by Laney Kaye
She shook her head. “No. I want you like this. You smell…animalistic. Like a man and a beast.” Her cheeks flushed bright, now, and I could tell she forced herself to meet my gaze. “I want you, Jag. I want to taste you. I want to see you lose control, because you want me so bad.”
I could tell by the smell roiling from her arousal that she told the truth. “Take your robe off, then, Aren. I won’t do this alone.”
Concern flickered across her face. “But you said not looking like…that?”
I drew her up, loosening the ties at her throat and sliding the cloak from her shoulders. “I won’t touch you. I promise. But I want to look at you.” I lifted the tunic over her head, drinking in the sight of her unfettered breasts. My hands moved to the drawstring on her pants. “And, Aren?”
“Uh-huh?” Her eyes were glazed with lust.
I bent forward to murmur in her ear. “When you’re sucking me, I want you to touch yourself. I want to hear you touching yourself.”
She moaned, dropping to her haunches, her trousers around her ankles. Her hand wrapped my shaft and she bent forward.
“Touch yourself, Aren,” I reminded.
She slid a hand between her legs, a moan escaping her lips. Then she instantly silenced herself by sliding those lips over the head of my cock.
“Fuck.” I fought not to stagger back at the hot, wet feel of her mouth. “Ah, fuck, Aren, that’s so good.”
A noise that could’ve been a stifled chuckle sneaked past my cock.
Either I was too big, or she was too inexperienced to take me deep, but hells, the suction she created on the head of my cock was enough to drive a man mad.
She pulled back, taking a breath.
“Frig yourself, Aren. I want to hear your pussy. Come on, I’m only going to get off if you get off.”
Her gaze darted up to mine, her breath warm on my cock. “I won’t last long. You’ve had me on edge for days.”
Thank the gods. Pride at her admission swelled my chest, but I kept my reaction to a nod, not trusting myself to do more. “I’m right there with you, babe.”
She bent forward, her tongue circling the head of my cock. Straining my ears, I could hear the wet slurp of her fingers in her pussy, her slight panting as she fought to breathe around my cock.
“Oh, fuck, yeah, Aren. Like that. You’re perfect, babe.”
She moaned, and I knew she tried to signal how close she was.
I wound my fingers in her hair and guided her rhythm. “Babe.” Damn, I hated to interrupt, but I wouldn’t be able to hold back much longer. Her mouth was hotter than a sirdar forge, the suction stronger than an eelon’s grip. “Babe, get yourself off. Let me taste it on your fingers.”
“Ohhh.” Her back tensed and arched, though her mouth never left my cock. She shuddered, her thighs quivering as her knees braced apart on the floor.
I wrapped my hand around my cock, holding it in a chokehold as I tried to pull back from her. “Enough, Aren, I’m gonna…”
Her hand flashed up from between her legs on a waft of sweet musk, and she dug her fingers into my backside, holding me close at the same moment she took me deeper in her mouth.
Of course, I could break free. But hells, I wasn’t that nice a guy. Instead, I slid my fingers to the back of her head, controlling my urge to jerk her even closer, force myself even deeper. “Fuuuuck, Aren,” I groaned as my balls swelled and tightened, the breath-stealing, tingling agony traveling the length of my cock like an electrical current. “Oh, fuck, babe, I’m going to blow.”
I threw my head back, fighting the urge to roar as the seed flooded from deep within me, spurting in hot jets into Aren’s willing mouth.
Panting slightly, she swiped the back of a hand across her mouth, her eyes dancing. “So, how’s your…blade?”
My chest heaved. “Pulsing. Glowing. Throbbing. But a long way from blue.” Concern flashed across her face, and I rushed to reassure her. “That’s a guy joke. Don’t worry about it.” I pulled my blade a few inches from the sheath, where she’d replaced it. “Bluer than an Aadarian night sky. One day, I’ll show you.”
For some reason, the laughter fell from her face, her teal eyes serious once again.
I didn’t want to think that maybe it was because she intended to take her chance to get out of our Felidaekin bond.
