Thargen sighed and let his shoulders slump. “Are they even armed?”
“No,” Arcanthus said.
Releasing an even heavier sigh, Thargen stomped toward the supply room door on the left side of the room. “Fine. But only because we had some real fighting earlier.”
“They might not fight back,” Shay said, “but they’re the ones that were poking and prodding me and Leah. The ones that Murgen wanted to experiment on us.”
Thargen’s expression fell subtly, conveying an oddly cold fury that was a rare sight from him. “Oh, I hope they fight back.” He swung his auto-blaster on its shoulder strap, stowing it behind his back.
“Arcanthus, I want you to guide me to Murgen,” Drakkal said as Thargen entered the supply room.
Arc chuckled. “And here I thought you were about to give me a challenging task.”
“You want a challenge? Try to go five minutes without sounding like an arrogant prick.”
“A fair challenge, azhera. That’s asking the impossible.”
Smirking, Drakkal turned back to Shay and reached across the exam table. His smirk faded as he placed his palm over her cheek and gently brushed the pad of his thumb under her sealed cut. “I’m going to finish this. Be right back.”
Her blue eyes blazed as she pressed her face into his palm. “Make him hurt.”
The weight behind Shay’s words was not lost on Drakkal. This was not a demand for cruelty—it was a demand for vengeance, for closure, for justice. A demand to right the scales, which had been wildly misbalanced for too long.
But the heart of this matter was simple—Murgen Foltham had caused Drakkal’s mate and cub suffering, distress, and pain. The degree of that suffering mattered only in relation to how much pain Drakkal would now inflict upon Murgen. There were no more deals to be made, no more second chances to be claimed. There was no more forgiveness to be offered.
Drakkal closed his eyes just long enough to take a deep breath, filling his lungs with air perfumed by his family’s scent, which surpassed all the other smells in this room based on its familiarity alone. He didn’t want to leave it behind—didn’t want to leave them behind—but he had to finish this.
Opening his eyes, he offered Shay a solemn nod, lowered his hand, and swung his auto-blaster back into his hands. He turned and walked toward the back door. “Arcanthus, show me the way to this fucking zhe’gaash.”
“You want me to close off the corridors and trap him somewhere closer?” Arc asked.
“No,” Drakkal replied without hesitation. “Let him get far away from Shay and Leah. Let him get to his safe room. I want him to believe he’s safe, want him to believe he’s secure, so I can show him that all his fucking money doesn’t mean anything. I want to see it on his face the moment he realizes it’s over.”
“Remind me not to piss you off in the future.”
At Arcanthus’s direction, Drakkal plunged into a network of long, dimly lit corridors that were wholly at odds with the rest of Murgen Foltham’s zoo. These corridors were drab, gray, and narrow—barely wide enough to fit the hovercarts used elsewhere in the facility. Exposed pipes, ducts, and conduits ran along the ceiling in a haphazard bundle that altered as components branched off and turned inward to join the flow.
It briefly brought his mind back to his days on Caldorius. How many such passageways had he walked in the bowels of those arenas? How many times had he been made to sleep in chambers that had the same sort of grungy, mechanical inner-workings on full display, knowing all the while that the owners and the ravening audiences enjoyed comfort and relative luxury during every moment of their lives? Murgen Foltham and his colleagues, his guests, were too good to endure the sight of these places under normal circumstances. These were the territory of slaves and servants, of the subordinates. The territory of the less fortunate.
Drakkal didn’t care if it was petty, but the thought of Murgen scurrying through these corridors like a terrified sewer skrudge was immensely satisfying. Foltham deserved to spend his last moments brought low, deserved the fear Drakkal hoped he was feeling right now.
Turning where Arcanthus indicated, Drakkal entered another corridor and increased his pace. His breath came quick and heavy, his muscles burned, and ever-intensifying heat radiated outward from his chest to suffuse his limbs. Despite his weariness and soreness, he felt alive, his senses amplified and on high-alert. He could detect Murgen’s scent on the air, strengthening with each step forward. This was the realization of his instincts, the fulfillment of his current purpose—as a hunter, a mate, a protector.
