WILLA

When we get to the beach, I realize it’s time to go.

It’s not that the beach is awful. It’s wild and crazy and like something out of a horror film, but it’s open and fresh and I think I could learn to love it, just like how I could probably learn to love this winter planet just because it’s a million miles away from Mama and Uncle Dick. It’s that now we’re at the beach, everyone seems to be busy as heck doing a million things. There are people stripping down the ship for parts even as it stands in the shallow water, a long dock serving as the walkway to shore. There are people hunting food in the shallows with nets and spears. There are people erecting tents and cleaning out the small caves to make homes. Even pregnant Angie is by the fire, making stew under Harlow’s tutelage.

Everyone’s busy, and as long as I look busy, too, no one notices me.

So I quietly move around camp, putting things into a satchel I snagged when Harlow wasn’t looking. I grab a waterskin, a tightly rolled fur, a bone knife, and some bone fishing hooks and twine. I filch a mug that someone abandons near the fire, and whenever anyone pauses for too long near me, I act real busy and tell them of someone that needs help. Mardok needs help stripping the ship for parts, I tell Lauren. Angie could use some help with the food, I tell Tia and Bridget. Cashol needs another set of hands with the tents, I mention to Sam and Nadine. I basically sound like I’m in the know and people scurry off to help, and that leaves me free to skulk about the camp like the thief I am.

It’s necessary, I tell myself. I won’t take anything that can’t be easily replaced. I just need supplies so Gren and I can start off on the right foot.

As I move about, I keep an eye on Gren and his captors. Poor Gren’s still being kept tied. I think they tried to free him at some point last night so he could walk around, because there are a few of the sa-khui covered in scratches. They scowl when they look in his direction. What did they expect? You can’t spit on someone’s head and tell ’em it’s raining, just like you can’t keep a guy tied up like a prisoner and expect to be best buddies.

I don’t think Gren will attack me, though. He knows I’m trying to help him. I fed him again last night, when all the others were around the fire, sharing stories. Hassen was on watch again, so I chit-chatted with him for a few, real nice like, and then fed poor Gren and gave him some water. His eyes glow blue now—like mine do, I reckon—but they’re just as intense as they were before, and I silently promised him that I was fixing to get him free.

Today, he’s at the edge of the camp, near where the cliffs split into a bunch of narrow stone valleys before they head off into the snow. The cliffs at the edge of the beach are a bit like a honeycomb, I think. Some are full of caves and some are dead ends, but it’ll make a great place to hide as we sneak away. I notice a tunic—a man’s tunic—discarded near one of the rocks and furtively stuff it into my bulging pack. One of the red guys is buck naked on the beach again. I guess they don’t much like pants where he’s from, and that works for me. Gren might need his tunic.

“Willa,” Angie calls out, just as I finish stuffing it into my bag, and I go still. Am I caught?

I straighten and pretend I’m gathering a few sticks for firewood and then shove them into my pack as if it’s used for just that purpose. “What’s up, Angie?”

She waves me over to the fire, and I notice Tia has her head close to Harlow’s as she points out the proper way to cut a bit of meat from a particularly gnarly bit of bone. Angie’s smile is calm and easy, though, and as I jog over (not an easy task in the pebbly sand of the beach and with my feet in fur boots) her smile grows even broader.

“Can you take this over to Pashov for his lunch?” She asks, and presses a bulging sack into my hand.

It’s food. A lot of food. In fact, it’s the trail rations that have been a staple of the diet since we got here—a meaty sort of granola that takes some getting used to—and it’s far more than any one person would eat in one meal.

“I’d appreciate it if you could take that over to him,” she stresses, and gives me a meaningful look.

I rack my brain to think of who Pashov is, and then I remember. He’s the one with only one horn.

He’s the one currently guarding Gren. She’s giving us supplies.

I clasp her hand, utterly grateful. “Thank you, Angie.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she says, turning to stir the pot. “And if anyone asks, I haven’t seen you.” She makes a small gesture with her hand, indicating I should go.

I glance over at the others by the fire, but they’re not paying a bit of attention. I want to hug Angie for understanding why I have to do this, but there’s no time. I need to get away and get Gren free.

Isaiah would approve.

I shove the pouch into my bag and move away. Hurrying down the beach, I move toward the cliffs, the bag slung over my shoulder. I do my best to look like I’m busy, and after a moment’s hesitation, I grab a few pieces of wood and pretend to be picking up debris off the beach for the fire. For some reason, there’s a ton of wood on the beach even though the others say it’s scarce in other parts of the world, but I can’t think too hard about that right now. I’ve got things to do.

