Creations 4: Caging the Beast (8 page)

“Shit. I know, I know.”Pyrgo sighed then grabbed his arm when two guards and a gaggle of slaves passed. He mentally responded,
“I’m actually here on a classified mission for our
Intelligence Sector. The Dorvians must get back that crystal. In the hands of the wrong people, the
crystal and its holder can cause massive damage.”
 

“Why didn’t Nhajir ask for my help?”

“Because he likes you where you are, away from home and diplomatic issues,
not
causing
trouble,”
Pyrgo answered.
“Besides, this is my job. I’m being primed to take over for my uncle in
Intelligence. Now that Dervon has been chosen as my father’s successor, I can breathe easy. You
wouldn’t believe how thrilling my work is. Did you know that because of some of the information
we’ve gathered, we can now broker for better weapons with the Laar?”

“You’re kidding.”

“Times are changing,”
Pyrgo sent.
“It’s not all about conquering our neighbours anymore.

We’re investing in our future by building up our defence, as well as our own star system. I mean, look
at the Vrail. Technologically, they’re behind us. But socially and economically, they put us to shame.

With you keeping a lid on our brethren and preventing more kidnappings, we might just be able to
establish trade here.”

“Hell.”

“Yeah. This liaison stuff with other worlds in our own system opens up whole new possibilities.

New battles, new conflicts.”
Pyrgo paused
.”Even a need for stealth and destroyers.”

“At least all this peace crap is good for something.”
They neared the cell.
“I’ll still have a job.”
Pyrgo nodded to the guards and pushed Tarn towards the door.
“Destroyer, you’ll
always have a job. I think my father’s scared of you.”
Tarn coughed to hide a chuckle.

“Look, keep winning your fights and stay out of Furon’s way. And see if you can keep the
beast—Zachem,”
he said before Tarn could correct him,
“—under control. I saw a shift in his
shei

during one of his fights that concerned me. That shift looked very similar to the pulses of energy I saw
briefly in the Dorvian crystal before it disappeared into the catacombs under The Pit. Zachem is
connected to the crystal and important to our cause. I can’t explain it, but I can feel it.”
So could Tarn.

Pyrgo opened the door and shoved him inside. “Idiot,” he said scornfully before slamming the door and locking it.

Tarn entered the cell, searching for the lumbering male who wouldn’t leave his thoughts.

On the pallet, Zachem blinked at him once before he rolled onto his side, giving Tarn his back.

Tarn clenched his fists, annoyed and aroused. Zachem wore nothing, his tight ass and sculpted back on display like one very large tease.

Pyrgo needed Zachem for the mission, because he had some connection to the crystal.

Tarn could pretend he needed the Creation for the same reason, but he’d be lying.

Zachem aroused him in a way he couldn’t explain. A few steps closer and Tarn smelled him, the warm scent of wildness and chaos and the potential for destruction. The very qualities all Ebellions prized in battle.

And in a mate.

Crazy thinking. Yet it didn’t diminish the stiffness of his cock at all. He too easily remembered how Zachem tasted, coming in his mouth. Visions of Pyrgo and those females pleasuring one another fuelled his lust, imagining Zachem between
his
legs, swallowing the desire he couldn’t stop.

Tired and sexually frustrated, he sat down on the oversized pallet, conscious of Zachem’s sudden stiffness. Wanting the affection Zachem had shown him thinking him a
threll
, Tarn sounded overly harsh when he said, “I don’t have the patience for your shit right now. So move over unless you want me buried so far up your ass I’m coming in your throat.” Zachem said nothing and moved over.

More annoyed that the man would give him neither a fight nor an excuse to screw him, Tarn swore and tried to fall asleep.

To his surprise, the scent of Zachem calmed him, and he soon fell into a dreamless, well-needed rest.

Zachem spoke little when he woke the next morning. Tarn still lay in bed, apparently too tired from his previous night’s activities. Jealousy reared its head at thoughts of Pyrgo fucking Tarn, but he didn’t smell Pyrgo on him at all.
Dammit, why do I keep thinking of him as
mine?

My what?
Zachem didn’t know ‘what’, nor did he want to know. He lived to fight, to one day lull his captors into believing he liked The Pit, so that he could escape. Once he figured out how to disable his collar, he’d kill Furon and a few of his friends and take off. Yet the thought of leaving Tarn behind bothered him. A lot.