Not now I’d decided I was in for the long run. I might be cautious, pragmatic, prudent. All the shit the guys liked to stir me about. But once I’d made up my mind, there was no going back.
I reached for her hand and helped her up. “Now, I think I was promised a taste of those fingers.”
She curled them into a fist and shook her head. “No, I really need to bathe. And Smithton won’t take it well if we’re late.”
A half hour later, despite my attempts to interrupt her, Aren and I were scrubbed, wearing fresh, plain synthfab, unisex robes, lightly scented by the sachets of mira folded between the fabric in the cucua wood chests.
We made our way to Smithton’s quarters. Aren knocked on the sirdar door.
As it slid open, Smithton called from the depths. “Enter.”
Aren blew out a heavy breath and relinquished my hand. “Okay, let’s do this. Just play the memory loss card.”
As we entered the dining room, Smithton glanced up from the vidcom he had propped on the table in front of him. He tapped his finger on the screen, then pointed at me. “Seems your Dragarian is not the only one suffering memory loss, Ara.”
Aren slid into a chair, gathering her robe around her legs, and gestured for me to take the seat alongside. “What do you mean, Father?”
Smithton glared at her. He switched to Harangan. “It seems, daughter, that you’d forgotten that you do like to copulate like a feral animal with…this.” He jerked his chin at me. Then he turned the vidcom screen to face us.
All I could see on the palm-sized screen was the back of Aren’s head, blocking out my groin.
Chapter Ten
Aren
Blade in hand, Jag leapt across the table and onto Smithton. Smithton’s chair tipped back, crashing onto the wood floor. With his knife snug to Smithton’s throat, Jag rode my father like a Refugee challenging a viper to the death, so we could take over its nest.
“You dare too much,” Jag ground out, though he maintained his Dragarian inflections. “Is natural for blade-bond mated pair to sex. Is unnatural for father to spy.”
“But, but…” Smithton squeaked out, his eyes bulging from his head. His panicked gaze seized mine. “I only just started watching. The audio crapped out. Just had video.” His spine tightened as he turned his glare toward Jag. “When she arrived, she said…You said…”
“I say nothing,” Jag shouted, disgust ripping though his words. He pressed the blade harder against my father’s neck, making blood well in a fine line and trickle down to stain Smithton’s pristine white uniform collar. “You be one who speaks when should not. Who watches what should not.”
It should be wrong to savor seeing my father pinned down by my…mate.
Yes, Jag was my mate. Both Dragarian and Felidaekin. The thought thrilled through me.
Despite the temporary nature of it—of us—I could call him nothing else but my true bondmate.
I couldn’t hold back my surge of pride. Or my sadness. Our time as mates would be too brief.
Kill him, I wanted to yell, because, maybe, we’d then have a chance. But I bit my lips to hold back the words.
We couldn’t eliminate Smithton until we’d located the communicator. After that, he was fair game. My game. My knife burned against my thigh, though the bloodthirst, for some reason, didn’t seem as urgent as it had for the last two years.
Where was the communicator? A quick glance around the room didn’t reveal the item we’d risked so much to find.
“Why have you two come here?” Smithton grated out, as if he wasn’t sweating the idea of Jag severing his backbone.
Jag tilted his head my way, encouraging me to
speak, but kept his knife to Smithton’s throat.
“You know I returned to bring Tracin…To help you,” I simpered, falling back on my role of doting daughter. “I was afraid of what you’d say if I told you Tracin and I…You understand, Father, don’t you?” Maybe he’d think Jag forced me—not that I wanted to outright state he had.
“Understand that you choose to rut with this beast? Hardly. But this is not helping,” Smithton growled, his fingers fluttering against the hilt of Jag’s blade. “Call off your dog.”
Suppressing my groan, I beat back my fear. Though Jag was far superior to Smithton, we needed to play this carefully, not use brute force. Could I maneuver this situation, so Smithton wouldn’t suspect our true motivation?
“I thought…Please. Stop.” With considerable effort, I tugged on Jag’s sleeve, encouraging him to loosen his grip, but his fist only tightened on the front of my father’s uniform, twisting until I thought buttons would pop off and shoot across the room.