I feel incredibly tense as I move down the beach, toward where Pashov guards Gren. I’m a hundred feet or so from them. Pashov glances in my direction once, and I smile and wave, and then pick up another piece of wood. He waves back, then turns and faces out to the ocean, his back to me. I’m clearly not a threat or a problem, so I’m ignored.

I’m terrified, of course. What if I can’t pull this off? What if something happens and then I’m the one bound in ropes next to Gren until they figure out what to do with me? The thought makes me break out into a cold sweat, but it’s too late to change my plans. Gren lifts his head, and I see his eyes flicker with recognition. He watches me in silence as I pick my way across the beach. Instead of picking up more wood, though, I’m carefully discarding my armful, bit by bit.

It’s when I get within twenty feet of Pashov and Gren that I realize I don’t have a plan, not really. Distract him and set Gren free? Sure. But how do I distract someone that’s been set to guard a man they’ve designated as dangerous? Someone screams down the beach, and there’s a shout. As I watch, Pashov’s shoulders tense and he clutches his spear tight, but he doesn’t leave his post.

Gren just watches me.

A moment later, there’s laughter, and in the distance, I can see Hannah storming away as someone chases her with a dead crab-thing. The scream was nothing, but it tells me plenty—Pashov’s not going to leave his post, no matter the distraction.

This is a problem.

I hunch behind a rocky outcropping a short distance away, watching them. Gren keeps his eyes lowered, but I know he can see me. He’s stopped struggling against his bonds for once, and he remains utterly still. I put a finger to my lips, indicating silence, while I try to figure out the Pashov problem.

How in tarnation do they handle this in the movies? Seduction and then a knee to the groin? I inwardly shudder. Yuck, no. He’s a married guy and he seems nice to boot. They all do…as long as you’re not Gren, that is. Not seduction, I tell myself. Keep thinking.

I hesitate, then throw a rock a short distance away. I intend for it to sail across the beach and distract him, but it smacks into a nearby cliff that’s all too close to my hiding spot and pretty much paints a bulls-eye on my back. Damn it, damn it, damn it.

Pashov turns around for that. He frowns, hesitates, and then starts to move toward my hiding spot. In the space of a breath, he’s going to find me, and he’ll want to know why I’m hiding near Gren with a bag full of supplies. I’ve spoiled my chances.

Gren’s chances. Crushing disappointment flares through me.

A split second later, Gren snarls and launches himself at Pashov’s lower legs. He slams into them, and even though his hands are tied behind his back, he’s able to knock Pashov onto his stomach and into the sand. The big blue hunter belly-flops forward, his head practically at my feet.

And then I see a rock. Big enough to grip with both hands, and heavy enough to knock someone out.

I snag it, and before I can think, I bring it down on the back of Pashov’s head.

The hunter goes still, lying in the sand. Blood pours through his dark hair, and he’s so still I know I’ve killed him. A horrified sob threatens to escape my throat, but I bite down on my hand, determined to be silent. I won’t think about his wife and his baby at home, or how kind he’s been to all of us. I can’t. I can’t.

I look up at Gren, and he’s on his side, twisting violently in his ropes, trying to get free. His teeth are bared, his enormous saber-tooth-like fangs exposed as if he wants to gnaw through his ropes and take the freedom that lies so close.

Right. I have to focus.

I move toward him and pull out the tiny shale knife in my bag. He stiffens, and his gaze flicks to my face as he waits, narrow-eyed.

“Gren,” I say softly, then touch my chest. “I’m your friend, all right?” And with slow, careful motions, I reach for him. I touch one hand to his furry arm and I’m surprised to feel how soft he is. I thought his fur would be coarse, but it’s like the softest down.

He goes utterly still at my touch.

“Friend,” I whisper again, moving my hand down his arm toward the ropes. “Friend. Willa friend, Gren friend.”

“Friend,” he growls low after a moment. “Willa…friend.”

I hope he realizes what that means. “Gren friend,” I murmur again, and my fingers brush over the ropes. He’s twisted at them so hard that they’re sticky with blood, and I inwardly wince, imagining how raw his wrists must be. I work the edge of the blade against the rope and then begin to saw. “I’m fixing to set you free, friend.”

“Willa. Friend,” he says again, and then a low groan escapes him when the last rope is sawed free and his hands fly apart.

I hesitate, waiting to see how he reacts, half-expecting him to turn on me. But he just gives me another look, and I reach for the rope on his ankles and carefully saw through it.

When he’s free, he gets to his feet and staggers a little, then straightens. Well, straightens as much as he can. He’s still got slightly rolled shoulders, his thick arms braced outward as if expecting a fight. He watches me warily, waiting to see what I do next.

