Jaron's Promise (A World Beyond Book 6)

by Michelle Howard

  Kneading his stomach and enjoying the sensation of resting against him, Sasha asked, “No jokes?”

  “Trust isn’t a laughing matter. It’s a gift and one I assume you don’t give easily.”

  Who was this man? “Are you real?”

  More laughter. She liked that about him. His easy ability to laugh at himself or their situation while maintaining his belief in their rescue.

  His one arm tightened about her shoulder. “I’m very real. If the drugs being pumped into us start you hallucinating, tell me.”

  She couldn’t remember laughing this much. He traced his fingers over her smiling lips then cupped her jaw in his hand. Sasha caught them before he could move. Large hands. Jaron’s hands. She liked the look of them from the elongated fingers with the ropey veins along the surface to the rough scrape of his palms and the wide pad of where his thumb met his pointer.

  “I like your hands.”

  A quick smile. “My hands?”

  Sasha stroked her finger over the spaces between each one. “They’re strong and powerful. Useful.”

  The corners of his eyes crinkled. “They do come in handy sometimes.”

  “Funny. Not.” Smacking his chest, Sasha forced herself to move away from the security of his embrace. These quiet moments they shared were dangerous. At any time, Dr. Kirkem or the guards would discover their closeness. Once that happened, it would be all too easy to play them against one another.

  Before she could settle on the opposite end of the cage, Jaron murmured. “Thank you for your trust, Sasha.”

  Chapter 9

  “What about his tracker?” Torkel ran a frustrated hand through his hair.

  Bane sat at the monitor and holo displaying a map. “Intermittent. It’s still active but unable to get a lock at this point.”

  The members of Team Three grumbled. Torkel called the closed door meeting with his best team in hopes of devising a plan of rescue. Weeks without contact with Jaron left them floundering as to how to get their friend back.

  An intermittent tracking could mean anything. Electrical storm, distance, deliberate faltering. A number of reasons could come in to play and Torkel liked none of them.

  “Thoughts? Suggestions?” He opened it to the room and dropped into his seat at the head of the table.

  Khane sat forward, elbows propped on the table and shook his head. Rydak remained silent, but his gray eyes were troubled.

  V’hor sighed and tapped a single finger on the table in a repeated pattern, green eyes slitted. When he spoke, his voice was glacier, his man getting colder and colder. Torkel worried about him. It didn’t help that Vee’s matriarch continued to summon him home for miscellaneous tasks while spurning him publicly.

  From some of the hints he’d picked up, the female was using Vee as a mercenary under her command. If he found this to be true, Torkel planned to go straight to the Commander to request he end it.

  “It makes no sense. We still have no idea why Lothar and The Collector were meeting. Joint project with the slave trade or help from the Marenians with whatever Dr. Kirkem is doing? Not to mention the cluster that occurred from that. None of it adds up.”

  Torkel knew that. But he wanted answers not more speculation. “What are you thinking, Rydak?”

  The Team Leader, though quiet, always had useful insight. Rydak tugged at the blond hair hanging from the tail over his shoulders. “If they’re working together isn’t the issue. I’m more concerned with why they took Jaron. It would have been simpler to kill him. After all, he’s a soldier with the Jutaks. They know we’ll expend time and resources on getting him back.”

  Torkel winced but everything said was the truth. “It’s not a secret that our Unit has drawn Lothar’s attention more than any other.”

  “Pay back? Revenge?” Khane offered.

  “V’hor.” Torkel turned toward the one member who’d spent the longest time undercover infiltrating the complex Marenian empire. More so than Rydak. “Do you have any way of reaching out to the contacts you made to see if there’s a place The Collector would go?”

  V’hor already shook his head. “Everything was quiet and mainly on Lothar. The fear he inspires commands a tremendous amount of loyalty. The Collector didn’t come up in any communications.”

  Torkel wanted to avoid the next possibility but they didn’t have much choice. “What about Jaron’s maman?”

