Page 33 of Alliance
“Talk about her all you want,” Fásach growled, his hackles rising through the sting of the deep slash on his back. He knew exactly what Lugh was doing.
Provoking. Goading. Forcing Fás to be reckless.
It was a good strategy.
But stupid.
“Big tits. No one appreciates tits like a mammal,” Lugh teased, glancing out of the way as Fásach came for him. The sting of slicing flesh followed the yiwreni mover with every engagement. His forearms, cheek, one ear. Light cuts here and there as they got closer and further apart. He took the brunt of the damage, but they both knew as soon as his jaws found home, it’d be lights out.
“Don’t look at her,” Fásach snapped.
“Why not? Trav and I have similar tastes, you know. And it’s not like you’ve staked your claim. I hear dolls take direction well too.”
“She’s not afuckingdoll.”
Fásach’s temper was starting to itch like something feral. He hadn’tstaked his claimbut something about Roz felt right. He liked how her scent lingered in his thermophobic hood, and how her symphony chimed, so new and pure. She was unconventional, but she was definitely a person.
When Fásach rushed Lugh again, the yivenan sank his talons into the back of his neck, holding him in place. There was no contest on strength. Lugh was half-venandi and weighed twice as much as Fásach did. When he leaned in with a grin, the karambit pressing into the space between two ribs, Lugh flashed his fangs.
“Hey, did you know,” he said conversationally, as much amusement in his tone as a snake, “that I go into rut just like you?”
The asshole had the audacity to rub his forehead against Fásach’s in challenge. Beneath the venandi plates of his forehead, two hard bumps had begun to form, right where a full-blooded yiwren’s antlers would come in. “Mine are blue. Do you think that’s Roz’s favorite color? Because the curtains match the sheets.”
Fásach let Lugh rip into his neck as he twisted in the bigger man’s hold, snapping his mouth with deadly force at the thick column of the arms master’s neck. In his haste to get away, Lugh plunged the karambit into his side out of instinct, hooking it on his lowest rib. Compared to the blood-thirsty violence Fásach wanted to commit, the pain was nothing. He took the knife out and tossed it across the gym as Lugh unsheathed another.
“Enough chatter.”
Fásach wasn’t playing anymore.
He bared his fangs, extended his jaw open to nearly one hundred eighty degrees and showed Lugh exactly what the inside of his mouth looked like. More teeth than should be possible rose up like a mountain range. And when his diaphragm echoed with the deep laughter of a yiwreni war cry, Lugh’s fur stood on end between his plates.
Rolling in mediplasma?
Good.
Because Fásach wasn’t the only sorry bastard that would need it.
While Lugh was focused on his mouth, Fásach slid forward, the pads of his feet grating across the rough floor. He grabbed Lugh’s wrist and heaved, every cut burning as he tossed the man across the room, the meat of his lower ribs howling with pain. Lugh’s back slammed into a transverse beam, and Fásach was on him before he hit the floor.
They both froze, Lugh’s karambit to Fásach’s neck, Fásach’s teeth wrapped around Lugh’s throat.
“Well-played,” Lugh admitted, his tone now cold and professional. His voice vibrated against Fásach’s tongue as he sampled the other man’s pulse. “Joking aside, you really should consider it.”
Fásach placed his claws on Lugh’s chest in a display of dominance. He wasn’t nearly strong enough to enforce it, but Lugh remained still.
“I know. But keep my pack business out of your fucking mouth.”
He groaned, sitting back on his haunches with a wince. Now that their match was over, the pain was working its way into his nerves. Lugh rolled to one side as they both caught their breath, and he withdrew two mediplasmas from his thigh bag. “Take them. Then go do what you need to do.”
Fásach glared at him, swore, then grabbed the two aero-syringes and plunged them into the short fur of his abdomen. The relief washed through him quickly, carried by his bloodstream to the corners of his pelt, relaxing his muscles and stitching his knife wounds closed. He’d need a shower soon, or else his fur would be a crusty, bloody mess.
He stared at the floor and his feet, covered in smears of garnet red as his temperature cooled.
Couldhe talk to Roz?
Dominant rutting was the fastest way to a predatory transition. Most ancient coming-of-age ceremonies involved a wedding specifically so warriors could rut into adulthood with theirthuais.It was the safest, quickest way to build an army.
Would that be so bad? He’d had dreams that made his fur itch ever since they’d met, but he chalked it up to how she’d straddled his lap and offered to pay him with her body. She was a mammal, and he hadn’t seen another mammal that wasn't being served for dinner in such a long time. Her skin was soft with the most delicate coat he’d ever felt. And the curls, the humid breath, the artery pumping against her throat…
