Chapter Eight

Khal

 

I  stared at the stone ceiling above me, willing the drugs to leave my system. Each time the Regime soldiers darted me, I went down like a sircassian tree felled by the saw-toothed horn of the small, but manically relentless, rhinosect bug.

But I’d noted that the effect was wearing off more rapidly with each injection, the grogginess receding and my strength returning in a shorter time span. In fact, I’d been trying to goad the guards into darting me more frequently, before I’d fully recovered from a shot, hoping that I’d build up immunity to whatever the shit was they were pumping into me.

This time, though, I’d not meant for the bastards to tag me. What fucking use was I to Lyrie, lying flat on my back?

My fists clenched, and my lips curled into an impotent snarl. Where the hells had they taken her? And, more to the point, why? It wasn’t like Hartlin’s damned hidden cameras proved I had no intention of doing his bidding. In fact, with Lyrie’s sweet taste in my mouth, I’d only been seconds from doing at least part of what Hartlin wanted.

The rest, I’d have faked.

Because no way was he getting a kid of mine.

No way was anyone getting a kid of mine. I’d played it safe since I messed up with Becka. No way in hells was I going through that pain again.

But neither Lyrie nor Hartlin would ever have known that; I’d become damn good at faking the final moments of orgasm. Hartlin would eventually assume I was shooting blanks, but I had plans for Lyrie and me to be halfway across the desert before it got to that point.

Well, more a damn strong hope, than an actual plan.

I squinted at the cell roof, narrowing my eyes as my hearing improved. Footsteps rapped along the corridor, far away, from the direction in which they’d dragged Lyrie.

Lyrie. Maybe I should’ve been honest, told her that I had no intention of impregnating her. It might’ve eased her mind, because she was clearly about as keen on the idea of having kids as I was.

It seemed I was a hell of a lot more than happy to play along with the Regime plan of screwing her, though.

I groaned, bending my knees to place my feet flat on the slab and hide my groin from Hartlin’s cameras. Great, the one part of my body surging with life was my cock, reacting to the memory of the softness of Lyrie’s thighs against my cheek. Her obvious desire. Her demands. No, they were orders, really.

But I refused to analyze my response, the one that had been gut instinct, rather than purely physical. I couldn’t afford to care for someone.

Not ever.

But especially not now.

Because now we were all kinds of fucked, except the good kind.

The footsteps in the corridor resolved themselves as Hartlin’s smart tapping, two other military-paced marchers, and an odd, shuffling, dragging sound I couldn’t interpret.

The grille across the door slammed open, and I swiveled my eyes toward it, pretending I still couldn’t sit. If Hartlin entered, would I have the energy to leap for his throat? Rip it out with my human teeth?

The image of Lyrie, her wrists bound but her back ramrod straight as she strode from our cell, flanked by a full phalanx of Regime guards, as though Hartlin believed she had the capability to harm him, flashed into my mind.

Hells, yeah, I’d have enough energy.

More shuffling, the sound of the bolt scraping back, then the door cracked open. A gust of fetid, cave-dank air that’d been circulated through a decade of lungs, and a form covered in rags plunged into the room, falling to the floor as the door slammed shut.

Lyrie! My heart leaped so painfully, I smacked a hand against my chest to keep it in place. But even as I shoved up from the bed, I knew I was wrong. Because this smell, this presence, wasn’t the woman I refused to care about.

It was someone else I had allowed myself to care about.

Someone who should be dead.

“Spike? What the hell, dude?” I staggered across the room and dropped to my knees, throwing an arm across my brother’s bowed shoulders as he crouched on all fours on the shit-speckled floor.

He groaned, his eyes closed as he lifted his head, pain etched deep in the grooves creasing his face. “Khal?” His voice cracked. “Khal? That you, bro?” He squinted, as though the dim light hurt his eyes. Two massive slices, like claw marks and crusted in blood, gouged from the corner of his left eye, down his jaw line and disappeared into the filthy neck of his tattered prison shirt.

“Yeah, it’s me, dude. Gods, what’ve the bastards done to you?” This hunched, filthy shell, who cowered back as a dull clang sounded down the corridor, wasn’t the brash, loudmouthed puma I’d known most of my life and shared ratpacks with for the last decade. The brother I’d thought dead.

Spike shoved slowly back onto his haunches, every movement clearly taking an immense toll. The hand he extended to grip my forearm, exchanging our squad handshake, trembled, his fingers clawed as though he could no longer straighten them. “Man, so good to see you. Tell me the others got away?”

“Yeah. I hope so, anyway. Herc and Jag are safe. Leo should’ve hightailed it across the desert, by now. But how the hells are you here?”

“Across the desert? To the Resistance HQ, you mean? You know where it is?” His hand tightened on my forearm. “If we get out of here, can we make it there?”

