Page 2 of Tempting Jupiter
He struck their legs and they tumbled to the floor around him, their limbs tangled with Jupiter’s body. The ache in his abdomen spiked into his awareness before he once again pushed it from his mind. He crawled over the closest downed man and struck a fast, sharp blow to his throat. The satisfying crunch of the human’s trachea fueled his determination. Jupiter made a grab for the other human, trying to wrestle the burst gun from his grip as the man thrashed against him. When he couldn’t break the man’s hold, Jupiter snapped the man’s arm near the elbow. The man squealed.
“Wait!” The shout of a human drew Jupiter’s head up.
Damn! On the other side of the hatchway at least a dozen men aimed weapons at him. They wore an unmatched array of body armor, most of which seemed never to have seen battle. Jupiter rolled, pulling the downed human over him as a shield, but no blasts fired. “Don’t shoot him,” the man warned. “He’s worth more alive.” The small army of men kept quiet as their leader yelled orders.
Jupiter couldn’t believe his luck. The weapons were the only chance they had against him. Hand to hand, no number of humans would stand a chance. He shoved the man on top of him aside and bounded to his feet.
“Wait. Heel. Whatever the fuck you call it.” The leader stood well behind his team with his hands up in the universal sign for stop. He wore no armor, but he did wear a uniform of some kind. Something Jupiter hadn’t seen before.
Jupiter growled, drawing back his lips to show more teeth, at the men who still pointed weapons at him. He wanted to give them an eyeful of the deadly incisors he’d been cursed with, but experience kept him frozen in place instead of lunging for his prey.
The men closest to him edged back, feet shuffling, weapons aimed.
“Listen.” The human leader paled, but he stepped out from behind the armored bodies that had provided him cover. “There’s no reason to fight. Even if you kill us all, what then? Where are you going to go? Your pilot’s dead.” He pointed to the far end of the room and the proof of his words.
Jupiter’s nostrils flared and he snarled, backing the man away. He knew a man was dead where the leader pointed. He’d smelled the blood, singed flesh, and the rotten odor that comes from a man when his insides are exposed. Now he let himself take in the remains. The pilot faced them as if he’d turned to fight. He sat slumped forward, strapped into a chair and surrounded by view screens and controls. Half his torso was gone, but he was clearly human.
Why would a human have been helping Arena Dogs escape the powerful reach of The Roma Company?
When Jupiter looked back to the enemy leader, the man grinned. It was the grin of a whip-master before he announced the number of lashes he intended to rip into a Dog’s back. The grin of the game-master before he stepped onto the platform where he handed down arena verdicts. It didn’t bode well.
“Unless you can pilot a spaceship, there’s nowhere to go.” His eyebrows wiggled like orange worms arched over his eyes. “Can you? Are you a pilot?”
The mockery in his voice should have outraged Jupiter, but he didn’t have the energy for rage. He swayed on his feet, thinking of his vulnerable pack brother in the compartment down the corridor. He should fight. The thought flickered in his mind, but his body didn’t respond.
“Or,” said the human, “we could just wait here until you bleed out.”
Jupiter’s chin dropped. Crimson splashed at his feet and a blood-soaked bandage stretched across his torso. Another stream of blood trickled across his collarbone and down his pectoral muscle. He touched his fingers to his shoulder and found it wet and slick. He pressed hard against the wound, hoping the jab of pain would provide a much needed surge of adrenalin, but it was too late. He’d already lost too much blood.
His legs buckled and the jarring impact of his knees slamming into the decking sent agonizing shockwaves through his body. His eyelids fell. The rush of weakness could no longer be put off. It left him powerless.
He thought again of Seneca. Regret and longing for his pack brother settled in his chest. As the humans circled closer, he huffed out his bitter shame.
For the second time in as many days, he was going to die.
Chapter Two
TheSalleyHo
EarthAllianceBeta Sector
2210.146
When Feeona heard the commotion in the hall outside theSalley Ho’sone-cell brig, she checked the time. A brief jab beneath her ribs made her sit straighter. It could’ve been a symptom of her worry over the damage Captain Walter Fitzhew’s side-trip had inflicted on her schedule. More likely, it was a cramp from the way she’d been sitting for hours—her back to one wall, ankles crossed, legs stretched along the cell’s built-in metal bunk. In her defense, it was the only piece of furniture in the monotone gray cell and sitting made it easier to maintain her remote link with Bug. The miniature terminal access drone and the neural implant she used to direct it were the best investments she’d ever made, but it did take a lot of her concentration to control it. At least sitting kept her from walking into walls or, more importantly, the shimmering energy field that blocked the cell’s entrance.
She uncrossed her feet and swung her legs over the side of the bunk, slipping into the boots she’d left on the floor. Fitzhew and a small mob of his crewmen, all toting weapons, had two prisoners in tow. She wasn’t surprised to see they were both bloodied. Fitz was a small man with a narrow face and a bushy cap of carrot-tinted hair that he was currently raking his fingers through. He didn’t have any particular reputation for violence, but she knew he could be utterly ruthless when the need arose.
Bug’s DATA UPLOAD IN PROGRESS message flashed in Feeona’s left eye. Opting to remain seated as long as possible, she smoothed her palms down her soft black trousers then tugged at the hem of her matching pullover. She propped her forearms on her thighs and leaned forward, studying the controlled chaos in the previously unmanned security station.
Two members of the crew dragged one of the wounded men directly to a spot in front of her cell. The prisoner was unconscious and obviously taller than his captors. His feet dragged behind and his head hung forward, obscuring his features, but the pointed ears were hard to miss.
“Crap, he’s a heavy fucker,” one of the crewmen complained, chest heaving with exertion.
They’d each slung one of the prisoner’s arms across their shoulders. Those arms were thick with muscle and lined with veins that bulged against his skin, as if to deny any lack of vitality that his unconscious state implied. Narrow silver scars marred his shoulders and bruises mottled his coppery skin. Blood, thick and crimson, coated his bare chest. The sticky stuff clung to the curve of muscle as it oozed from shoulder to abdomen to the shallow dip of his navel.
The second prisoner tugged against the restraining grip of his minders, but they’d restrained his hands behind his back and shackled his legs. The stretch of his arms showed off a leaner physique, and his unusual coloring hinted that he might have a bit of alien blood. White silk hair hung past his shoulders. His skin was a dusky white that made her think of the pearls of Old Earth. His face seemed more human, but too stunning to be real—jaw and cheekbones too sharp, an elegant nose and lushly full lips. His concern for the unconscious prisoner filled eyes that were lavender, large, and expressive.
“He needs medical attention.” His voice was as lush as his eyes. She’d bet, even with the odd features, he’d look and sound amazing singing in a shower. The kind with real water. Hot and steamy.