I swipe at the tears freezing on my face and put the knife away, shoving it into my bag. I pull out the tunic I stole and offer it to him.

He looks surprised, then shakes his head. He grabs my hand and I jerk, startled, but he only puts it to his furry shoulder, indicating that he’s plenty warm.

I blush, because I’m a ninny that’s acting frightened of him. “Gren friend,” I tell him softly, as an apology for my skittishness. “I’m a jerk.”

“Willa friend,” he says, that deep, raspy voice of his so startling to hear.

I scratch at his fur as if I would a dog, and then I feel like an idiot, because he’s a person, not a pet. I give him an awkward pat instead, slinging my bag over my shoulder. “Let’s get out of here first and then we’ll get you something to eat and drink and we’ll figure out what we do next, okay?”

He regards me with that ever-watchful narrow-eyed expression, waiting. He still doesn’t know what I’m up to.

I glance over at Pashov’s fallen body, and my heart hurts, even as I kneel next to him and take the spear from his hand. “I’m so sorry,” I whisper to him.

The blue alien groans heavily but doesn’t get up.

I suck in a breath and jerk to my feet, clutching the spear. He’s alive! I’m thrilled—and terrified. If he wakes up, it’s all over.

Gren begins to growl low in his throat, immediately stepping in front of me. He extends his claws, his shoulders hunching, and he looks as if he’s ready to attack the unconscious man at our feet.

“No,” I say, and reach for his arm to stop him. Then, I draw back, hesitant. I’m not sure how much touching Gren will allow.

But he doesn’t hiss at me, and he doesn’t strike at me. He falls back, then watches me, waiting.

I take his hand in mine and point at the distant hills. “We’re leaving.”

GREN

I feel as if I shall wake up and this will all be a dream.

The human female touches me of her own volition. She is nervous, true, but there is no fear-scent in her, and as we head into the snowy hills, away from the others, the nervousness fades.

She holds my hand for a time and then leans on the spear to walk. She makes no sign of turning around, scanning the distant hills and then pointing at one before glancing back with worry.

It takes me some time to realize that she is escaping with me. It is too incredible to realize.

No one has ever touched me with kindness before her. They have treated her well, these people. She wears their clothes and smells of their food, and when they talked to her, she smiled as sweet and happy as any of the other females.

But she has left them all to run away into the hills with me, a creature.

My heart fills with a traitorous joy and yearning. Fraaaand, she said in her strange tongue, indicating me. When she untied my ropes, I realized it meant she was on my side. That she is with me. She chooses me above all others.

I cannot help but worry that this is a trap of some kind.

Females do not look at lab mutants like myself except to place bets on how long it will take for me to tear my opponent’s throat out.

The farther out we go, the more I start to realize that she means to stay with me. That we are fleeing them together. We leave the beach behind, and as we do, the snows get deeper and her feet sink with every step. She pants, her breath puffing out in a fog as she struggles forward, continuing on. The bag on her shoulder starts to drag, and when I reach for her, she bites back a scream, startled. Then, her face turns reddish and she gives me an apologetic look. “Gren friend.”

I know what she is trying to tell me. She is ashamed I scared her. I understand this, though. I take the pack from her small shoulder and sling it over my own, and she gives me a grateful look, touching my arm fur again.

Just that small touch is enough to make my loins tighten. This is what it means to want a female, then. I know that in the past I have been pumped full of every drug known to science—adrenaline boosters, steroids to increase my muscle mass, endurance extenders, and a variety of injectable cocktails that would amplify all the traits they wanted to increase in their beast-fighter.

I know that included in those cocktails were drugs to inhibit arousal. My cock works as well as any other, I imagine, but it has never responded.

It responds now. I can feel it jutting from my fur, the head seeping with need at that small touch. It would be nothing to push her down into the snow, to push her thighs apart and sink into her, to claim what I have always wanted. To take.

But then she would not smile at me and call me fraaand, and I want that, so I ignore the stiff pain of my cock. Perhaps I can do something about it later.

“Do you speak Praxiian, female?” I ask when she struggles forward another step, panting, only to end up waist-high in snow. I put a hand on her arm and help her forward, hoping she does not notice the parts of me that ache at her nearness. “It is the only language I know.”

She turns to look at me, then babbles something in that fluid, drawling language of hers. She gestures at the beach and then points at the mountains, and even though I do not understand her words, the message is clear. She is escaping. We cannot stop until we are far away.

And it is clear she does not speak Praxiian, or she would have answered me thus.