“Next right,” Arcanthus said. “They’re thirty meters ahead, just about to reach the safe room entrance.”
Voices drifted to Drakkal from around the corner, barely above whispers and difficult to decipher—but he recognized one of them. The deepest, most frantic of the voices belonged to Murgen. A loud rumbling echoed down the hall, as though a heavy door were opening.
Drakkal slowed, raised his auto-blaster, and turned the corner, squeezing the trigger even before he’d had time to visually register his targets. A torrent of plasma sped along the corridor. The sound of the firing auto-blaster was the only warning Foltham’s guards received.
Both bodyguards spun to face Drakkal. The closer of the two fell almost immediately, hit by at least five bolts within half a second. Drakkal advanced toward them at a brisk stride, keeping the trigger depressed.
Wide-eyed, Murgen pressed himself against the opening door. The remaining guard was raising his blaster. Before he could return fire, a trio of plasma bolts hit him in the arm, chest, and eye.
Murgen ducked and fell through the doorway, vanishing from Drakkal’s view. The door slammed down with a thunderous finality.
Glowing rings and lines stood out all over the floor, walls, and overhead ductwork, slowly fading as they cooled. Drakkal strode forward and fired a few more shots into each guard as he neared them. He stopped in front of the large blast door through which Murgen had fled. Extending his left arm, he banged his metal fist on the door.
The sound carried along the corridor in a deep, booming echo; no sound dampeners here, not for the staff.
The keypad on the doorframe flashed.
“You’re not getting through this door, azhera,” Murgen said through the intercom. “It’s made of the strongest tristeel in Arthos, and can withstand a direct hit from an orbital strike!”
“Seems excessive,” Drakkal growled.
“What’s excessive is what I’ll have my security personnel do to you once their special task force arrives. You don’t have the intelligence to fully comprehend the consequences of what you’ve done, you slavering beast. I suggest you flee while you can.”
Drakkal’s rage continued to burn hot around an icy, unshakeable core—that calm and patience he normally had such mastery over. Murgen’s words didn’t fan those flames; they couldn’t anymore. Ultimately, they were the same as their speaker—loud, arrogant, and empty.
“You’ve no idea who you’ve crossed, azhera,” Murgen continued. “Do you have the slightest notion of how many credits I’m willing to pay toward your prolonged suffering? Do you understand who I am?”
As Murgen continued talking, Drakkal asked in a low voice, “How long you going to make me wait, Arc?”
“What? Who are you talking to?” Murgen demanded.
“Part of me wanted to see how long he’d go on like that,” Arcanthus said over the commlink. “And I wanted to give you an opportunity to respond.”
“Kraasz ka’val, he’ll have my response the moment the door’s open.”
Murgen barked laughter. “This door won’t open until your body’s cold and dead, azhera.”
Though the sound was so faint that Drakkal couldn’t be sure if it had occurred, he thought he heard Arcanthus laugh—and Samantha scold him for taking so long.
The keypad on the doorframe flashed a series of glitchy, scrambled characters, and the heavy blast door rumbled. A moment later, the door began
rising.
Murgen made a shocked, unintelligible exclamation; Drakkal heard the garbled words both through the intercom and the widening space beneath the door.
As soon as the door was high enough, Drakkal met Murgen’s gaze. The large durgan was standing in a lavish antechamber that was decorated in a fashion befitting of the manor high above. The walls were maroon with gold accents over dark paneling, the floor a gleaming polished stone, black with deep scarlet veins.
Murgen’s eyes were so wide they looked on the verge of popping out of his skull. “H-how did you…h-how—”
Drakkal unslung his auto-blaster’s shoulder strap, detached the energy cell, and tossed both the weapon and the cell aside. He took a step forward.
Murgen’s throat flesh swelled with an alarmed, grating screech. He shambled backward and tripped over his own feet, waving his big arms in desperation to reclaim his balance; both the screech and his attempted recovery were at odds with his immense size. “I’ll give you anything. Anything! N-name your p-price, azhera!”