I snorted. “You have a plan for getting out?”

“Well, I’ve sure had plenty of time to case the joint.” He tried to grin, but a flicker of hurt dimmed his hazel eyes, though his pupils were oddly enlarged. “I was kinda hanging on the hope you guys would come back for me.”

“Thought you were dead, man.” As I said the words, I could’ve smacked my head against the wall; it’d been Regime soldiers who told us Spike was killed by a drone while chasing after the Resistance escapees. At the time, we’d not known the depths of their treachery well enough to suspect their lies. “I checked the compound, but couldn’t find any trace of you.” I didn’t add that it’d been his body I searched for.

He nodded, wincing with each bob of his head. “Don’t sweat it. We’re pretty far underground, here. Even you couldn’t have heard or scented me.”

“I’m guessing your plan for getting out doesn’t involve some non-existent rescue squad busting in to save us, then?”

He shoved up, straightening his back a vertebra at a time. As the rags of his shirt fell open, he caught my gaze on the filth-covered expanse of his chest, patterned with ridged scars and puckered burns. He grimaced. “Don’t heal so good anymore, man, not like back in the day. Must be because they keep sucking so much out of me.”

I jerked a thumb at the bed, then watched as he shuffled over there and lowered himself onto the stone bench. “Sucking out?”

“Yeah. They’ve been using me as some kind of organic factory. Don’t ask me what for. You know that science shit wasn’t my jam, only took the class because Becka was into it.”

Yeah, I knew. I also knew what the Regime had been harvesting. Shifter DNA.

He lifted one hand in an open-palmed shrug. “Or maybe it’s the shit they keep shooting into us. Makes it hard to think, never mind heal. You don’t look so good yourself.” 

Odd that he’d not also built a tolerance for the injections in the weeks he’d been here. I rasped a palm absently over the tingling patch on my arm where yesterday’s break, courtesy of several pairs of sirdar-capped boots in the prison yard, had healed. But maybe the Regime were filling Spike with some other kind of crap, something he couldn’t build immunity to. “They’re not taking your blood anymore, right?”

“Wasn’t just blood, man. They were sucking the guts right out of my bones. Can’t tell you how much that hurts. You should be all right, though, the Regime has different plans now.” He ran a hand through his hair, grown out longer than he normally wore it, but surprisingly clean. “Guess we should thank the Resistance. Apparently, they crashed some project, and Hartlin’s changed tack. The experiments he’s doing now are far more pleasant. Well, they would be, if I could get it right.” His features tightened into a snarl, but he shook it off. “Used to be better at that kind of stuff, back in the day.”

“Better at what kind of—”

His head leaned back against the ridged rock wall, Spike’s gaze had gone distant, his eyes clouded. “Speaking of back in the day, remember how you, me, and Becka used to hang out? Man, they were good times.”

Not so much in my memory. The same age as Becka, and a few years younger than me, Spike had introduced us. Then, when we’d got it on, he’d hung around like an awkward third wheel. It hadn’t been until years later I’d realized he’d had a permanent hard on for Becka, his conversation continually coming back to her, despite the fact that I refused to mention her since she died.

But he was a good friend; he’d never blamed me for stealing her out from under his nose.

Or for killing her.

“Why the hell have you been thrown in here? And, more importantly, what’s your plan for getting out of this shit hole?” I tried to bring him back to the present. Last thing I needed right now was a maudlin trip down memory lane. Though maybe it was fitting. Life’s supposed to flash before your eyes when you die, maybe I was just getting the slow-motion, slightly premature version.

I growled involuntarily. Hells, no. Giving in wasn’t an option. I needed to find where the guards had taken Lyrie and get her out of here. She couldn’t escape without me.

And I was pretty damn sure I didn’t want to do it without her.

Spike’s eyes darted toward the door, but I couldn’t hear anything new out there. “Keep it down, man. The walls have ears. You can’t trust any prick, here. No one, you hear me?” His gaze met mine, suddenly penetrating.

I nodded, and he swapped to our mother tongue. Few people knew Aaidarian, and even fewer spoke the Felidaekin dialect. “There’s an exercise yard, up above. I don’t know it, haven’t been allowed above ground since they caught me—”

“I know it.”

A flash of jealousy crossed Spike’s pale face “You’ve been allowed out? Man, I’ve not seen daylight for weeks.”

“Guess Hartlin and Smithton figured there are no cats left in the compound for me to alert.” I waved my hand, trying to move Spike’s plan along more quickly. Gods knew how many minutes we had until the guards returned. He seemed too happy to drift off, rambling about Becka rather than working out how to get out of here, but I needed to find Lyrie. “What about the yard? I did a quick recce there, earlier.” I rubbed my arm again. “Nothing leaped out in terms of easily breached defenses.”