I could not blame my mate for taking this stance. If I sat on my father’s chest, with my knife snug against his neck, I wouldn’t hesitate. I’d seek the retribution I’d longed for since Tracin lay dying in my arms from wounds he’d sustained after trusting Smithton.
But we couldn’t exterminate him yet.
I cleared my throat and tried to act mindless, projecting the simple young maiden I’d pretended to be for most of my life. Mimicking the behavior I’d been taught, actually, since my father was a master at feigning stupidity while watching everything around him with an eye for self-profit. “After we escaped the Resistance stronghold, I came here straight away, because I thought you’d want to know I was alive. I thought…Well, I hoped, you’d be grateful for what Tracin had done for me.” It wasn’t difficult to inject a tremble into my voice, because my heartbeat raced in my throat, and my palms had gone sweaty. We needed to play this right, or we’d both wind up dead in seconds. One yell for the guards would see us in prison.
I just couldn’t figure out why he hadn’t called for them already.
Except…He wanted dragonstone, and we were the only ones who could deliver.
Pretending to weep was far easier than it had been in the past, because I was scared. Not for myself, but for Jag.
When had I started to care more for this man than my need to slake my blade?
Before the Dragarian bond.
Before the Felidaekin bond.
When I’d first met Jag’s eyes and saw something…Perhaps a bit of myself, in him. Even loners needed a connection to someone who cared.
“I thought you’d be glad to see me,” I said softly to my father. “See us.”
Did that flicker in Smithton’s eyes mean affection? Or was he still the man I’d known my entire life, one who’d find a way to turn this situation into something that would benefit only himself?
“Of course, I’m glad to see you alive,” he said, his thin lips twisting downward, as if he confessed something shameful. “I…I’ve been driven by my need for revenge for so long, I…”
Revenge. What had he done? Had his actions all been motivated by his vengeance for me, making me somehow responsible for what happened?
I was the one who’d spread the rumors that I’d been raped and murdered by the Resistance. Two years ago, I’d seen his attack on the Dragarians as an opportunity to escape the life he’d laid out for me, a chance to finally be free. But had my lie driven Smithton to do things he never would’ve otherwise done?
With a shake of my head, I thrust aside the notion. I was not responsible for whatever this man chose to do to others. Smithton had brought himself to this point, not me.
“Let me up,” he ground out, pushing on Jag’s hand holding the blade.
If it had been me lying underneath an irate Jag, with a knife held so close to my throat it would cut skin if I flinched, I would’ve peed myself.
Maybe.
Ara would’ve peed herself, but Aren…?
My movements stilled as realization took hold. Aren would’ve fought the knife.
I’d changed since I fled the Regime compound. I’d thought bonding with Tracin had helped me become someone new, but, if that was the case, I would’ve perished soon after Tracin’s death. Instead, I’d continued to grow stronger. I’d reinvented myself.
My smile couldn’t be denied. How freeing. Yet, I’d continue my pretense for as long as it took to deceive my father.
Jag tilted his head, eyebrows lifted, as if seeking my permission to either slice off Smithton’s head, or release him.
“Yes, let him up,” I said carefully. “Please don’t hurt my father.” I strolled around the table while Jag backed off, though he kept his knife in full view, ready to drive it into my father’s chest if he became aggressive.
“No question what happen between bonded pair,” Jag said, maintaining his imitation of Tracin, his body tighter than strung wire. “The cameras—”
“Shall be immediately removed,” Smithton said, his voice slicker than ice. “They’re standard issue in every room, installed when we built the compound. I was concerned for my daughter’s safety, so it occurred to me to watch. After all, she led me to believe she was not with you of her own free will.”
No, he’d been observing his asset. I should’ve looked for devices the second we shut the door. But I’d been distracted. Eager to be alone with Jag.
“I…That was wrong of me,” I said, bowing my head. “I’m sorry.”
If nothing else, Smithton had learned that Tracin—Jag—was more than he seemed. Behind his pale exterior lurked someone who was more than Smithton’s equal. My father wouldn’t challenge Jag now. Like a vultrex, he’d watch while guarding himself, waiting for the ripest time to take us down. No doubt, the moment we turned our backs.