After visiting the lav and cleaning up, Zachem sat and stared at the puzzle of his cellmate. The urge to fuck him was still there, but not as strong as it had been. Instead, Zachem felt a need to submit, to
be
fucked, to please Tarn in hopes of making his master smile.

He froze.
Master. Tarn. Submission.
Three words he’d never thought—or wanted—to use together.

Worried about his state of mind, Zachem rose, determined to put as much distance between him and Tarn as possible. He quickly left his cell and requested an audience with Master Furon, who proved willing enough to grant him everything he requested. Zachem should have questioned Furon’s allowance, but he was too relieved to look deeper into Furon’s acquiescence.

“Just make sure not to kill him,” Furon warned. “Slave Six has the potential to pull as much currency into The Pit as you do. And I like him.” Shit. When Furon
liked
someone, they normally ended up dead within days.

“Yes, Master Furon. It’s just that apart, I’ll better be able to focus on the fight. I sense Tarn studying me, and I know I’m studying him for weaknesses all the time.”
Truth.
“It would be a much better battle if we met in the ring without so much familiarity between us.”

“You make a good point, but then, that’s one of your strengths, isn’t it? To constantly look for ways to win, no matter the cost.” Furon studied Zachem with an intensity that unnerved him. “We’re going to make more on this fight than we’ll probably make on the upcoming Slave Trade.” Furon smiled, a genuine show of pleasure. “And that’s saying something. Extra rations for you and Slave Six. I want you both strong and ready in three more days’ time. Don’t disappoint me, Beast.”

“No, Master Furon.” Relieved Furon meant to agree, Zachem bowed his head, something he’d normally refrained from doing to annoy Furon.

“Excellent.”

He forced himself not to shy away from the touch of Furon’s hand over his chest.

Everything about the slave master felt wrong. The lingering graze of his palm over Zachem’s muscle burned, like an oily fire licking at his energy.

Furon nodded to himself and pulled his hand away. “Three days. Then I want results.”

“Yes, Sir.”

Guards led Zachem out of Furon’s quarters and to the training centre.

For the next three days, Zachem prepared with a ferocity he hadn’t used in years. He couldn’t help anticipating the fight. The ability to challenge a worthy opponent ate at him. To go one on one and not pull his punches or limit himself was in itself freeing. Furon hadn’t issued him any mandates on how long to allow the fight, or when to crush his adversary in which round.

Zachem did miss Tarn, but not seeing the male also allowed him to focus better. He still hungered for Tarn’s touch, but he didn’t have to live right next to temptation. And during the nights, Six continued to visit. Zachem talked about his dreams, about his needs and his confusing desire for the confined slave master. Six didn’t judge him, didn’t do anything but sit and listen with an acceptance that stole its way into Zachem’s heart. When he finally left this place, he intended to take Six with him.

Comforted by Six’s presence, he wondered how Tarn fared. Furon had been a man of his word. Zachem didn’t see Tarn at all, but he didn’t worry. Furon would take good care of Tarn. He needed Slave Six for the big fight.

Before Zachem knew it, the night had come. Several other matches played out as the crowd revved up to see the bout of the season. The Beast versus Slave Six. Oiled down and dressed in a pair of battle trews,
rak
hide trousers that protected his groin and legs from waist to mid-calf, Zachem felt like a real warrior as he met Tarn, similarly garbed, in the ring.

Tarn’s eyes glittered, and that strange inner lid blinked at him once, enough to tell Zachem Tarn also wanted this fight.

Zachem licked his lips and watched Tarn’s eyes narrow, drawn to the motion. He adjusted his stance, and Zachem didn’t need to look to see that Tarn sported the same hard-on he now had. Excitement, anticipation, and the thrill of what was to come hovered just out of reach.

Yorum announced them, and a ring echoed in the sudden silence.

They stood there, gauging one another. And then Tarn pounced.

The crowd went wild as Tarn and Zachem struggled against one another.

“I’ll try not to hurt you…much.” Tarn grunted and pushed him back, grinning.

“I’m not as nice. I’m going to hurt you, oh so good. And when this over, that ass is mine.” Zachem glanced at Tarn’s crotch and smirked. “I’m going to rip you open and fill you right up.”

