The Claiming

by Imogen Keeper

  When she didn’t answer, he slapped her thighs. The bed shook, and she yelped, her hips bucking as she tried to take him deeper, but he was holding gallingly still.

  “I’ve figured out why.” His balls mashed up against her ass. “It’s because no one I’ve ever known has fucked like you fuck me. Like I’m all that matters, like you’d die if I stopped, like you were made for me.”

  He punctuated the statement with another slap to her thighs.

  “Stop,” she cried out, not sure if she meant the taunting or the stillness. It didn’t matter. “Stop, please, vaniiya, stop.”

  “Then answer me. Do you feel it?”

  She didn’t answer. Instead, she deliberately baited a monster by lifting a knee off the bed, flexing her foot, and driving her heel straight back toward his thigh.

  His hands gripped her hips with punishing force, as he stopped the kick.

  “Tessa, you stubborn fucking felana.” His cock pulled out, and she just knew. He’d been leading her here for days.

  Fingers biting into her hip, the broad head of his cock touched down to her sensitive puckered skin, broad and smooth and slick with her.

  He spat. A harsh, sticky sound that stuck in the air, and she flinched at the hot spray that coated her. Then he pushed, not hard or fast, just relentless. Nothing she did would stop him, until he pushed past the first ring of tight muscle.

  “Don’t fight it,” he warned, in a voice that offered no alternative. “It will hurt more if you resist.”

  He kept on pushing. Her body cramped, either with a new wash of heated, driving need or because he was shoving organs aside to make room for himself.

  She sputtered and cried and drooled on the sheets, but inexorably as the rising of the five moons, he pressed inside, until his balls pressed against her empty pussy. He stayed like that, stuffing her so full she couldn’t breathe.

  He pulled out slowly. The pain was more discomfort than anything else. She dug her fingers into the sheets, her face twisting into a grimace when he shoved in deeper. Again, and again.

  In and then out, her only option to grit her teeth and bear it. His balls swung forward with every thrust to slap her clit.

  “Tell me you feel it. Say it.”

  She felt raw and empty in her core, but full, so full of him everywhere else. His hand came around, the one that wasn’t in her ass, and pushed into her mouth with the taste of Sanger, like sex and mystery and sheer, brutal unadulterated power.

  “Say it.”

  He pulled out and jammed back in. The room filled with the sound of slapping balls and smacking flesh.

  It hurt, but the hurt was good.

  He did it again. And again. And again, until she couldn’t think. Couldn’t move.

  Until she couldn’t deny it.

  Could only brace herself for the next assault.

  Finally, she answered. “Yes, damn you. I feel it. It isn’t normal and I hate you for it.”

  He snarled in her ear. “Trust me, there’s a big part of me that hates you for it too.” He changed after that, relaxed after her admission and settled into a steadier pace, that caused everything to burn and boil inside her. “This is the last fucking thing I wanted. I swore I’d never do this again. But I don’t even think it’s a choice at this point. I think we were made for each other.”

  She wasn’t even sure if he was talking to her or not. It was like he’d gone off to some distant place, some other time. This was his final claiming. He’d taken her every other way. This is what he said he wanted. To fill her so full she never forgot. He had. He’d fucked her, mind, body and soul, and she’d never recover. Even after she’d killed him, she’d never forget what it felt like to have been so conquered, so destroyed.

  “You don’t hate me,” he whispered.

  Hands fisted in the sheets, mouth slack, she didn’t even move.

  He set up a pace that called to something even deeper, even darker, more primal than ever. Like somehow, this connection, the shame of it, the pain of it, the dominance of the move, was more vital.

  His pace quickened, the pressure intensifying, thrusts going more erratic as he slammed in so deep and so hard her teeth rattled, and then he shoved in as far as he could, sputtering and cursing, and wet hot blasts coated her insides in a place no one had ever been before. Muscles inside her clenched and quivered, coiling and tightening toward a release of her own.