Smithton struggled to his feet, grabbing onto the table. Once upright, he shook himself, resembling a narlol shedding rain water. He smoothed his uniform and, as if he’d merely stumbled on the way to dinner, he smiled.
Nothing but evil lived in that smile.
“I don’t like that you’re forced to copulate with…that thing.” He spoke in Median, I guess assuming only I’d understand, as his hand flicked Jag’s way. “But this does not mean that I can’t continue with my plan. You’ll have to keep this from Tennant. If he gets wind of it and doesn’t want you, you’re no use to me.”
Funny how I didn’t flinch at the proof that I was nothing more than a tool. In the past, I’d tried to break through the wall Smithton surrounded himself with, to find a way to mean something to the man who’d fathered me. My mother had once loved him, though I could not see why. I’d hoped…Well, I’d hoped I’d find a way to feel the same way myself.
He really didn’t care if I lived or died. I was an excuse he latched onto, one that gave him a reason to behave a certain way. But his drive had been there before I’d left. Maybe before I’d been born.
As Jag squeezed my hand, perhaps wondering if I was hurt by my father’s words, I slumped my shoulders and injected a whimper into my voice. “I thought you’d be happy I brought a Dragarian warrior here.” His lust for dragonstone was the only reason Smithton allowed us to enter the compound. Otherwise, he would’ve shot us where we stood outside the wall, not welcomed the daughter he’d thought lost forever. “I remember you were quite fascinated by them. However, if you’d like us to leave…”
“Of course not,” Smithton said cheerfully. “Come now. Leaving would be silly. You’ve just arrived.” A slick grin grew on his face. He rounded the table and actually hugged me. Stepping back slightly, while I shuddered, he held onto my upper arms and stared down, his face smoother than cryoglass. “You caught me off guard. When I saw you and this man engaged in…I felt betrayed. Here you were, something—someone, that is—I ached to welcome back into my life.”
To use, he meant. I bit back the words.
“I missed you. Mourned your loss.” From the crack in his voice and the way his shoulders slumped, I could almost
believe him. If he hadn’t betrayed me at every turn since I was a child, I would’ve.
“Can you blame a father for being upset when he saw something like that?”
“Tracin and I are bonded.”
He shrugged, releasing me. “Then I’ll find a way to make that work in my favor,” he said softly, confirming that yes, I was only something he could use. Pivoting, he strode toward the next room, gesturing for us to follow, as if this was a reunion with a much-loved daughter and not a strategic game he fully intended to win. “Let’s have drinks before dinner, shall we?”
Because we still needed the communicator, we walked into the next room—a living area with gilt scrolling around the ceiling, plush leather sofas, plus end tables holding small decorative statues. And, to my horror, a large portrait of me hanging above the solar fireplace. I thought he would’ve taken it down by now. In the painting, I sat on a chair, smiling at the camera. My mother had taken this picture when I was about eighteen, hence the true caring in my eyes. I’d worn a glistening red gown in honor of her birthday. We’d planned a party, one that had never happened.
She’d died that night in what I’d believed at the time to be an accident. Now, I wondered, because I’d been left at the complete mercy of my father.
“Ah, yes, your picture. I’ve kept it in a position of honor.” Smithton strode over to stare, stroking his fingertip along the frame. “When I thought the Resistance had taken you, hurt you, raped you, I raged at the unfairness of life.”
Please. Obviously, I was not the only master at pretending. “But my supposed death did give you the opportunity you’d been looking for. A chance to rout out the Resistance.” Bold of me for pointing it out, but I needed to see how much he’d reveal.
Smithton pushed on the frame, and something clicked. He crossed the room to a high table partly spanning one wall, twisted the plug off a decanter, and filled three glasses. Midnight black liquid, it was anyone’s guess what he intended to serve us. It could be simple wine, or it could be poison. Two other decanters sat on the sideboard, one containing pale blue liquid, the other dark red. The blue was a stimulant. No thanks.