Willa is also tired. Her steps become more struggling with every drift we cross, and we have barely gone out of the scent range for the slavers’ camp. If they come after us, they will be able to find us. I do not know that she has much more in her, though. She is human and fragile. We need shelter, far enough away that they will not find us, or a place we can easily defend.

That seems more likely.

The next time her steps sink deep and she staggers, I haul an arm around her waist. She yelps but then clings to me when it is obvious that I am trying to help her, and her arms go around my neck, her breath whispering against the ruff of fur at my throat.

My cock extends again, stabbing into the wind.

She murmurs something even as she clings to me, and I haul her with her weight hefted against my side as I wade forward. I want to tell her that I have endured many a survival arena, where I was dropped onto a dangerous wilderness with no weapons, no supplies, and a dozen enemies. I have come out the victor every time. I can scent better than most, thanks to my enhancements. I know when someone is coming so I can avoid them. I can scale trees—or mountains, as is the case with this barren place.

I can keep her safe.

But I cannot tell her any of these things because she will not understand me, so I remain silent, plunging forward. The snow grows deep in certain areas, stinging my still-extruding cock, and it eventually withers and retreats back under my fur. I ignore the female clutching at my fur and concentrate on my surroundings. There are many scents in this world that are familiar to me—the stink of sulphur and distant sound of rushing water that tells me of a hot spring. The scent of felines crossing over a trail that I avoid. Snow. Plants that carry a faint, acrid scent and manage to grow despite the thick blanket of snow. The heavy, musty spoor of another animal.

And farther, into the hills, the scent of old campfires and ashes and the very old scent of mesakkah feet.

I veer outward, seeing nothing but snow and more snow and distant, craggy cliffs that will probably take all day to get there, if I continue to slog through the thick layer of snow. It does not matter; that will be our destination. The scents are less strong here, which is encouraging, though the smell of felines remains.

I can deal with felines. It is slavers I seek to avoid.

I settle in for a long walk. Willa’s weight is nothing against my side, and she occasionally protests, indicating she wants to get down. I ignore these protests. I know we will make much better time if I am the one doing the walking. She might have the will to do it, but not the strength. So I keep my eyes on the distant cliffs, my senses alert for pursuers.

Even as I walk, I cannot help but fixate on Willa. Her soft scent fills my nostrils, her fear-scent gone. Instead, all that remains is a pleasant musk from her body and the smell of the leather clothing she wears. Her hair is a fragrant cloud that brushes against my shoulder, and the occasional puffs of her breath that mingle with mine make my cock harden painfully. I cannot help but notice the feel of her teats against my side, the clutch of her fingers in my fur, the clasp of her thighs against my hip.

My cock spits seed as I walk, dribbling down my length and freezing in the icy weather. I want to reach down and wipe it clean—more than that, I want to reach down and stroke it until the pleasurable ache stops—but I do not dare. If she sees me do so, she will worry.

I have never touched a female, but I have heard other males talk of mating. I have seen quick, fierce matings in the arena, when a gladiator is given a female prize, but those are few and far between. I try to imagine myself mounting Willa, sinking my cock deep between her thighs, but when I do, I picture her cringing away.

I do not look like a human. Or a Praxiian. Or a’ani, or mesakkah. I am all of them and none. A beast.

And Willa is beyond appealing. I think of her gentle eyes and her smile, and I think of her legs clasping against my hip. I am naked. I could push her into the snow and rip the leather leggings off of her body. I could fall upon her like I have seen gladiators fall upon their prizes and rut until my hunger is slaked. A hot tremor flares in my groin, and my sac tightens. I bend over suddenly, panting as need rushes through me, and my cock spurts with release.

“Gren?” Willa’s hand pats at my mane. “Fraand?”

I hunch over, dropping her to the ground and hiding my shame. Is this what I have to look forward to? Spilling seed constantly in her presence now that the chemical inhibitors are out of my system? It will be torture.

More than that, I will frighten her. After all she has done for me, that thought wounds me more than anything.

I would die for Willa. She has risked everything for me.

So I crouch, panting, until the need shivering through my body dissipates. I glance down, and my lower fur, shaggy on my thighs and groin, is coated with crystalline ice where snow has melted and refrozen against me. My cock is hidden beneath my pelt once more, and there is no sign of my shame other than a great deal of ice around my groin.

“Gren?” A gentle hand brushes a thick lock of my mane away from my face, and then Willa crouches next to me. Her expression is troubled and confused. She is not afraid, or ashamed.

She does not know what I have done, then.

I straighten as much as I can, and pick her up once more, heading for the cliffs.