“Promises, promises,” Tarn ended on a breath as Zachem took him to the mat.

They continued to fight one another, testing each other’s strength and agility as they danced out of reach while trying to connect with each other, fist to body. Both took care not to hit the other in the face, though Zachem wondered if Tarn’s reasons matched his own.

Simply put, he didn’t want to mar that face. A silly reason, but he could do more damage to Tarn by hitting his body anyway.

The bell rang, announcing the end of the first quarter. Then the second, the third. When the fifth bell rang to commence the fight, the betting in the crowd swelled as they cheered for the Beast and Slave Six. No one had thought Tarn would last as long as he had, not even Zachem. Impressed and not trying to hide it, Zachem grinned even as he fell under a compilation of kicks and blows to his mid-section.

But just when Tarn had gained real ground, he pulled back, as if winded.

Annoyed at what he
knew
to be pretence, Zachem rolled to his feet and struck hard and fast.

Tarn went down and got up much more slowly than he had before. They both tired, but now Zachem doubted the extent of Tarn’s exhaustion. The battle forced Zachem to draw on reserves he hadn’t had to use since the Dorvian Conquest. What did Tarn use to keep up with the beast?

“Don’t hold back on my account, Slave Six,” he taunted.

Tarn grimaced and wheezed, “I don’t want to hurt you too much. Not when I have that fine ass waiting for me.”

Zachem feinted left and followed with a blow to Tarn’s gut, which he expected Tarn to lean back from. The move wasn’t special, nor was it harder than any he’d pushed before. Yet Tarn fell into it and groaned as he hit the ground. Stunned, Zachem waited for him to recover instead of going for the man’s throat. But Tarn remained down.

Through a flurry of screams, congratulations and enthused well-wishes from the crowd, Yorum declared Zachem the victor and pushed him off the dais. Rushed away from the fight and down into the caves, into the cleaning area, he allowed a few slaves to wash him and a medic to check over his wounds.

The bruises he’d received still hurt and would take some time to heal. Tarn had beaten the hell out of his ribs and thighs. But why the hell had he fallen and remained down?
Was he
playing or did I hit what I didn’t mean to?
Concerned that he’d seriously hurt him, Zachem demanded to see Tarn again.

Once clean and draped in a coarse robe, guards led him to Master Furon’s quarters.

“Well done, Beast!” Furon laughed with delight. “We made more tonight than we did all last quarter. Outstanding. You’ll be richly rewarded for this. Now go.” He motioned for the guards to remove him then turned back to the slaves waiting on him.

The guards led him from Furon’s room and Pyrgo joined them. “Bring him this way,” Pyrgo ordered the others.

“What the hell? I want to see Tarn.”

“Where do you think we’re taking you?” Pyrgo answered. “And while it was a nice fight, you need to watch your tone.
Slave
.” Still riding on a battle high, Zachem snapped, “Shut the fuck up, Pyrgo. I’m not in the mood.”

Pyrgo drew a phaser and shot Zachem with a pulse vibrant enough to stun him to immobility.

“Shit, Pyrgo. What the hell?” one of the guards asked.

“He’ll remember later,” another warned.

Pyrgo swore. “I’m not afraid of the beast. Now bring him with you. I don’t care how heavy he is. Grab a few more guards if need be, but move it.”

It took four large guards to drag Zachem into an unfamiliar cell and toss him onto a massive, surprisingly soft bed. After the others left, Pyrgo leant down, looking for what, Zachem couldn’t say. “You have tonight. Don’t blow it.” Tarn’s laughter met his ears, but he couldn’t turn his head, still paralysed from the stunner. “Oh, I intend for him to blow it,” his cellmate answered.

“Funny. You have the privacy you asked for, and Master Furon sends his regards. You made him a very rich, and even more powerful, man tonight.”Pyrgo didn’t sound happy about the fact, which made Zachem wonder just what the hell was going on.

Tingling spread through his limbs, but he forced himself not to move yet.

“Thank you,
guard
. Now, if I might enjoy the fruit of my labour?” Tarn reached out and ran a hot hand over Zachem’s chest, pushing the sides of the robe apart.

Pyrgo said something nasty that made Tarn smile. But Zachem didn’t sense an attraction between the two. Nothing they did or said was overtly sexual, though they acted like equals. Due to Tarn’s position as an ex-slave master? Or something more?