Page 7 of Hunted By Khor (Alien Mate Hunt #1)

I wake to evidence of my failed night—the ground around me destroyed by desperate clawing, blood dried under my fingernails from scratching at stone and skin alike.

The rock beneath me shows deep gouges where my new claws tore through volcanic glass in frustration.

Dark stains mark where I ground myself against anything that might provide relief, finding nothing but hollow friction.

My body screams with need that goes deeper than thirst, deeper than hunger. The tonic has rewired every nerve ending, made me hypersensitive to everything while denying me the specific stimulation I crave. Three days of this torture, and I'm coming apart.

“Morning, little female.”

The voice comes from above. I look up to see him silhouetted against the orange sky, balanced on the ledge like he's been watching me destroy myself all night. Probably has been.

“Khor.” His name tastes strange on my tongue, alien syllables that the translator makes familiar.

“You remember. Good.” He drops down to my level, landing silent despite his size. This close, I can see the ridge of spines along his back flexing with subtle movement. “You look... desperate.”

“Go to hell.”

“Tell me your name.”

The request catches me off-guard. “What?”

“Your name. If you want what your body is begging for, tell me who you are.”

“Mara.” It comes out hoarse, broken. “Mara Barnov.”

“Mara of where?”

I almost say Detroit, but that's not right anymore. Detroit is a dying city on a dying world that I'll never see again. “Nowhere. Mara of nowhere.”

“Mara of nowhere.” He tilts his head, considering. “I am Khor of the Obsidian Ridge. And you, Mara of nowhere, are going to run for me.”

“What's the point? You'll just catch me.”

“The point is that you need to understand what happens when you run toward something instead of away from it.” He backs toward the canyon entrance. “Five minutes. Then I follow.”

“And if I don't run?”

“Then you spend another day like last night. Clawing stone until you bleed. Finding no relief.”

The casual cruelty in his voice makes something snap inside me. I'm moving before I can think, scrambling down from the ledge and running toward the canyon maze spread before me.

The maze is a labyrinth carved by ancient water, passages that branch and twist through volcanic rock.

I choose the widest path first, feet slapping against stone still cool from desert night.

My lungs burn in the thin air, but the tonic has changed even my respiratory system.

I can run longer than should be possible.

The first passage leads to a wall of fallen stone. Recent collapse, judging by the sharp edges and loose rubble. I backtrack, choose another route. This one narrows gradually until I'm squeezing sideways through a gap barely wide enough for my shoulders.

Behind me, the sound of claws on stone. Measured. Patient. He's not hurrying.

The narrow passage opens into a wider chamber, but every exit leads upward at impossible angles. I test the walls, looking for handholds. The volcanic glass is too smooth, too sharp. Blood from my palms makes everything slippery.

Another dead end.

I choose a different path, this one sloping downward into darkness. The air gets warmer as I descend, heated by thermal vents that make the stone uncomfortably hot under my bare feet. Sweat beads on my skin, but it's not just from exertion. My body responds to his proximity like I'm programmed to.

This passage opens into a circular chamber maybe twenty feet across. Smooth walls rise forty feet straight up to open sky. No handholds. No cracks. No way out except the way I came.

And he's standing in the entrance.

“Caught you.”

“You herded me here.”

“You followed willingly. Your body knew where to go.” He steps into the chamber, not approaching directly but positioning himself near the far wall. “Do you understand now? Every path you chose led exactly where I wanted you to be.”

The space feels smaller with him in it. His presence fills the chamber like heat from a furnace, radiating that alien musk that makes my mouth water despite my fear.

“What do you want?”

“The same thing your body wants. The same thing you've been clawing stone to achieve.” His yellow-orange eyes track over the evidence of my desperation—torn clothes, bloody fingertips, the way I can't stand still because the need is eating me alive. “Tell me what you need.”

“I need out of this canyon.”

“What does your body need?”

The question hangs in the air between us. My body knows the answer, has been screaming it for days. But saying it feels like surrender.

“I don't?—”

“Yes, you do. Your scent tells me everything. The way you respond when I speak. The way your breathing changes when I move closer.” He demonstrates, taking a single step in my direction. My heart rate spikes immediately. “Ask me.”

“Ask you what?”

“For what you need. Use your words, little female.”

The endearment should anger me. Instead, it makes something clench low in my belly. “I need... touch.”

“Where?”

My hand moves to my throat without conscious thought, fingers pressing against the pulse point where he marked me with his scent days ago. “Here.”

“And?”

Lower. Always lower, to where the need pools and builds. “Between my legs.”

“Ask me to touch you there.”

The words stick in my throat. Saying them makes it real, makes this surrender instead of something that's just happening to me.

“Please.” It comes out barely a whisper.

“Please what?”

“Please touch me between my legs.”

“Better. But not desperate enough yet.”

Instead of approaching, he settles back against the wall. Watching me with the patience of something that has all the time in the universe.

“You're going to make me beg prettier than that.”

“I'm going to make you understand what your body really needs.” His forked tongue slides out. “This, for instance.”

He doesn't touch me with it. Just lets me see, lets my imagination fill in what it might feel like. The tongue moves independently, both forks testing the air, and I can see it vibrating slightly. A tool designed for very specific tasks.

“Please,” I hear myself say. “Please use that on me.”

“Where specifically?”

“You know where.”

“Say it.”

“Between my legs. Use your tongue between my legs.”

“To do what?”

The question breaks something loose in my chest. “To make me come. Please make me come. I can't—I've tried everything—my fingers don't work—nothing works except?—”

“Except me.”