  She slid her hand down between her legs, traced her own finger along her clit, as he continued to spasm and thrust and spurt. Pain collided with pleasure, and she screamed out hysterically into the sheets. Her body bucked, and shuddered, and exploded into a thousand broken pieces.

  She hadn’t cried in years, but now, hot, angry tears escaped to pour down her cheeks.

  He gentled then, his hand stroked her hip, then reached up to tilt her face, arching her neck. He claimed her mouth with his own, in an upside-down kiss, plundering and destroying afresh, hushing her, and swallowing her sobs.

  When the spasms stopped and there was nothing more to dump inside her, he pulled out, turned her around as if she were the most fragile thing in the universe.

  “We belong together. I’ve been fighting it but I’m done. I want you, Tessa. And I’m keeping you. The city isn’t safe. I’m taking you underground.”

  She closed her eyes, let the tears drift out, shuddering when he kissed them away, and steeled her mind to remember that this was Jonan’s murderer, a monster. The Boss.

  Tessa fell into a sullen silence when he was done, shuddering when he pulled the long, half-hard length of him out of her ass. Cum dribbled down her leg, making her whimper.

  He hadn’t been squeamish about fluids so far, but adding her ass to the mix was a game changer, and she wasn’t sure what to do.

  He solved the problem by lifting her gently into his arms and carrying her out of the room, down the stairs, and back to the bathhouse.

  The humid warmth welcomed them, along with the echoing din inside. The sound of a single droplet falling from the mosaic ceiling to the pool echoed as loudly as his footsteps across the tiled floors.

  The sensors activated the automatic lights, and a warm glow lit the space.

  She kept her head draped over his shoulder, staring gloomily behind him, as he lowered them both into the pool. “Can I make a request?”

  “Anything.”

  The warm water felt good on her tender backside, burning along the skin where he’d spanked her, as well as lower down, where she was both sore and sensitive.

  She steeled her heart, still refusing to look at him, not wanting to press away from him. The water moved between them but she was still pressed against him close enough to feel his heart beating, the rise and fall as he breathed was perversely comforting.

  She needed him to leave her alone for just long enough that she could make her escape. “Tomorrow morning, can we have pastries again?”

  He looked ridiculously pleased that she’d ask him for something.

  He drew in a long, relieved breath, stepped up close, setting his hands on her hips, his grip slippery in the water, and pressed a soft kiss to her lips. She refused to give in to the purrs that built in her throat at his proximity. But lost. They rose unbidden, shouting out the pleasure of the felana inside her at his touch. That bitch didn’t care who he was, she just liked the way he smelled.

  It didn’t matter anyway.

  Tomorrow, she’d be free of him.

  She pressed her nose against his neck, drawing in the scent, trying to remember this moment, because the next time she found him, it would be to end his life. “There’s this place in the 1st arrondi. It’s a long way away, but—”

  “It’s fine.” He brushed a wet tangle of her hair off her shoulder so he could press a line of rough, open mouth kisses there. “But right after we eat, we’re moving underground. Okay?”

  He held her gaze. For once, the robot was gone, and in its place was something so raw, so human, so broken, it hurt her to look.


  “Okay,” she lied.

  26

  stealing is just plain smart

  AS SOON as the front door closed behind Sanger, Tessa sat up in bed.

  The locks snicked as he engaged them.

  She counted to a hundred, head cocked, listening like her life depended on it—because it did.

  Only after the beat of a hundred, did she tiptoe to the window, look down the street. Sanger was nowhere to be seen.

  Her whole body screamed run! Get out of here, now, as fast as possible. But she needed to be organized.

  First, the bathhouse. No way could she go out like this. Her body was drenched in his cum and hers. She had to wash every possible stray marker of felana and Prime. Then she needed to get dressed, find the gun, maybe some money and spare food and water.

  He wasn’t going to miss the fact that she’d left. So, stealing from him was just plain smart. She’d take every last useful thing she could get her mits on. And gladly. She could trade it for information if nothing else.

  In the bathhouse, she scrubbed her hair and body furiously, until her skin was pink, her hair squeaked, and the only thing she smelled of was soap.

