Untamed Hunger

  Untamed Hunger

  The Infinite City #3

  Tiffany Roberts

  Contents

  Drakkal

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  Also by Tiffany Roberts

  About the Author

  SHE’S ONE HUMAN IN AN INFINITE CITY—AND HE WILL NOT STOP UNTIL HE POSSESSES HER.

  It should have been an easy job—deliver the ID chip, get paid, and get out. But when Drakkal sees a beautiful human in his client’s private zoo and instantly recognizes her as his mate, the situation gets complicated. The motto he’s long lived by—don’t be stupid—is cast aside as the beast in him demands he take this female and make her his no matter what he must do. And when she runs from him, the hunt is on.

  After being impregnated by her dirtbag ex-boyfriend, abducted, and sold to be a breeder in a rich alien’s basement menagerie, Shay has to admit things aren’t looking great. But she’s determined to give her unborn child a decent life. Her first opportunity appears in the form of a gruff but insanely attractive azhera who forces Shay’s owner to sell her to him. Refusing to trade one alien master for another, she escapes him at her first chance. Yet Shay can’t forget the intense azhera and his heated stare—and soon realizes that he’s not going to forget her, either.

  But Shay’s former owner also remembers, and he’s determined to retrieve his prized possession—and have his revenge on the azhera who took her.

  Copyright © 2019 by Tiffany Freund and Robert Freund Jr.

  All Rights Reserved. No part of this publication may be used or reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form by any means, including scanning, photocopying, uploading, and distribution of this book via any other electronic means without the permission of the author and is illegal, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, contact the publishers at the address below.

  Tiffany Roberts

  authortiffanyroberts@gmail.com

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or people, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Cover Illustration 2019 by Cameron Kamenicky

  Character Art by Sam Griffin

  Created with Vellum

  To my one true love, for all your dedication and devotion.

  Special thanks to all our readers for your support, to Sam Griffin for her amazing talent, and to Cameron Kamenicky for his incredible patience during the making of this cover.

  One

  Arthos, the Infinite City

  Terran Year 2106

  Drakkal wasn’t sure how, but he’d get back at Arcanthus for sending him on this delivery.

  He’d arrived at the client’s manor—one of the largest residences in the Gilded Sector—ten minutes before the appointed meeting time, eager to conclude this business and be on his way. Per the instructions he’d been provided, he’d used the tunnels below street level to access a hidden entrance, where he’d endured suspicious glares and firm questions from the security guards. They’d finally allowed him inside, and he’d had the privilege of weathering a forty-minute wait in the kitchen as over a dozen servants prepared an immense meal.

  Even after the volturian guard who’d stared at Drakkal with cold, blue eyes during his entire stay in the kitchen had finally led him to the client’s study, Murgen Foltham—the immensely wealthy durgan businessman Drakkal had come to see—still hadn’t shown his face.

  Drakkal folded his arms across his chest. His tail flicked restlessly, and his ears drew back.

  And here I’d thought Arcanthus was a pain in my ass…

  Releasing a heavy breath that ended in a low growl, Drakkal scanned the room. Everything here was ornate nearly to the point of sacrificing functionality, right down the oversized desk and the chairs positioned around it.

  Like most other manors in this part of the city, this place was more a status symbol than a home. It was an elaborate, excessive, unnecessary display of wealth, and just being inside it irritated Drakkal. Such residences presented an illusion of freedom and beauty at odds with the subterranean, gritty nature of the Undercity. It was all fake, it all stank, and the expensive, exotic scents these people used to cover the stench only made it worse.

  Drakkal strode forward and sat in one of the chairs in front of the desk, resting his tail on the cushion between his thigh and the armrest. Just as he’d guessed it would, the chair forced him into a rigid posture that provided no comfort.

  The volturian guard stepped closer. “I didn’t say you could sit.”

  Drakkal glanced back at the scowling volturian. The discomfort caused by the chair seemed a fair price for the guard’s perturbation. “And I didn’t ask. Where’s Foltham?”

  “Master Foltham will be here when he’s available. He doesn’t plan his schedule around the likes of you.”

  Lifting his cybernetic left arm, Drakkal activated the holocom built into its wrist. His wait was approaching the fifty-minute mark.

  Drakkal settled his hands on the armrests and pushed himself to his feet. “Tell your boss that he can contact us when he’s serious about concluding our business. Any future meeting will be conducted at a neutral location at a time of our choosing.”

  He walked toward the door. The volturian stepped into Drakkal’s path, tilting his head back to meet Drakkal’s gaze.

  “You don’t belong here, you overgrown sewer skrudge,” the volturian spat, “but Master Foltham has chosen to do business with you. So you’ll stay here and wait like a good little animal until whenever he declares the transaction completed to his satisfaction.”