He rasped a hand across his jaw for several seconds, observing me silently. Unusual for Spike, who was more a jump-in-boots-and-all kind of guy. Leo’s caution must finally be rubbing off on him. Guess there was nothing like a near-death experience to curb recklessness. Eventually, he nodded, lowering his voice. “I know the shifts. Rosters. Some of the guards aren’t such bad dudes, they used to be my drinking buddies. Hells, a couple of them are in to me big time for chalist.” He snorted. “For once, the cards were falling in my favor. Anyway, if I let them keep their rubiks, I reckon they can be persuaded to be a bit lax on duty.”

“We can get through the gate? How about the laserblade fence?”

“I told you. They owe me big time. I could have retired on that lot.”

I shrugged. “There’s no retiring if you die in here.”

“Copy that, man. You think, if I get us out, you’ll be able to get us into the Resistance stronghold?”

It took me a moment to realize he’d transitioned seamlessly to Glian. “Jag sent a message that the Regime forces are massed on the approach to the stronghold. But apparently there’s a hidden rear entrance. Not sure how the hell we find it, though.”

Spike’s sunken cheeks puffed up and he blew out a sharp breath, frowning. “Are any of Maya’s friends still in the compound? She was obviously in pretty tight with the Resistance, they may know the way.”

Maya had disappeared across the desert after busting the Resistance prisoners out of jail a few weeks earlier, but I had no idea if she’d had comrades on the inside, or if she’d been a lone operative. I only knew that her bondmate, our leader, Herc, had followed her, then sent for the rest of us. I grinned; Herc would get a hell of a shock when I turned up with Spike. It’d be good to have the whole band of cat brothers together again. “You find out when your pals are on duty. But we don’t action this until I’ve found Lyrie.” Saying her name aloud made a kind of crazy buzz deep in the pit of my stomach, and I rolled my shoulders, hunching forward as though I could quash it.

“Lyrie?”

“Woman who was locked in here with me. She’s Resistance. She may know how to reach the HQ.” I added the last as though I needed to sweeten the deal, but I didn’t; no way was I leaving without saving Lyrie. Spike would just have to handle it.

Spike dropped his hands between his spread knees. “Yeah. I know the one. I didn’t fuck her.”

“What the hell, dude?” I shoved away from the wall I’d been leaning on. “What are you talking about?”

“I told you the Regime have a new project. Seems it involves me knocking up Glian chicks. Problem is, they test the woman for pregnancy within days. And every time it’s come back negative. Like I said, I used to be better at that kind of stuff.”

I frowned. I knew Spike as well as any brother, and he’d never produced a kid, so what was he talking about? That wasn’t the most pressing question, though. “What do you mean, you never f—” I winced, and tried again. “You never touched Lyrie?” What the hell was with that? Why couldn’t I bring myself to say the word? Much less picture the act.

“They sent me to her a couple of hours ago. I was supposed to fuck her. But I could smell you on her straight away, that’s how I knew you were here. And I figured she was your woman, so I refused to touch her.”

My woman? No, she wasn’t my woman.

Except the term didn’t sit as uncomfortably as it should.

Spike thrust to his feet, ignoring his previous pain. “And that means you have to do it, man. You have to fuck her, like they want. I’ll get us out of here, but I don’t know when it’ll be. For now, you have to keep Hartlin happy, buy us some time.”

I shook my head. “I would’ve…taken her. Hartlin screwed himself over by interrupting. But you know I won’t ever get a woman pregnant.”

Spike’s face turned dark, his voice dropping to a low hiss. “Why? She’s nothing to you. Or are you still on about Becka? Dammit, Khal, Becka was—”

The bolt shot on the door, and I whirled toward it, cursing silently. Intent on Spike, I’d failed to keep watch.

Five guards, a medic, a woman, Smithton, and Hartlin.

Open down the front, the woman’s shift barely skimmed the top of her naked thighs.

I narrowed my gaze on her face, wondering if she was drugged. The Regime seemed pretty heavy-handed with the moodar. Her eyes seemed bright and clear, flicking from Spike to me. She clutched at the front of her shirt, closing it over her breasts, but apparently unaware it created a V, framing her sex.

Smithton stepped forward, licking at his thin lips. “Last chance for you, Pumakin,” he sneered at Spike. “This one’s tried and tested. If you can’t knock her up, you’re no damn use to us.”

Spike shot me a beseeching look. “Dammit, Khal,” he switched to Aaidarian. “I’m done for, man. They’re gonna kill me, for sure.”

“Shut up and fuck her,” snapped Smithton. “I’ve told you bloody mutants before to only speak in Glian.” He shoved the woman forward, her curly brown hair bobbing as she stumbled.

Spike darted forward, fast despite his injuries, and steadied her. He looked back at me over his shoulder, his chest heaving, his jaw working as he ground out the words. “Look away, man. I can’t control myself, I’m pumped full of moodar.”