  Back in the house, she tugged a fresh pillowcase from a closet off the bathroom, pulled on the clothes he’d gotten for her and tiptoed down the hall.

  She peeked into each of the rooms—found free weights and exercise equipment, a spare bed and an empty dresser, and not much else. She’d already searched his bedroom thoroughly and found nothing.

  Downstairs, she emptied the cabinet in the kitchen, taking sixteen choco-bars—ignoring the nausea that came with them, remembering Choco Chin and his bloated tongue—and an assortment of dried fruits and nuts, protein bars, two loaves of bread and six bottles of water, and an unopened jar of pickles. From the refrigerator, she pulled out several pieces of fruit, a wheel of cheese and two dried sausages. From the butcher’s block, she took a long, thin knife, tested the blade, found it so sharp a bead of blood, red as a ripe berry, blossomed on the tip of her finger. She wrapped the blade in a dishtowel and dropped it in the pillowcase along with the rest of her growing hoard.

  She roamed the first floor, searching for anything she could find of use. There was nothing. No guns anywhere.

  One last place to look. She tried not to hope too badly, as she slid open the rear door into the backyard, darted across the grass to the basement door. It wasn’t even locked.

  She slid it open.

  One his desk she found a cube. Sleek and black and about the size of her palm. There was a dial labeled minutes on it that had to be a timer.

  An explosive.

  She could set it, leave it here, hope it blasted big enough and bright enough to kill Sanger when he returned.

  She could see the explosion, hear the blast, feel the heat of it. But what if it didn’t kill him?

  She could take a knife upstairs, get back in the bed, lay in wait for Sanger, stab him as soon as he came back. She pictured the blood staining across his chest like the setting sun, the surprise in his eyes when he looked down, saw that it was her, his poor defenseless heated felana who took him out. Saw that she wasn’t as stupid as he thought.

  She swallowed.

  Vengeance. She’d finally have it. For her brother. For Leyla. For herself.

  He’d drop to his knees. Blood would bubble from his mouth.

  Her heart twisted in her chest. She closed her eyes tight, saw his face when he lowered his forehead to hers. I won’t stop listening. The look on his face last night, pleading. We’re moving underground. Okay?

  Fuck. She scrubbed a hand over her eyes.

  He killed Jonan.

  He strangled people.

  Her stupid felana heart didn’t care.

  She tucked the explosive carefully into the pocket of her pants so it wouldn’t get jostled, her hands shaking.

  She couldn’t stab Sanger. Not yet. For now, she just needed to get out of here and find Leyla.

  She’d made it almost to the door when a stray scrap of cloth caught her eye. Pale pink, just under the sofa.

  She knew those panties.

  They were Leyla’s. Her guts twisted.

  She picked them up, dangled them between her thumb and forefinger.

  How did he get his hands on these? Was this what Choco Chin was touching?

  She tossed them on the center of the coffee table.

  It didn’t matter.

  27

  a world that’s

  far from kind

  SANGER WALKED FAST, his long legs eating up the pavement in strides. The bakery Tessa had sent him to was about a twenty-minute walk from his place.

  He used the time to check his messages, respond where needed, check in with his informants. Manivietto, he learned, had doubled his offering for information about the stray felana.

  His men were clearing a room for Tessa in the tunnels, three of his businesses had been spontaneously searched by the Polizei in the early morning, the Night Market was temporarily shut down, and the Yellow Palm had officially been declared unfit for business.

  Manivietto was making moves, tightening up government oversight, sending in probes in search for the Boss. It would make distribution of the guns more challenging, not to mention the placement of the explosives.

  His body smelled enough like felana in heat that male heads turned wherever he went. He could see the arousal in their postures, shifting to jealousy when they took in the source of the smell, the frustration on their faces.

  Such was life.

  There weren’t enough felanas to go around. Humani males had to make due with humani females. There were advantages to them too.

