Twelve
Half a planet rotation later, Orol stood in the fighting ring, facing the heavily armed Palavian. Every part of him was aware that his female sat in the crowd, her gaze on his form.
She cared for him. He stood straighter. That was the reason his clever mate had looked to him as the sole way to free her sister. She felt their connection, wasn’t scared of his darkness, trusted him to emerge victorious in the battle.
“After I kill you, I’m killing your slave.” The Palavian sneered. “I’ll slice her to pieces as I fuck the life out of her body.”
Orol extended his talons. His opponent’s words were bravado. He smelled the fear on the Palavian. But the mere mention of another male touching his female provoked his inner predator.
It wanted to kill the Palavian…slowly, painfully, teaching every being watching a lesson.
He protected what was his.
Novac would be wise to note that. When Orol had last seen the male, he had been sitting too close to Rhea, had been looking at her with too much heat in his eyes.
Orol redirected that anger to his opponent. The final horn sounded.
The Palavian charged toward him, bellowing like a wounded creature. Orol rushed to meet him, accelerating with each step. The male’s eyes widened. He realized he was out of his depth.
Orol leapt into the air, swiped his talons over the Palavian’s top two wrists, slicing through flesh and bone. The hands dropped to the stone. Blood spurted. The male shrieked in pain. The crowd cheered, jumping to their feet, waving wing-shaped signs.
Orol flipped over his opponent’s shoulders, landing behind him. “You’ll never hurt another female again.” He stabbed the male in the back, careful to miss the vital organs. The goal was a slow kill, prolonging the agony, punishing the male.
“I might not survive this.” The Palavian slid his two remaining hands into his chest covering as he turned. “But neither will you.”
Orol’s opponent extracted guns from the garment. The sun’s rays reflected off the weapons’ barrels. A grim smile stretched across the Palavian’s ugly face.
Even if the male survived the battle, he would die. He’d be executed for breaking the rules.
Orol dove to the left. Gunfire rang out. Pain blazed a trail across his right arm. One of his feathers dropped, fluttering to the stone.
The injury didn’t stop Orol’s ascent. Normally, he fought on the ground, giving his opponent a sliver of a chance. The Palavian didn’t deserve that respect.
Roaring with outrage, Orol flew into the sky. He wanted to rip the male apart, punish him for his dishonorable act, for the worry he’d likely caused Rhea.
Orol spread his wings and hovered out of the reach of the Palavian’s guns, mocking his red-faced, wildly shooting opponent. Projectiles arced below him. The audience oohed and aahed.
He glanced at his female, the only member of the audience he cared about. She glared at Novac, her eyes blazing. The male had placed one of his booted feet on the long gun set before her.
Rhea must have reached for that gun, his fearless female seeking to protect her mate, unconcerned that interfering with a fight was a life-ending violation of the rules. Novac had stopped her from taking that action.
Orol’s lips flattened. Fraggin’ hole. He now owed the male. The Palavian would pay for that obligation also.
Orol free-fell, tucking his wings close to his body, spinning. The male shot at him. Orol swooped over the Palavian’s head, yanking the guns out of his hands.
He tossed the weapons into the crowd. Beings fought for them, punching and elbowing their competition. A male held one of the guns over his head in triumph. Another male yanked it out of his grip and dashed away.
The tussle excited Orol’s inner beast. It beat its wings against its emotional walls, wanting to be free. When it broke through, the darkness would engulf him. He’d become the killer he was designed to be.
Orol circled overhead, flying round and round, ruthlessly restraining his creature, studying his prey, planning his attack.
Sweat beaded on the Palavian’s high forehead. His face was pale. Blood pooled around his boots. The male grasped daggers. He must have only had the two guns.
That was a foolish move. Those two guns had doomed the Palavian. Hiding more on his form wouldn’t have changed his fate and it would have increased his chances of killing his foe.
Orol dove, reaching toward the male. He raked his talons over his opponent’s shoulders. The Palavian screamed with agony, raised his daggers to defend himself.
He was too slow. Orol flew skyward, enjoying the sun’s rays on his wings. It heated his feathers, his skin. His talons were crimson, droplets falling from the tips.
His beast was free. The human side of him had retreated and the darkness overwhelmed him. Orol swooped over the Palavian again and again, ripping the skin, the flesh from his arms, chest, back, shoulders.
He flung those bits of his prey at the crowd. The beings went wild, grabbing the grotesque souvenirs, yelling for more, more, more.
A high-pitched noise rose from the Palavian’s throat. He fell to his knees.
Orol wrapped his talons around the male’s neck and lifted him into the air. The Palavian struggled, shaking. Orol sliced off his arms one by one, the limbs falling into the writhing mass of beings below them. By the time the fourth arm was severed, his opponent had lost consciousness, his body sagging.
That didn’t appease Orol’s beast. He cut off the Palavian’s legs, giving those to the spectators too. Then he stripped the skin from the torso, the flesh from the bones. Blood splattered over Orol, oozed between his talons, down his arms.
His prey was still and offered no challenge. It no longer interested his beast. He decapitated the Palavian, allowed the torso to fall, and tossed the head into the crowd.