  “I don’t care who he is,” Drakkal growled, baring his fangs. “I’m not going to have more of my time wasted. Stand aside or draw your blaster to save me the dishonor of an unfair fight.”

  “You skeks-sucking—”

  The door to the study swung open, and the volturian snapped his mouth shut, keeping his intense glare fixed on Drakkal.

  A large alien walked through the open door—Murgen Foltham. He was perhaps two or three centimeters taller than Drakkal, but his body was huge, with thick, trunk like limbs and a round belly that dominated his overall shape. He had no neck to speak of, and his fleshy jowls hung low enough to rest upon his chest. The most solid part of Murgen Foltham seemed to be the pair of four-centimeter-long tusks jutting up from his lower jaw. He wore a loose black tunic with silver trim that was secured around his waist by a wide, violet sash from which dangled countless gold and platinum trinkets, many of which were embedded with gems and crystals.

  “Ah! You’re finally here,” Murgen said in a rumbling bass voice. “Our appointment was forty minutes ago. I was beginning to wonder if—”

  “I’ve been here for nearly an hour,” Drakkal said, gaze locked with the volturian’s, “and I’m on my way out no
w.”

  Murgen made a sound that was half-grunt, half-groan, and shuffled closer. The metal adornments on his sash clinked together as he moved. “Come now, I’ve set aside time from my day for this meeting, and I’m quite busy. Money doesn’t earn itself—at least not quickly enough for my liking.”

  Gritting his teeth, Drakkal suppressed the growl threatening to rise from his chest

  Doesn’t matter if I’d like nothing more than to gut these pompous gresh navari. This is just business. Besides, don’t want to give Arcanthus any ammunition to use against me by botching a simple deal.

  Drakkal doubted that any of the Infinite City’s billions of residents could manage to say the words I told you so with as much smugness as Arcanthus could.

  The volturian stepped aside as Murgen neared.

  “Come, then,” Murgen said, settling a hand with three short, thick fingers on Drakkal’s shoulder. “All’s forgiven. No one’s perfect, after all, and it’s unfair of me to expect too much of folk from lesser social strata.”

  Just business, Drakkal repeated in his mind. The thought didn’t cool the angry fires that had been lit in his chest.

  “So generous of you,” was the best he could manage to say.

  “It’s a small thing.” Murgen lifted his hand only to drop it on Drakkal’s shoulder in a heavy slap.

  Drakkal clenched his fists, pressing the claws of his right hand into the heel of his palm. He always told Arcanthus to remain calm. How hypocritical would it be for Drakkal to lose control of his temper now? It didn’t matter if part of Drakkal’s mind insisted he was shaming himself by letting Murgen’s comments slide; he’d moved on from the azheran concepts of pride and honor long ago, hadn’t he?

  “So is the ID chip you ordered,” Drakkal replied. “If you have the credits, I have your chip. Let’s be done with it.”

  Murgen chuckled, producing a booming sound that made the flesh of his throat expand as though it were filling with air. “No, no. Let me show you something special, something people like you rarely have an opportunity to see.”

  Keeping his tone as neutral as possible, Drakkal said, “Maybe another time.”

  “Come now”—Murgen squeezed Drakkal’s shoulder—“I insist. Your forger, he does good work. Let’s solidify our relationship with this little treat.”

  Drakkal found himself glad that he’d put on a thick jacket to cover up his sleek prosthesis despite the way such clothing sometimes irritated his fur; he had a sense that Murgen’s direct touch would’ve been far more uncomfortable. Murgen was the sort of person Drakkal had dealt with often during his years as a gladiator on Caldorius—friendly only so long as one served a purpose.

  After drawing in a steadying breath, Drakkal nodded.

  “Good! Come along, azhera.” Murgen turned away, glancing at the volturian as he moved. “Nostrus, accompany us. We’re off to the menagerie.”

  Nostrus glared at Drakkal again. Were his eyes any colder, there’d be ice crusting his eyelashes. “Yes, sir.”

  Drakkal said nothing. It seemed holding his tongue was the best course of action here if he meant to be done as quickly as possible, even if it meant suffering Murgen’s condescension and Nostrus’s ire. His only consolation was that Arcanthus was charging Murgen well above the standard rates.

  He followed Murgen into the hall. Nostrus fell into place behind Drakkal, and the azhera could feel the guard’s gaze, chilled and heavy, on his back. A hint of unease colored Drakkal’s irritation; he was in an unfamiliar place with people he didn’t know. Dangerous people. Murgen had already made it clear that he viewed Drakkal as a lesser being, and Nostrus seemed hungry for conflict.

  Drakkal forced his tail to still. He’d learned long ago that it served as a tell that could cause trouble in situations like this. Besides, he’d been in worse places. He’d dealt with people like Murgen and Nostrus countless times.

  Just have to get through this. Then I never have to see either of these two again.