  As a descendant of the original five families, Jaron’s maman had cognitive abilities similar to Rydak’s beloved nonja.

  “We can speak with her today. If her abilities hold true than she’s already aware something is going on with her son and merely waits for official word from the Unit.” Rydak pushed to his feet. “I’ll go.”

  No way he’d let anyone else take on his responsibility for him. Torkel stood as well. “I’m with you. We’ll report back.”

  The meeting ended with the team dispersing. Rydak and Torkel walked out of the room last, and came to a complete stop. Every member from Team One and Team Two leaned against the wall opposite the door, concern in their gazes. Attention shifted toward him.

  The show of support reminded Torkel of the reason he’d hand selected each of them. Test scores, training ratings and medic evals couldn’t predict what he’d achieved.

  Each of them possessed great power and inner strength with an unmatchable skill level but it was more. They cared. No price could be placed on the solid core of the bond they shared. To date he’d only made one mistake in the selection process and he hoped he never had to deal with a similar situation again.

  Feminine voices came from his left and three women joined them. The brown-haired woman in the lead came directly for him and curved her arms around his waist.

  Faye, his Chosen. Torkel absorbed the warmth of her embrace as the blonde who’d accompanied her hugged Arak and then the red head in the short gold skirt made of chain links with a matching cropped top of silk jumped into Kyele’s arms with a boisterous shout.

  Other than his Team Two lead’s lips twitching, his scarred visage remained unmoving, but he caught her without hesitation and spun her toward the wall where his hand slammed into the wall preventing her back from impact.

  Torkel cleared his throat and Joni giggled, her gold eyes meeting his over Kyele’s shoulder. “Hey, Torkel.”

  Hey. He shook his head and grinned. These Earth women brought out the brighter side in his men. He glanced down at Faye and she planted a loud kiss on his chin. But he didn’t regret having them join. Their lives were better for it.

  “Rydak and I are going to see Jaron’s family.”

  Faye’s brown eyes dimmed. She considered Jaron like a little brother and the last weeks showed. She slept fitfully and constantly worried. She needed rest. His hand settled on the curve of her rounded belly. Their future child grew there.

  “Nothing on where he’s being held yet?”

  “No.”

  Joni struggled in her Chosen’s arms and Kyele reluctantly let her go. “The longer he’s with The Collector…”

  Her voice broke and Kyele moved to stand behind her, resting a palm on the front of her throat, the action possessive and reassuring at the same time. He stared at Torkel, long and hard, but his words were for his Chosen. “Trust Torkel to see this through, Joni.”

  She turned around and buried her face in Kyele’s chest. “I know.”

  “If necessary, I’ll help in the search.” Kyele kissed the top of Joni’s hair but not before exchanging a warning look with Torkel.

  Nodding in acknowledgment, he signaled Rydak. If Kyele got involved or decided his way worked best, Torkel wasn’t sure he’d be able to hide the after effects this time. “Let’s go.”

  They departed without further conversation. On the short drive over, Torkel considered how he’d explain to Trelia about her only son’s disappearance. Dark clouds overhead matched his mood, but he only hoped Jaron held on long enough for them to find him.

  They needed the laid-back Team Leader,
his jovial personality often provided a perfect foil for their more intense nature. “We have to find him, Rydak.”

  “I know.”

  Without Jaron, the Unit felt out of step or as if a beat was missing in their rhythm. If there was one thing Torkel hated, it was feeling out of rhythm. Nothing good came out of disorder.

  ***

  “Keep walking.” The guard yanked on Jaron’s cuffed arms as they made the now familiar trek through the corridor to the lab.

  The cuffs were new despite his lack of resistance. Eyes forward, Jaron took note of any recognizable changes while not protesting the rough treatment. He had memorized the lay out of the alarms placed along the wall every few feet after the first memorable trip.

  He rarely saw anyone outside of the guards and Dr. Kirkem. No one crossed their path during these sessions, leaving him without a total count of how many people worked here with The Collector. Or how many were being held.

