Chapter 16
Diarvet
Even the dungeon was ostentatious. Walls of polished obsidian stretched upward into shadow, the surfaces so perfectly smooth they reflected distorted images like dark mirrors. Intricate silver inlays caught and reflected the dim faux torchlight, breaking the mirror-black surface with veins of precious metal. The floor beneath was a mosaic of gems arranged in geometric designs, speaking of wealth beyond measure. This was a chamber designed to showcase power, not merely contain prisoners. It was a kind of chamber that whispered of old money and older sins, where suffering was performed as theater for an audience of one. Yet, despite the opulent surroundings, the cloying stench of stagnant marsh water hung heavy in the air, thick and fetid, coating the back of my throat with each breath.
The guards strapped me to a chair forged from some dark metal that felt cold even through my clothes, the chill seeping into my bones. Thick leather restraints, worn smooth from previous victims, reinforced with bands of durasteel, bound my arms, legs, and head. The bindings were thick, not unbreakable, but I would need to assume my shifted form to snap them, and I didn’t want to do that… not yet.
As far as captures went, this one had been rather pathetic. If I hadn’t been so eager to accompany the Kwado guards and create a distraction, I could have ended thecharade hours ago. Even armed with energy blasters, the Kwado moved with sluggish confidence, their movements telegraphed and predictable, not much of a challenge. They had never faced a true predator. Facing a shapeshifter was beyond their comprehension. But right now, patience was my greatest asset. I needed to wait. Endure. Calculate.
Which proved surprisingly manageable. The Kwado prince was a fool, all bluster and ceremony, his every gesture exaggerated for effect. I could snap his neck with barely a flex of muscle, feel the vertebrae separate beneath my fingers, crush his windpipe before he could draw breath to scream. And I would. Soon.
The memory of what this bastard had done to Jolie burned through my veins like molten iron. He had treated my mate like chattel, no more than a trinket to be possessed and used, a pretty thing to display and discard. The idea of him violating her, putting his slimy hands on her soft skin, sickened me to my core. I would kill him slowly, making him experience every moment of terror and agony he had inflicted upon my female, drawing out each second until he begged for the mercy of death.
Jolie had said the slime was the worst part. Even now, I could see it—the thick, viscous mucus that coated his amphibious flesh like a second skin, glistening wetly in the light, leaving trails of moisture wherever he touched. The very thought of that revolting secretion touching my mate, sliding across her body, made my stomach churn. I couldn’t fathom how she had endured even a moment of contact with Qurbaga’s repulsive form without losing her mind.
Yes, I would savor every second of his death, would make it a masterpiece of suffering. But not yet. Not until enough time had passed to ensure Jolie and Lilibet reached the sanctuary of the southern caves.
Qurbaga’s blade whispered across my flesh, the razor edge lifting the scales along my forearms and torso without fully severing them. If done right, each shallow cut caused maximum discomfort while avoiding serious damage, keeping the victim conscious and aware. As torturers went, he was pathetically inadequate. The prince’s technique was all flourish and no substance, more concerned with the spectacle than the craft, with how he looked wielding the blade rather than the results it produced. And sadly, I knew torture from the best, had learned from the queen who understood pain as an instrument.
I’d been feigning unconsciousness for the better part of an hour, my breathing slow and measured. My mind dwelling on memories of my females. Jolie’s soft gasps of pleasure as my fingers traced patterns across her skin, her body arching into my touch. Lilibet’s laughter as she wove wildflowers into my braids. At night, the weight of both of them curled against me, safe in my arms. Each memory was an analgesic against Qurbaga’s attempts at inflicting pain.
The dozens of shallow lacerations decorating my arms and torso were little more than scratches, surface wounds that would heal completely with a single shift of my scales. Not yet, though.
The metallic scrape of steel against stone echoed through the chamber as Qurbaga set his blade aside with a weary sigh, followed by the wet slap of his footsteps as he moved away.
“Stopping so soon?”
The unexpected voice sliced through my feigned stupor, the words crisp and measured, carrying an authority that demanded attention. My hearing had been focused on Qurbaga’s labored, wheezing breath and the steady, rhythmic drip of condensation sliding down the obsidian walls. I hadn’t detected another presence in the chamber—no footfall, no shift in air pressure, no telltale scent—until this very moment.
“Torture is exhausting work,” Qurbaga whined, his tone as petulant as a spoiled child, the words emerging wet and thick through his amphibious vocal cords. “Perhaps you’d care to try your hand at it?”
A sound of pure, visceral disgust rumbled from the stranger’s throat. Not quite a laugh, but something darker, more contemptuous. “Hardly my style. That’s the beauty of wealth, isn’t it? You can always pay someone else to handle the unpleasant necessities.” His next words dripped with such calculated, razor-edged arrogance that I could practically see the smug smile stretching across his features. “Isn’t that right, Qurbaga?”
“Yes, Master.” The words came out small, subservient, stripped of all the pompous bravado the prince typically wore like armor.
The word hit me harder than anything Qurbaga’s pathetic blade had been able to dish out, reverberating through my consciousness like a thunderclap.Master?What in the seven hells was happening here? Qurbaga was the crown prince of the Kwado, heir to a throne built on centuries of accumulated arrogance and entitlement. A male who demanded obeisance from everyone he encountered. For him to address anyone asmasterwas not just unexpected. It was completely, fundamentally out of character.
I drew in a careful, controlled breath through my nose, analyzing the complex scent signatures that painted the air around me. Qurbaga’s familiar cocktail of stagnant marsh water, viscous slime, and the cloying, artificial sweetness of expensive cologne designed to mask his natural odor filled one corner of my awareness. But the other male’s scent was a puzzle that made my skin crawl, my scales rippling involuntarily beneath the shallow cuts. It was not the distinctive musk of any species I’d encountered before. Yet there was something hauntingly,maddeningly familiar buried beneath the unfamiliar notes. A ghost that danced just beyond my grasp.
The sharp electronic hum of a communication device activating filled the chamber with an artificial buzz, followed immediately by Qurbaga’s imperious bark ordering refreshments, his voice regaining some of its usual arrogance.
“Would you care for anything, Master?” The subservience returned instantly, coating his words like his natural slime.
Another dismissive snort, laden with disdain. “You know I despise the food here.”
The whisper of metal sliding deliberately across stone reached my ears. Not from Qurbaga’s direction, but from where the stranger stood in the shadows, the sound purposeful and threatening.
“Has the fucker given you anything useful yet?”
The wordfuckerstruck me with unexpected force. Not because of the insult. I’d been called far worse in a dozen languages across as many worlds, but because it bypassed my translation implant entirely, arriving in my consciousness as raw, unprocessed sound. Which meant….
“Nothing yet,” Qurbaga replied, frustration weighing heavy in his voice. “He claims he sent them off-world after the Wojonik arrived.”
“Do you believe him?” Again, the words came through clear and untranslated, each syllable confirming my growing suspicion. This male was speaking English, the same language Lucy and Jolie used. Suddenly, the strange, nagging familiarity of his scent made sense. While he carried neither Jolie’s delicate floral perfume nor Lucy’s warm spiciness, there was an underlying note—something in the fundamental chemistry of his biology—that matched both my mate and queen.
Human. This male was human.
“I don’t think so,” Qurbaga answered, and I caught the tremor threading through his words. “Our Alliance contact confirmed he brought them to this planet, and there’s been no indication they’ve departed.”
