sagging in his metal bonds, he clenched his good eye shut and ignored the relentless ache in his shoulders. How much more of this unending torment could he take? It shamed him to admit that he didn't know. He had lost track of his time in captivity some time ago. He thought it might have been thirteen weeks but he couldn’t be sure. What he did know was that his body was slowly beginning to fail him and his mind wouldn't be far behind.

  Before he let even one secret slip, he would find a way to end his own life rather than betray his brothers-in-arms. His honor would accept nothing less. His desperate need to protect his friends demanded it.

  Since being taken from the scene of the crash, he had been moved four times, always under heavy sedation and chains. There had been no chance of escape and no sign of rescue. In the first few agonizing days of his captivity, he had been in the care of Devious, one of the Shadow Force's long-term undercover agents. Though the torture he had suffered under his friend's hand had been horrendous, Terror had trusted that Dev wouldn't kill him. He had been optimistic that Devious would find a way to get word to Torment about his location.

  But that hadn't happened.

  After three weeks in the main Splinter camp, he had been trucked out in the dark of night to a new place—and then another and another. This new installation seemed to be underground in the old mine shafts near Willow's Tears. The cold, dank wetness of the place assured him of that. The sooty purple dust that coated everything was evidence of the clean-burning fuel that had been mined here in decades past…

  A heavy hand smacked his face, the sting of it bringing Terror back around to reality. "You still breathing or do you need another jolt get you going again?"

  He lifted his weary head and stared at the pock-faced man who had been trying to get him to talk for over an hour.

  "You know I can keep this up all night." The interrogator motioned toward the battery array he had arranged in the cell.

  Terror simply blinked his eye and waited for the threats to continue.

  As if understanding that pain wasn't going to loosen Terror's tongue, the man switched tactics. "I know you're hungry. I know you're cold. Give me something useful—just the tiniest piece of actionable intel—and I'll make things more comfortable for you in here."

  Although his empty belly ached and his dirty skin desperately needed a good washing, Terror rejected the tempting offer by lowering his face and focusing on the floor. Muscles tense, he waited for a blow or another round of the electricity but neither came. The interrogator surprised Terror by unhooking the electrodes and winding up the cables. Certain this was some sort of trick, he mentally and physically steeled himself for an even more painful experience.

  He consoled himself with the knowledge that none of the Splinter interrogators were as sadistic or cruel as Torment. There was a reason men broke the moment Torment walked into their cells. A lifetime in a Kovark prison cell or a quick hanging as a convicted Tier One Terrorist was preferable to even ten minutes under Torment's skilled, punishing hands.

  The door to the cell was jerked open, the rusted metal squealing and grating, and the Splinter interrogator jammed his head into the hall. "Hey, Bruno, get D.D."

  Terror perked at the mention of this new person. He imagined another pair of evil hands torturing him. They hadn't yet brought in a wetworks man to cut at him. Maybe that was next on their list of horrors. Razor blades, knives, chisels—there were all sorts of heinous tools of the trade to cause gruesome injuries in the hopes of motivating him to break his silence and talk about the undercover operatives, the long-term mission plans for Calyx and the current operations underway to neutralize the Splinters.

  He suspected they had avoided causing him traumatic injuries so far because of the infection risk and the odds of killing him before they had extracted every last bit of information from him. Now that he had proven he couldn't—wouldn't—be broken, the Splinters might have decided it was time to step it up a notch.

  When the interrogator stepped aside to allow a new person to enter the cell, Terror fully expected to be greeted by a much bigger, more menacing and dead-eyed specialist. What he actually spotted coming through that door perplexed and surprised him. It wasn't a man at all. It was a woman holding cleaning supplies.

  Small like Vee's Hallie, the younger woman entered the cell and glanced around the interior. She seemed totally composed and calm as she scanned the dimly lit space. The leather satchel resting against her hip caught his eye. It didn't move much as she took more cautious steps into the cell. Whatever was in it was heavy.

  The long dark braid she wore fell to the small of her back. From his vantage point, her hair looked black as night, certainly the darkest he had ever seen. Garbed in dark gray cargo pants and an oversized men's shirt over a cotton tee, she gave off the impression of coming from an all-male household. Not much of her skin was visible in those boyish clothes but what he could see was tanned and smooth. This was a woman who spent more time up top than down here in the shafts.

>   Young and sweet, she looked totally out of place among the hardened Splinter terrorists who inhabited this place. Was she a daughter? A niece? A sister? He considered what he knew of the cultures of these rural people. She might be a wife to one of his captors or even a mother to little terrorist babies.