A new opponent was needed. Orol flew over the beings, scanning the faces, the need to kill, to hunt still driving him.
His gaze narrowed on Novac. He sat too close to Rhea.
Orol dove, his talons outstretched.
His female sucked in her breath, that small sound shifting his gaze to her face. Wanting reflected in her eyes, flushed her cheeks, parted her lips.
Those lips that would look good stretched around his cock. Orol hardened and the killing haze around him cleared, replaced by lust.
He no longer sought to end lives. He wanted to mate with his female.
Beings in the reserved viewing area screamed, rushing out of his way as he approached. Even Novac, that spineless male, ran for cover.
Only Rhea remained seated, silently, fearlessly gazing up at him, the scent of her arousal flavoring the air. His female desired him, trusted him not to hurt her.
She was his mate. He’d slice off his wings before he harmed a hair on her head.
Unless she wanted that hair harmed.
Orol landed on the seat before her, his boot heels ringing against the surface, his feet braced apart, his hips pushed forward, the ridge in his ass coverings pronounced. She glanced at his unabashed erection and licked her lips.
His cock bobbed. “You don’t deserve to suck me dry.” His voice was gruff. “Turn around and stick that defiant ass in the air.”
“I’m sorry, Master.” She complied, bending over the seat, her ass round, firm, perfectly shaped for his palms.
He retracted his talons. “Why are you sorry, slave?” Orol tugged her ass covering up to her waist and swatted both of her ass cheeks, leaving palm prints on her skin. She jerked. The scent of her arousal intensified. “Tell me,” he demanded.
“Because-because…” She looked over her shoulder.
His female didn’t know what she’d done wrong. That was clear from her expression.
“You.” Orol smacked her ass and she moaned, the sound coiling deep down inside him. “Reached.” Smack. His palms connected with her skin again. “For.” Smack. The sound of the spanking filled the space. “The.” Smack. Wetness dripped down her inner thighs. “Gun.” Smack. Her ass was bright red, her skin streaked with his opponent’s blood, warmed by his hands.
“I wanted to protect you, Master.” Tears streaked down her cheeks, glistened in her eyes.
“You questioned your Master’s ability to protect himself?” He unfastened his ass coverings, liberating his cock.
“No, Master.” She spread her legs, presenting her tight little pussy hole to him.
It was an offer he couldn’t refuse. “If you had fired even a single projectile, they would have killed you.” He gripped her hips with his bloodstained hands.
She arched her back. “A single projectile would have been all I needed, Master.”
His lips twitched. His tiny warrior wasn’t humble about her abilities. “You won’t take that risk again.”
“Unless—”
“No unless.” He thrust into her wet heat, burying himself to his hilt in snug, willing female. A squeak escaped her lips, that small sound of submission enhancing his pleasure.
She belonged to him and he took her hard and fast, pounding into her, his hips reddening her ass even more. Rhea absorbed all his pent-up frustration, his dark needs, his primitive yearnings. Although his female was small, fragile, human, his feigned slave, his temporary captive, she was and would always be his equal, as necessary to him as his wings, his heart.
He’d protect her, fight for her, never let her go.
They mated like beasts, uncaring that others watched. His female pushed backward, panting, challenging him as she always did. He drove forward, grunting with satisfaction, losing himself in her body. Pressure flowed down his spine, gathered in his balls.
Orol wrapped her hair around one of his hands and pulled, drawing her head back by those soft strands. “You’re mine, slave.” He owned her pussy with long, deep strokes.
“I’m yours, Master.” Sweat sparkled on her skin. She glowed, his golden female, burning like a comet against him, lighting his darkness.
She constricted around his cock. Orol gritted his teeth, the snugness stripping his control. His wings flapped. His pace quickened. His rhythm became unsteady. His balls felt as though they would explode.
“Yours,” she chanted. “All yours.” The slap of skin against skin punctuated each cry. Her musk filled his nostrils, was drawn into his lungs with every breath.
Fraggin’ hole. She was waging battle on all of his senses, and with her he was weak, so weak. He—
She clenched down on him and he roared, thrusting forward, losing his grip on reality. Cum shot from his cock, a release of pressure so exquisite his world spun.
His female convulsed under him, around him, massaging his shaft with her inner walls. Bliss swept over Orol, pure and divine, cleansing him, purging the violence from his soul and the killing from his heart.
She was more powerful than the call of battle, stronger than the thrill of the fight, and he had no choice but to serve her. He poured all of him into her, a Master paying homage to his slave, a warrior honoring his captive, giving her everything he had.
His mind floated. His legs felt weak. If they had been alone, he would have collapsed, but beings were watching them, looking for vulnerabilities. Orol wouldn’t give them a way to harm him, wouldn’t put his female at risk.
She was his. He would safeguard her.
***
Moments later, as they watched the fight between Scales and the Silan, Orol questioned his ability to defend his female. Scales would be a formidable opponent.
He might be unbeatable.
Rhea kneeled in front of him, positioned protectively between Orol’s legs. He pressed his thighs against her shoulders, their physical connection reassuring him she was safe.