  Heats laid you up for days. He rotated his neck. It took a toll on his body too. The increased sperm production, the constant fucking. His body felt like it did after battle. Muscles he rarely used burned. They’d been in a non-stop fuck high.

  The bed was a mess.

  He’d probably lost seven or eight pounds in the last four days. The good news was, she seemed to have gained that weight. Either from swallowing so much of his cum or because every time the high settled, he remembered how thin she was and threw food at her as fast as he could. Taking care of her came naturally, it felt good.

  Good enough that he’d keep her. He’d decided that yesterday. He’d keep her safe, protected. His heart might have died long ago with Plaia and the babies, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t still be good to Tessa. Good for her.

  When he stepped inside the bakery, the air assaulted him, thick with yeast and sugar. His stomach grumbled.

  Freysa was already there, seated at a table on the rear wall, two chairs, each with a view of the front door. A pastry-bag sat atop a quartz table ready for him, two cups of eeffoc steaming beside it.

  He walked toward her.

  Freysa had a way of taking up more space than she needed too. She was masculine in that way. Her thin shoulders and almost gangly elbows and knees always thrust out. Now, sprawled, legs spread wide, one arm over the back of a chair beside it, the other bent, elbow resting on the table, she looked like maybe she’d be clumsy, but she wasn’t. Far from it.

  He’d never met a woman—felana or humani—who moved quite the same way, deliberately languid, like she was just daring you to see how fast she could move if provoked.

  A lazy grin spread across her face when she saw him, and she kicked out the chair opposite her.

  Unlike his other soldiers, Freysa was a new recruit. She’d been trained here in Didgermmion, on the streets, fighting for her life among the other poor and disenfranchised humanis. He’d worked with her himself at knives and shooting. She held her own.

  She had a good mind.

  He sat across from her. “So?”

  She spread her palms. “You got to ask?”

  He didn’t smile. He never smiled. Though lately Tessa somehow managed to pull smiles out of him. “You were successful, I take it?”

  “Very.”

  He t
ilted his head. He wanted to ask if she was okay, say something, apologize maybe, but that wasn’t how the Boss was. The Boss didn’t give a shit if an employee had to use her body to get what he wanted. “You have to make any deals with him?”

  The cocky light in her eyes flickered imperceptibly. “Not cash if that’s what you mean.” Her gaze slid to the table, and she toyed with the pastry bag. “He’s not into women. It wasn’t like that. But he’s got a kid. A niece. She’s a felana, he thinks. He wants to get her out. Vangeline keeps promising, but the girl’s only thirteen. He’s scared she’s going to hit a heat, someone will figure it out, and take her from him and…”

  She didn’t have to finish the thought.

  It was clear.

  “I didn’t tell him I worked for you. He doesn’t know what we do for felanas. I just told him I was looking to get some shit in. And he asked could I take someone out.”

  Sanger nodded. “This niece got a mom?”

  She tapped her finger on the table, and he noticed for the first time that she had a tattoo trailing below her shirt along her forearm. He couldn’t tell what it was though. “That’s the deal he wants. Safe passage for two felanas.”

  “And himself?”

  Freysa’s lower lip jutted out. “Said he’s got his own life here.”

  Sanger rested his own hand on the table. Looked down at his fingers. His hand was probably twice the size of Freysa’s. She was tall, but fine boned, slender. She was also deadly. He’d seen her in action. Like a dancer, she wielded knives and sliced through people like air, gone before they could even react, but she was also delicate. She reminded him of Tessa. The sharp jaw, the slanting eyes, the thin shoulders. If she lifted her shirt, he imagined he’d be able to count her ribs.

  No one would expect her. With Manivietto tightening surveillance on his operations, Freysa was perfect.

  “I need you to do something.”

  Her lips twitched, as if she couldn’t contain her eagerness to take action.

  “I’m going to send your com a list of locations. There are black cubes in the tunnel under my house. I included the address. Basement, behind the desk. It will take you several trips, you won’t be able to carry them all at once. Dress like a junkie. Do it so no one sees you.”