“There’ll be no looking away,” Hartlin snapped. “I want you—” he jerked his chin at me, “—to see the damage your refusal causes. This woman’s degradation is your fault.”

I surged forward, but the guards instantly leveled their guns at my chest. Even with the drugs lasting a shorter duration, they had enough darts between them to put me to sleep for a week.

Spike slid the shirt from the woman’s shoulders, allowing it to drop to the floor around her feet. His shirt followed, and she let out a tiny moan, stifling her fear.

“Dammit, Hartlin, it’s not like I’ve fucking refused.” I whirled toward him, partly so I didn’t have to see as Spike shucked his pants, though I heard the fabric rustle to the ground.

Hartlin lifted one shoulder. “You had your chance. I told you we have a limited time frame. Now, look. Because, really, you’re the one raping this woman.”

A guard stepped forward, jabbing his rifle hard enough into my gut to force my breath out and spin me around.

Spike had pushed the woman against the wall, her face crushed against the stone, her beseeching gaze fixed on me as her breasts grazed the unforgiving surface. He jerked her hips toward him. His cock strained against the crease of her ass. She whimpered.

“Gods, Spike, don’t do it,” I bellowed.

He turned toward me, but his eyes were unfocused.

“Spike, you’re better than this!” I knew the man. Moodar or not, he’d never forgive himself if he took a woman against her will. “Hartlin, let’s talk.”

Smithton snickered. “Go for it, Tina.”

The rifle against my belly, I’d taken a half pace toward Hartlin, but Smithton’s words stilled my panic.

Tina.

It wasn’t pleading in her eyes.

Instead, it was a gleam of…anticipation.

And the room didn’t smell of fear.

It smelled of…arousal.

This was the woman who’d stood outside my cell, whispering to Smithton about what she’d like to do with me.

She was no unwilling victim.

“Spike, dude, scent her. She’s into it. It’s all right.” I said in Aaidarian. Spike would still have to perform, but there was no need for the act to haunt him.

“You’re right. She’s not unwilling. Not yet,” Hartlin interrupted in perfect Aaidarian. “However, we can take care of that.”

My shoulders slumped, and I stared at Hartlin. What else had he overheard?

He returned my glare, a frown deepening between his eyebrows. Then he snapped at Smithton. “Take the sample.”

Smithton nodded to the medic alongside him, who strode across to Spike. I expected Spike to fight back, but he stood still while the medic drew blood, added it to a vial, and shook it until the color changed. He passed it to Hartlin.

Hartlin’s jaw jumped and ticked. “Still not high enough.” He smashed the vial onto the stone floor, blood and glass fragments spraying wide. “That was your last chance, shifter,” he snarled at Spike.

“What the hell are you talking about?” I snatched the barrel of the rifle and thrust it back against the guard’s chest, though I wasn’t stupid enough to take a step forward.

Hartlin’s purple eyes bored into mine. “Agitation heightens testosterone levels, so there was a chance your friend might’ve actually been able to create a result, this time. But his levels are not high enough.” He nodded to the medic. “Do it.”

The medic stepped forward, this time injecting something into Spike’s arm.

Spike’s wide, terrified gaze met mine, all trace of moodar evaporated. “Gods, Khal…”

“What is it?” Hells, given my guns, fangs and claws, I could face any foe. But this unknown, unseen adversary was something I couldn’t grapple with.

“Sterone,” Hartlin supplied uselessly. A slow smile crossed his face at my confusion. “A forced steroid treatment we’ve come up with. Your friend here will be unable to resist the impact. It seems likely the Felidaekin genes are strongest when you’re in cat form, so that’s what we’ll use. Of course, that unfortunately means that we’ll probably have to keep our…egg donor—” he waved a dismissive hand at Tina, “—alive artificially until we can harvest the fetus. But, as you know, there’s collateral damage in any battle.”

Spike held up one hand, palm toward me. His fingers cracked and lengthened, massive claws extending from the tips. “Khal, do something! I can’t stop the shift!”

Smithton bobbed from one foot to the other. “Yes. Oh yes. He’s going to do her as a cat. Get ready, Tina, sweetheart. This’ll be your best lesson, yet. You do love a lesson, don’t you, you naughty girl?”

Suddenly the room reeked of fear, and Tina screamed, a genuine sound of terror, as two of the guards stepped forward to grip her arms, holding her splayed against the wall. Adrenalin ramped up in my throat, the full horror of Hartlin’s intention suddenly clear.

Spike stumbled toward me, the guards backing away. “You have to do something, Khal! If I touch her, I’ll kill her.” He gripped my forearm, his knuckles blanching. “Don’t make me do it, man. I’m not as strong as you. I can’t live with being a murderer.”