  When they reached the last room in the hall, the lab doors parted and slid open. Dr. Kirkem frowned at Jaron’s approach. He wore his white lab coat over blue pants and a blue collarless shirt. “I think you’ll enjoy what I have planned today.”

  Jaron said nothing, waiting for what he’d devised for this visit. The doctor’s moods swung from energized highs to raging lows. During the highs he smiled, laughed and cajoled about the testing, implying their lack of danger. Raging sessions left Jaron sweating and often unable to walk from the lab without assistance.

  Sometimes if filled with remorse or regret at his actions, The Collector would use a neutralizer scanner on him to heal the worst. Other times Jaron hid how bad it was from Sasha. More of those sessions and he’d be too weak for escape.

  “Put him there.”

  A single chain with cuffs on the end hung from the ceiling. Jaron allowed the guard to drag him forward, the cuffs he wore exchanged for the new ones. Chills pricked his skin and pimples dotted his flesh.

  “You’re right, this is different, Kirkem.”

  A fist slammed into his gut, but because of his position Jaron could only hunch slightly to prevent the full force of the blow. Another punch and his breath stalled as he panted to control the pain. As soon as he could, he straightened. The look he shot the guard promised retribution.

  His reaction time concerned him. In the beginning, the punch wouldn’t have phased him. Using the small space in his cell to work out wasn’t the same as the daily training he maintained with his team. The meal supplements weren’t helping and he’d lost weight.

  “Enough.”

  To his surprise, the guard lifted the black tinted helmet and set it on the table behind him. His gold skin, dark eyes and black horns identified him as a Marenian.

  “Now for the injection.”

  This part Jaron was used to and held still. Dr. Kirkem leaned up to reach the fatty part of his arm and dispensed his latest test sample. The drugs shot through his system and fired the blood in his veins. A rush of nerves came alive, his heart racing to adjust.

  Blinking away the fog and fighting the tingling in his extremities, Jaron kept his head up. “I think you added a little something extra, Doc.”

  His words may have slurred a little.

  “See if you can get him in a more amendable mood.” Dr. Kirkem nodded at the Marenian guard and stepped back.

  A flurry of blows landed up and down his torso. Jaron tightened his stomach and grunted as each landed. When the guard stopped and stepped back, he released his breath and let the pain work through him. “Nice warm up.”

  Dr. Kirkem’s face heated. “We’ll see if you feel the same way now that Targa has joined us.”

  Focused on the beating, Jaron had missed the addition of another person entering the room. She strolled in without a helmet and a distinctive thick collar about her neck. However, the horns on the sides of her head jerked Jaron to attention. She was Marenian too.

  “I guess you and Lothar have an agreement after all. Or does he know you’re poaching his people for your dirty work?” Jaron watched Dr. Kirkem for a response.

  Nostrils flared, a minute twitch of his right eye. “I’ll eventually break you, Jutak. How long do you think you can resist?”

  As long as he needed. Jaron managed a weak trademark grin despite exhaustion wearing him thin. The Collector hated him. More than the other prisoners, he’d venture to guess. Outwardly Dr. Kirkem tried to hide the fact, but his jaw ticked with every failure in his attempts to get Jaron to reveal Jutak secrets.

  On the plus side, his obsession with Jaron eased the pressure off the remaining four prisoners. Ari showed signs of deteriorating mental functions. Luna and Minu barely lifted their heads from the cage floor any more, dehydrated and emaciated. And then there was Sasha.

  Pride flared when Jaron thought of the Argoran shifter. Dr. Kirkem avoided her after her claws slashed through the right side of his face and left his cheek hanging in strips of skin during her second round of tests. She’d suffered broken ribs for the attack, but he’d left her alone. Jaron gave thanks to her Argoran genetics since she healed from the violent attack in two days.

  It had been difficult watching her moan each time she moved. Now the doctor worked exclusively on Jaron.

  “Take off his clothing,” The Collector ordered.