  What was a few more minutes at this point?

  He would soon discover that, if nothing else, a few more minutes was a gross underestimation.

  Murgen stopped at a blank section of the wall. “I trust that, given the nature of your…profession, you understand that you must divulge no details regarding what you’re about to see?”

  Drakkal grunted his understanding.

  Murgen’s big, dark eyes widened along with his grin, and for the first time, his mask slipped, revealing a hint of the real person beneath—a person who would devote countless credits to destroy the life of anyone he deemed an enemy.

  Drakkal held the durgan’s gaze until Murgen looked away.

  Murgen extended an arm and pressed one of his thick fingers to the wall. A large section of the wall slid upward, disappearing into the ceiling and exposing a set of sturdy metal doors. A moment later, the doors slid apart, opening on an elevator car.

  Drakkal’s fur bristled. His current relationship with Murgen and Nostrus wasn’t exactly built on trust, and elevators weren’t the most comforting spaces. The relatively tight confines were extremely restrictive when it came to combat; things tended to get brutal and desperate in such conditions quickly.

  Murgen stepped into the elevator first, turning to face the hall. Drakkal didn’t allow himself any hesitation; he stepped in after Murgen and positioned himself with his back against the far wall. Nostrus entered last, leveling his cold, hard gaze on Drakkal even as he turned his body toward Murgen.

  “What a happy bunch we are,” Murgen said as he pressed a button on the controls. The doors closed. “You’ll have to forgive Nostrus, azhera. He’s worked for me for many years and takes his job quite seriously. The finest security professional in the business, this one.”

  Drakkal offered no response. He kept his gaze on the doors, watching in his peripheral vision as Nostrus watched him.

  Without a sound, the elevator began its descent; Drakkal felt it in his gut, and some primal part of him railed against moving even farther from natural light. It didn’t help his unease. In his experience, it was the wealthiest clients who most often decided the terms of an agreement no longer suited them at the last moment, who were the most likely to negotiate a change of said terms. Of course, those last-minute changes usually occurred at blaster point.

  But there was more here, something Drakkal couldn’t place. It was almost…a sense of inevitability that eluded definition, somehow related to a scent on the air that was too faint to isolate and identify.

  Drakkal’s tail twitched. He leaned back against the wall to prevent it from swinging restlessly.

  The elevator drew to a smooth halt.

  Murgen twisted his torso to glance back at Drakkal. “This must be terribly exciting for you. I imagine it’s not every day you’re offered such privilege as this.”

  Not for the first time, Drakkal was stricken by a powerful urge toward violence. It certainly wasn’t the sensible solution, wasn’t the moral solution, wasn’t the right solution, but sometimes it was the only way to force people like Murgen—people who thought themselves the most important thing in the universe whether they were talking business or taking a shit—to alter their perspectives a little. Drakkal hadn’t survived his one hundred and fifty bouts in the fighting pits of Caldorius only to feign interest in the garbage a person like Murgen had to say.

  The best way to show someone they weren’t untouchable usually involved a few well-placed punches.

  The elevator doors slid open silently.

  Drakkal’s nostrils flared. Both that sense of inevitability and the accompanying scent were immediately stronger, though he still couldn’t identify either.

  Murgen stepped off the elevator and into a sleek corridor with dark floor panels and walls that curved at both their bases and peaks. The air—which was recycled and pump-circulated throughout most of the Undercity—had an enhanced crispness here. Murgen’s waddling gait carried him toward an open-topped hovercart.

  Drakkal lo
oked at Nostrus. Brows low, the volturian gestured for Drakkal to exit the elevator. Clenching his jaw against an instinctual growl, the azhera shoved away from the wall and strode forward.

  Should’ve just made Foltham deal with me in his office. Who the hell would’ve cared if he took offense to it?

  Murgen climbed a set of low steps to enter the hovercart’s rear compartment, which was oval shaped with a wide seat on each side. The craft bounced and swayed as Murgen sat down on the left seat. “Join me, azhera. Nostrus will drive.”

  “Master Foltham,” Nostrus said, “this is ill-advised. We can’t trust this—”

  Murgen raised a hand and waved it, silencing Nostrus. “All business, yes? I’m sure our friend here is a consummate professional. At any rate, I imagine he will soon be too captivated to even contemplate anything untoward.”

  Once again, Drakkal kept silent; Murgen was confident in his control of the situation, and there was no reason to shatter his illusion. Ultimately, Murgen’s mistaken belief that Drakkal could so easily be intimidated by flagrant displays of wealth would work in Drakkal’s favor if the situation took a turn.

  And there was plenty of time for this to go bad, especially given Nostrus’s demeanor.

  As aware of Nostrus’s presence behind him as ever, Drakkal climbed into the cart, seated himself opposite Murgen, and wedged his tail beneath his thigh to keep it still.