  His interrogator tapped her shoulder, waited for her to look at him and then pointed to the long coils of wire and the batteries. "Tidy that up."

  She nodded and crossed the cell. Terror noticed the way she didn't spare a single glance for him, probably because he was stark naked and in chains. She seemed focused on the task given to her and was completely oblivious to everything else. A flicker of hope hit him. This was the sort of situation he could easily exploit. She was a tiny little thing and could be easily overpowered if she got close enough to him.

  "You like her?" The interrogator mistook his keen observation and tactical planning for sexual interest. "She's even prettier up close. Ripe for the plucking, if you know what I mean."

  Terror's gaze skipped from the interrogator who made a crude gesture to the young woman who had her back turned to him. She didn't stiffen at the suggestive remarks or acknowledge them in any way. Either she was very used to being talked about so nastily or…

  "Don't worry about her," the man said with a dismissive wave. "There's a reason we all call her D.D. Deaf and Dumb," he spelled out cruelly. "She's in her own fucking world most of the time—but that's the way some men like them."

  Terror considered D.D. for a moment. Better and better, he thought as that flicker of hope flared stronger. If she couldn't hear him, she would be even more easily overtaken.

  "How long's it been since you touched a woman, Terror? You've been in our hands for more than three months so it's been at least that long since you've felt the slick squeeze of a wet pussy around your dick." Coming closer, the interrogator motioned toward the woman. "Look at her. I mean—really look at her. That tight little ass? Those perky tits?"

  Terror looked at her but not at her ass or her tits. He sized her up as his ticket out of here. What would it take to turn her against these people?

  "She's never been fucked. I know that for a fact. How would you like to be the first one to sink balls deep in that virgin pussy? I can make that happen. I'll let you breed on her all you want."

  Terror found the offer distasteful in the extreme but he feigned interest. Without saying a word, he glanced at his interrogator and held his gaze just long enough to show he was considering the offer. The man smiled, showing his brown-streaked teeth, and nodded.

  He left Terror's side and moved toward the woman. When he drew near, she glanced at him, this time with apprehension. The interrogator leaned down and spoke slowly. "Clean the cell. Clean him. Understood?"

  She nodded.

  "Bang on the door twice when you're done." He held up two fingers. "I'll have Bruno let you out."

  She nodded again. From the way she reacted, Terror confirmed his suspicion that she could read lips. What was it like for a deaf person in this bizarrely backward society on Calyx? If she had been born to his people, her hearing would have been fixed in-utero. The routine prenatal tests run on pregnant mates would have alerted her parents to the birth defect and allowed a skilled surgeon to make the necessary improvements to her ears. Here, though, she had no doubt been treated like a pariah.

  Still not meeting his curious stare, the young woman finished tidying up the cell. He watched the methodical way she wiped and swept the space before unrolling a hose in the corner and turning on the faucet there. She brought the hose toward the center of the room and stood in front of him.

  Their gazes finally met—and Terror's stomach did a wild flip. She had the bluest eyes he had ever seen, bluer even than those common in pureblooded Harcos males. Her bright white teeth bit into a plump lower limp. Holding the hose in one hand, she used the other to make a gesture. Brow furrowed, he tried to figure out what she was asking. It was some sort of sign but for what?

  Exhaling with frustration, she pointed to his body and then the hose before nodding and shaking her head in an exaggerated way. He understood finally. She was asking for permission to clean him. The simple act of seeking permission surprised him. Since being captured, he had been at the total mercy of others. To have this small choice to make felt somewhat liberating.

  He gave her a firm nod and waited to see what she would do next. After testing the water on her hand, she made a shivering motion to let him know it was cold. She waited to see if he would change his mind. When he didn't make any move to stop her, she carefully sprayed his body. The frigid blast made his teeth chatter and his heart stutter, but he was happy for the chance to be clean.

  Careful not to openly watch her, Terror used his peripheral vision to keep track of D.D. She wasn't skittish around him and that raised his suspicions. He wasn't the sort of man who inspired calm in women. One look at him—with his ruined eye and puckered, scarred eyelid—and most of them blanched.

  But she wasn't looking at him with fright. Her gaze was almost clinical. What was she thinking? Was she counting the many scars marking his body? Was she trying to figure out how they had been caused? Knives, shivs, bullets, fire, shrapnel…

  Fuck, he had long ago lost track.