  This time the female Marenian gave a low grunt of approval as another removed his pants, leaving him completely nude. Pants he’d earned by pretending to go along with the numerous blood draws and injections. He’d feigned compliance but wanted them in case the opportunity to run presented itself.

  After all of his time here, Jaron’s veins flowed with so many unknown substances, he’d given up protesting. He needed to choose his battles wisely and saved his energy for surviving.

  The mysterious Targa threw the sterile pajama bottoms behind her. Jaron had never seen a female Marenian though the collar about her neck confused him as to her role. Slave or willing prisoner?

  She licked her lips and eyed him from below the waist. Catching Jaron by surprise, his shaft stirred. What the…

  The male Marenian with the brownish horns turned to The Collector and grinned. “Looks like your latest injection is working.”

  Dr. Kirkem barely glanced up as he keyed notes on his data pad and nodded. He spoke to the female Marenian. “Targa, see if you can draw more of a reaction.”

  “Gladly.” She neared Jaron with a smirk and ran her hand along his torso.

  Jaron twisted away even as goose bumps of awareness prickled on the surface of his skin and his shaft jumped. She laughed, the sound low and malicious. Tiny hairs on his nape lifted. To his consternation, he got harder as she trailed a hand down his bare hip, across his groin and ended with his flesh in her firm grip.

  A groan escaped and arousal seared his senses. Trying to block out her efforts, Jaron glared at the male responsible for his current position. “What did you do to me?”

  Targa’s surprisingly delicate fingers pumped on him once, twice. Jaron’s hips jerked. A sly smile curled the male Marenians lips as he watched.

  “Our blood work indicates you have some unusual properties.” Dr. Kirkem finally looked up and pleasure suffused his face. “We’ve studied other Enotians and never noticed such anomalies.”

  Studied was a glorified way of saying tortured. Jaron had a perfect answer for his unusual blood work but had no intentions of sharing. All he had to do was hold out until his Unit Leader, sent in a rescue. Hopefully soon. As it was all he had, Jaron clung to that hope.

  The male Marenian chose to chime in. “Care to explain your strange blood, punan?”

  Jaron ignored the insult, but he couldn’t ignore the stroke job. His hips continued to rock, pushing him deeper into the hands forming a tight tunnel for him to slide through. She’d moistened her palms with an additive, giving each pump a silken glide.

  He glared down at her and bit out. “Get. Off. Me.”

  Targa never lifted her eyes, instead giving her full attention to her actions.
Desire tore up his spine and snaked through his gut. Jaron threw his head back toward the ceiling. The chains holding him suspended from the ceiling rattled about his wrists. Fire raced over his skin, every nerve tingling. He held back a moan of reluctant pleasure.

  “We’ll eventually find out everything we want to know with or without your help, Jutak.” Dr. Kirkem seemed fascinated with Jaron’s reaction.

  Targa freed one hand to finger his tip with the pad of her thumb as she tightened the slip and slide with the other. She panted and dropped to her knees, her horns grazing his thigh as she licked the base of his shaft. The rough touch combined with her wet mouth caused him to shiver uncontrollably. The male Marenian, Dr. Kirkem and Targa kept their attention focused solely on him.

  Humiliation burned his cheeks. He wanted to resist. To roar in outrage.

  Targa’s hand worked faster. Jaron’s blood burned. He continued to pump with violent need. Then against his wishes, he came with a cry, spewing the front of Targa’s shirt in white stripes.

  He hung limply from the chains in the aftermath, his head to the floor, gasping. Anger immediately edged out the release she’d drawn from him.

  “It seems the blood from the Argoran worked. Send him back to the cage. Next time I want to save his sample and study it.” That easily Dr. Kirkem dismissed what they’d done to him.

  Next time. There wouldn’t be a next time.

  Targa rose to her feet, wiping her hand on his trembling bare thigh then patted his flaccid groin as it twitched. “I hope you consider letting me assist again, Dr. Kirkem.”

  “I’m going to kill you,” Jaron panted without lifting his head. He was going to kill each of them. “On my honor as a Jutak, I’m going to kill you all.”