Balling his right hand into a fist, Drakkal surged forward and swung his arm. His knuckles struck Murgen’s cheek. The durgan’s fleshy jowls shook with the impact, and his head snapped to the side, rerouting his stumbling retreat into the same direction.
“Please, p-please,” Murgen stammered, raising an arm to shield his face. “You can have anything you w-want.”
Drakkal’s next strike caught Murgen in the gut, knocking him back several steps before he finally fell hard on his ass. Drakkal pursued him at a steady, relentless pace, responding to Murgen’s pleas only with fists—and, soon enough, claws. Murgen’s begging grew more frantic and babbling with each passing moment. Drakkal only increased the strength behind his attacks as Murgen’s desperation grew.
If Murgen were saying words, the azhera no longer heard. That old, red haze had settled over his vision, welcome and familiar, and the only sound he paid attention to was that of his own steadily beating heart.
Each time Murgen struggled to his feet, Drakkal knocked him down again. The scents of blood and sour sweat dominated the air. Soon, Murgen was screaming between his labored breaths, and the sounds pushed Drakkal harder, faster. He no longer saw only Murgen Foltham—this was also Vanya and the slavers who’d captured Drakkal long ago, this was all the cruel slave owners and arena masters he’d met on Caldorius, this was Vaund and the whole Syndicate. This was everyone who’d ever wronged Drakkal, Shay, Leah, and his family, everyone who would ever wrong them.
When Murgen fell again, Drakkal didn’t give him a chance to get back up. Releasing a powerful, reverberating roar, Drakkal pinned Murgen on the floor and unleashed the fullness of his rage.
He wasn’t sure how much time had passed when he finally stilled his arms. He wasn’t sure how long it had been since Murgen’s screams had forever fallen silent. Drakkal’s chest and shoulders heaved with ragged breaths, and the exposed fur on his arms and face was drenched in warm, fresh blood. He wasn’t sure what he was supposed to feel now.
There was that deep-running heat, of course, but it was already dispersing—if only slowly. He pushed himself to his feet. His many aches and pains chose that moment to make themselves known anew, but Drakkal felt…lighter. This situation was not yet concluded—there was cleaning up to do to ensure none of this came back on his people or on the prisoners locked in the zoo—but the final threat to his mate had been eliminated.
He turned toward the door and exited the room without offering Murgen a backward glance. Drakkal planned to only look forward—toward Shay and Leah.
It was time to bring his family back home.
Epilogue
Eight Months Later
Everyone was gathered in the break room, forming a circle around the little girl sitting on the floor. Leah was surrounded gifts and wads of torn wrapping paper. It was her big day, her first birthday, and Shay couldn’t stop the tears from randomly stinging her eyes.
My little girl is growing up.
It seemed like only yesterday that Leah was still in Shay’s womb, the baby Shay had never planned for but had devoted her life to. Of course, that feeling was probably strengthened by the fact that she usually felt like she had no idea what she was doing—babies really didn’t come with instruction manuals, and finding sources of information while there were still so few humans in Arthos had proven challenging.
But she had this crazy, wonderful family around her, and they’d all been amazing. This birthday party was just another example on a long list—half the people here didn’t understand why humans celebrated birthdays, didn’t understand why anyone went through the trouble of wrapping presents only to tear off the paper and throw it away, but they were going along with it anyway. For Leah.
Leah had grown so much over the last few months. Though she was taller and more mobile now that she’d started walking, she still had her adorable baby chub. Today, she was wearing a puffy blue dress Drakkal had purchased for her, and her dark hair—which was now down to her chin—was pulled up into pig tails and tied with tiny matching bows. Her eyes were a bright blue to match Shay’s, and every time Leah smiled, dimples appears in her cheeks. The little girl already knew how to use those dimples to her advantage. There wasn’t a male in this room who wouldn’t drop whatever he was doing to cater to Leah’s whims—including Thargen.
Leah clawed at one of the wrapped gifts, her delicate brows angled down in frustration. Razi stepped forward and lowered himself to the floor in front of her, reaching out with his large hands to make a little tear in the wrapping paper so she could open it. She smiled up at him, flashing those troublemaking dimples, and ripped through the paper, tossing it aside. Once she’d been shown the joy of tearing off wrapping paper, she’d taken to it like a natural. Opening gifts was clearly more interesting than the gifts themselves.