  As she set aside the hose and grabbed soap and a rough looking washcloth from her satchel, he began to form a new opinion of her. This situation was too neat. She was too beautiful and too enticing to be true. This had setup written all over it.

  Starved for affection, weak with hunger and frail from torture, Terror was a prime target for a black widow type agent. He had trained enough of them in his many years in Shadow Force to know how she would operate. This vulnerable woman with her hearing impairment and angelic face would find a way to get under his skin. She would provoke those protective instincts so strong within all Harcos males—and then she would strike.

  There was only one thing for him to do. He had to strike first. With his arms chained overhead and his ankles bound with shackles, he couldn't move but his time would come. When it did, he would take it without hesitation. He would snap that fragile neck of hers before she even had a chance to gasp with fright at being caught by him.

  Forced to endure the bizarre and unsettling sensations of being washed by a strange female, he kept his gaze fixed on the far wall. She didn't try to touch him inappropriately or even to arouse him. Her skin never made contact with his because she kept the rough cloth between her palm and his body.

  Although thorough in scrubbing him, she never once let her hands get anywhere near his genitals. She seemed to be going out of her way not to make contact with the more intimate areas of his body. Part of that he chalked up to virginal fear. If she was as pure as the interrogator had said, it wasn't surprising that she shied away from him.

  But, as an agent for these terrorist assholes, she was badly trained. Using "accidental" sexual touch was the easiest way to ensnare a man. She was failing miserably on that count.

  Because he hadn't been touched with a gentle hand in weeks, Terror couldn't stop his body's natural response when she climbed on a crate positioned behind him and began to wash his hair. Without his usual monthly visit to the barbershop for the close trim he preferred, he had gotten rather shaggy. Her short nails scratched across his scalp, swirling along his skin as she massaged the woodsy-scented suds into his dirty hair.

  Shivering arcs traveled down his neck, along the curve of his back, through his legs and out through the soles of his feet. His cock throbbed to life, the full length of it growing erect and pointing toward his navel. Even before being taken from the crash site, it had been weeks since his last visit to one of the poppies on a nearby pleasure ship. On edge and desperate for stimulation, he clenched his teeth together and tried to think of anything but the way he wanted those warm hands of hers to glide down his chest and into the nest of curls crowning his dick.

  She stepped away from him, taking her body heat and the pleasant scent that acco
mpanied her. A few seconds later, ice cold water splashed over him. He sucked in a sharp breath of shock but welcomed the cooling effect it had on his raging libido. The last thing he needed was to let his dick control him.

  As his erection faded, he hardened his thoughts toward the tempting siren with her dark hair and big blue eyes. She was trouble—and he needed to view her as merely an obstacle in his path to freedom. He would step on her and over her if it meant getting out of here and finding his way back to the Valiant.

  She retrieved a towel from the satchel and wiped down his slick skin. When she produced a small tin from the leather bag, he narrowed his eye. She held it up for him to sniff. He caught the scent of something antiseptic. Certain the scrapes and cuts he had collected over the last few weeks could use some help in healing, he nodded to confirm that it was all right for her to treat them.

  Swiping her finger through the ointment, she applied it to the wounds on his body. Like the other times she had touched him, she never lingered. She simply did what was necessary and moved on to the next scrape. When she was finished, she wiped her hand on the damp towel and tucked away the salve.

  While she dug around in her bag, the door to the cell opened. A man he recognized as his jailer Bruno appeared in the shadowy entrance. "Hey, Dum Dum, you finished jerking this asshole off or what?"

  With her back turned, she didn't hear the ugly remark. Before Terror could make a movement that would garner her attention, the bastard in the door pulled an orange, one of the native fruits these Earth-descendants had brought in their generational ship and cultivated on Calyx, from the pocket of his hooded sweatshirt. He threw it at the woman. It bounced off the back of her head and caused her to lurch forward.

  Rubbing the back of her head, she spun around and glared at the asshole. She made an outraged gesture and a strange noise that Bruno mocked with jerky movements before shouting, "Hey, retard, hurry it up! Your step-daddy wants you to make a supply run so get moving."

  Jaw visibly clenched, she shot the finger at Bruno. The cruel jailer laughed harshly and slammed and locked the cell door. Wincing, she rubbed that spot where the heavy fruit had ricocheted off the back of her head and pivoted toward the corner where it had rolled. Unable to see her when she was behind him, Terror relied on his highly-trained senses to keep track of her.