She faced away from him, watching the battle, her keen gaze following the warriors. Her long straight hair flowed down her back, the sunlight finding the strands of gold amidst the brown.
His mate was stunning. He had to protect her.
“The Silan’s weapons are useless.” Novac sat to Orol’s right, offering his unwelcome commentary to the already tense event. “His daggers bounced off your friend’s scales.”
“They have been reinforced.” Dracheons were naturally fierce warriors but the Humanoid Alliance had genetically enhanced Scales, making him more lethal. “His scales are impregnable.” Even Orol’s talons couldn’t pierce them. “He has three areas of weakness—his eyes and his mouth.”
That information was shared for his female’s benefit. Orol didn’t care about Novac and his bets.
Scales roared, flames billowing from his mouth. His eyes were narrow slits, glowing bright red with a killing rage. His claws were already crimson, coated with his opponent’s blood.
“He opens his mouth often.” Rhea spoke so only Orol could hear her.
“He’s out of control,” he murmured. “Gripped by the darkness.”
“A dagger in the mouth would down him?”
He’d considered that. “I’d have to throw the daggers as soon as his lips parted.” And Scales, knowing that was a weakness, opened his mouth at modified humanoid speeds. “Or his flames would burn me to the bone.”
His female tilted her head, studying the male.
Orol knew she watched Scales for his benefit, to help him. But the primitive, possessive part of him rumbled with discontentment, wanting her gaze on his face, not on his future opponent’s.
Scales stalked around the Silan, swatting at him with his claws, gouging the other fighter’s flesh, a predator playing with his prey. The Silan, an experienced warrior, calmly pelted Scales with daggers, aiming for his eyes, correctly identifying them as a weakness.
His efforts only made Scales angrier. He spewed flames, singing the Silan’s ridges, making the warrior retreat, move out of his range.
“Did you see that?” Rhea whispered.
Orol gazed at the ring, trying to spot what his observant little human had seen. The two males fought. Scales stripped the skin off the Silan’s arms and chest, then bathed the wounds with fire, sealing them, extending his opponent’s life, prolonging the suffering.
“There.” Rhea straightened. “He did it again.”
“Did what?” Orol frowned, not seeing anything.
“Watch his nostrils.”
He watched. His friend’s nostrils were normal, normal, normal, flared once, flared twice. Flames lit the air. Orol waited. It happened again. And again.
His jaw dropped. He’d trained with Scales, had fought beside him for many human lifespans, had watched him win numerous battles, and he had never noticed that detail about his friend.
“Only you would spot that.” Wonder softened his voice.
Her chin lifted. “I’ll look for more quirks.”
“Is your slave misbehaving again, Wings?” Novac nudged his arm. The male didn’t like being excluded from private conversations. “Do you need help disciplining her?”
“You will never touch my slave,” Orol growled, resisting the urge to tear the male’s limbs off.
“If you lose, I’ll do more than touch her.” Novac didn’t realize the danger he was in. “Which could happen.” He dipped his head toward the ring. “I’ve never seen your friend fight like this.”
His friend had lost all of his restraint, was ripping into the Silan like the beast he had become, slashing, burning. His opponent released an anguished roar, falling to his knees, his weapons dropping from his fingers.
Rhea’s body stiffened more and more but she didn’t otherwise move or make a sound. Orol longed to draw her into his arms, to hide her face from the carnage on display.
That wasn’t possible. She was thought to be his slave.
She would also refuse to look away. He’d tried to convince her to forgo watching the battle. She insisted, determined to help him.
And she had done exactly that. Her observations about Scales’ breathing might make the difference between winning and losing.
Might. His friend had three small target spots, one tell. Orol had many weaknesses, many tells and Scales knew them all.
The Silan fell to the ground, breathing his last, yet Scales continued to ravage his lifeless corpse, gripping handfuls of intestines and flinging them across the ring, snapping bones, crushing the male’s skull under his boots.
Orol’s female was horrified. Her straight spine communicated that. Had she been as sickened by his dismemberment of the Palavian?
“Can you take him?” Novac asked. The male didn’t care about Orol’s survival. He only cared about his bet on the fight.
“Yes.” Orol answered, seeking to reassure his female, not Novac.
The male studied him. “I don’t think you can defeat him.” The bastard had no consideration for anyone’s feelings. “But I’ll bet on you. If you win, I increase my credits. If you lose, I get your slave.” He shrugged. “I benefit from either situation.”
“I’ll win.” He wouldn’t allow Novac to touch his female.
Scales ran toward the side wall, leapt halfway up the barrier between the ring and the audience. The warrior climbed, killing in his eyes.
It was time to leave. Orol grasped his female’s waist, turned her until she faced him. Lines bracketed her lips, furrowed her forehead. She worried. For him.
His chest heated. He would bring her back to their chambers, soothe her with kisses, with mating, with private words of reassurance. “Hold on, slave.”
She wrapped her arms and legs around him.
He pushed upward, flapping his wings, carrying his female, leaving Novac and the rest of the world behind him. This could be his last rest period alive, his last rest period with his tiny warrior. He wouldn’t waste another moment of it.