But Leah paused with this gift, her eyes serious and focused as she reached into the open wrapping. She withdrew a small stuffed animal—a cartoonish cat with suspiciously familiar gray-brown fur and markings.
Leah grinned, struggled to her feet, and waddled to Drakkal, holding the cat high.
Drakkal glared at Razi, who grinned just as big as Leah.
Laughter erupted from everyone—the sort of good-natured laughter that Shay enjoyed so much—with Thargen’s booming the loudest.
Drakkal’s frown was comically exaggerated, but when he bent down and scooped up little Leah, he was all smiles.
“Got your own little kitty, huh?” he asked.
Leah giggled and declared, “Ki-ki!” She held up the cat in one hand and patted Drakkal’s cheek with the other. “Ki-ki.”
Everyone went silent. Shay’s mouth gaped as she stared at her daughter in shock, excitement, and envy.
“Her first word is kitty?” Arcanthus asked, his softly-spoke question shattering the silence.
“Ki-ki,” Leah agreed, leaning forward to press her face against Drakkal’s furry cheek and giving him a loud kiss.
Drakkal’s smile widened, and he tilted his head down to gently nuzzle Leah’s hair. “Yes, little one. Ki-ki.” He lifted his gaze to the others in the room. “Now you all need to pay up. I won the bet.”
“What?” Shay asked, brows lowered. “No, you didn’t!”
Sekk’thi scowled and dug out a credit chip, tossing it toward Drakkal, who caught it while still maintaining his hold on Leah. “I call foul.”
“I thought it was supposed to be whether she said mama or dada first,” Samantha said.
“No, it was if her first word would be me or Shay,” Drakkal said. “She said kitty. That’s me.”
Shay poked his ribs but couldn’t keep the grin off her face. “You’re such a cheat.”
“I’m not a cheat, kiraia. It’s not my fault everyone insists on calling me that. She’s probably heard that word more than any other.”
Leah wiggled in his arms, and Drakkal bent to set her carefully on her feet. She hugged her stuffed cat and walked back to her presents,
plopping down onto Razi’s lap. The big gray cren smiled tenderly down at Leah and picked up another gift for her to unwrap.
Shay smiled. Leah wasn’t lacking in big, strong, scary-ass uncles who were such softies on the inside. She had them all wrapped around her little finger—Drakkal most of all.
Samantha cleared her throat. “You guys will have another chance at that bet before too long.”
Shay’s eyes widened as she looked at her friend. “Really?”
“Why would that be?” Arcanthus asked, arching a brow. “She doesn’t get a second first word.”
Drakkal shook his head and snorted. “Really, Arc?”
Arcanthus’s brows fell, and he turned his face to Samantha. After a second, realization rounded his eyes. “Samantha?”
She smiled up at him, glancing briefly at Urgand, who was seated next to Sekk’thi on the sofa. “Urgand said I’m around eight weeks. He’s not sure what the gestation period is for a human and sedhi hybrid, but he said the heartbeat is strong.”
The corners of Arc’s mouth curled upward to reveal the tips of his fangs, and his eyes softened as he gazed down at his mate. His cybernetic hands settled on her hips and slowly moved up to cradle her middle, his thumbs lovingly stroking her belly. “Ah, my flower, I cannot wait to see you blossom further.”
Samantha reached up and cupped his jaw, and the sedhi lowered his head, bringing his lips to hers as he pulled her close.
“Well that’s not going to be a fair bet at all,” said Koroq.
“Why’s that?” Kiloq asked, nudging his gift toward Leah, who eagerly dragged it closer.
“Sam’s been cleaning us out playing Conquerors for two years,” Koroq said, “and you know for a chunk of that she didn’t really know what she was doing. That terran has luck on her side.”
Leah gleefully tore apart the wrapping paper to reveal a brightly colored tablet. Her attention remained on the wrapping instead of the toy; she crumpled the paper and tore it more, giggling to herself.
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