“Yes.”

He rises from his crouch, and for a moment I think he's going to give me what I begged for. Instead, he approaches slowly, each step calculated to build anticipation. When he reaches me, he doesn't touch me with his hands or his mouth.

His breath ghosts across the junction of my neck and shoulder. The response is immediate, overwhelming. My head lolls back, striking the stone with a dull thud I don't seem to feel. A low, guttural sound escapes me—part pleasure, part pain—as my body convulses against the wall.

I'm coming just from his breath, and the realization is as terrifying as it is relieving.

“One,” he says against my skin, the word vibrating through me. “So responsive already.”

Before I can recover, he's moving. Hands on my shoulders, pressing me back against the smooth stone wall. My legs can barely hold me up, but he supports my weight easily while his mouth finds my throat.

Not biting. Just pressure, heat, the promise of teeth that could tear but choose not to. His tongue traces along my pulse point—just the tip of one fork—and another wave crashes through me.

“Two.”

This time I'm ready for it, but ready doesn't help. The sensation builds from that single point of contact, spreading through my nervous system like wildfire. My hands scrabble at his shoulders, claws finding purchase in scales that shift from smooth to rough depending on the angle.

“Please,” I manage between gasps. “More.”

“Tell me exactly what you want more of.”

“Your tongue. I want your tongue on me.”

“Where on you?”

“Everywhere. Anywhere. Just—please?—”

He drops to his knees in front of me, hands gripping my thighs. The position should make me feel powerful—him kneeling, me standing. Instead, I feel more helpless than ever. He's in control even from his knees, choosing exactly when and how to touch me.

“Spread your legs.”

I comply immediately, no thought of resistance. He studies me with clinical interest, like he's memorizing every detail.

“Perfect,” he murmurs. “Your body knows what it needs even if you refuse to admit it.”

When his breath hits me there—warm air across over sensitized flesh—the third wave crashes through me harder than the first two. My legs give out completely, but his hands keep me upright, pinned against the wall.

“Three. Look at you, coming apart from just my breath. Let's see what happens when I actually touch you.”

The first contact of his tongue—just the tip of one fork against my inner thigh—sends shockwaves through my entire nervous system. The texture is unlike anything human, ridged and flexible and warm. When he drags it slowly upward, I forget how to breathe.

“Four.”

The fourth peak builds differently, slower but deeper. He's not trying to rush me over the edge but to drag me there by increments, making me feel every sensation. By the time it crests, I'm sobbing with relief and desperation combined.

“Please,” I beg. “More. Please more.”

“You're learning. Good girl.”

The praise hits like a physical caress, making me clench on emptiness. He notices my response immediately, nostrils flaring.

“Your body likes being praised. Likes being told it's doing well.” His tongue moves higher, both forks now working in concert. “You're going to be so perfect for me once you stop fighting what you need.”

The fifth wave is different. Sharper. More intense. He's found some spot that makes stars explode behind my eyelids, and he focuses there with devastating precision. The sensation is so acute it borders on pain, but I never want it to stop.

“Five.”

I'm beyond words now, just sounds. Animal noises that mean please and more and don't stop. He doesn't stop, but he changes technique, adding temperature variation that makes my nervous system misfire. One fork ice cold, the other burning hot, and my brain can't process the contradiction.

“Six.”

The sixth peak makes me lose time. I come back to awareness slumped against the stone wall, held upright only by his hands on my hips. Everything below my waist feels like it belongs to someone else.

“One more,” he says, voice rough with his own need. “Seven for luck. Seven to make sure you remember this.”

For the seventh, he uses everything. Both forks working at different rhythms, temperature changes that scramble my nervous system, pressure that walks the line between pleasure and overwhelm. When it finally crests, I scream loud enough that the sound echoes off the canyon walls.

“Seven. Perfect.”

He pulls back and I slide down the wall. He catches me before I hit the ground, cradles me against his chest. I'm twitching, whole body convulsing with aftershocks. Every nerve fires randomly. I can taste colors and see sounds and nothing makes sense except his arms around me.

“Why?” It's barely a whisper. All I can manage.

“Your body needed to understand what I can provide. What only I can provide. No other male can give you this. Your body knows that now.”

Through blurred vision, I see both his breeding organs fully emerged, swollen with need.

The breeding cock is engorged, ridges standing out in sharp relief.

The flow from him is constant now, creating a growing puddle.

The pleasure cock writhes beside it, bioluminescent patterns so bright they hurt to look at.

“But you didn't—you need?—”

“Not yet. When I finally take you, you'll beg prettier than this.”

“Can't beg prettier. No words left.”

“You'll find them. Or you'll just scream. Either works.”

He carries me back to the pool, my weight nothing to him. Sets me in the shallows where mineral-rich water can soothe my overwhelmed flesh. Everything stings—I feel turned inside out, oversensitive to the point of pain.

“Khor?” My voice is destroyed.

“Yes?”

“Tomorrow?”

“Perhaps. If you run well.”

“Can't run. Everything feels broken.”

“Then you'll find a way. You always do.”

The serious expression says he expects me to do whatever it takes. And the worst part? I know I will. I'll do anything if it means being filled instead of empty.

As he stands to leave, something moves in the rocks above us. A flash of green scales, quickly hidden.

Khor's spines extend fully—threat display. A low growl rumbles from his chest, felt more than heard.

“What was that?”

“Nothing important,” he says, but his posture says otherwise. “Rest. Tomorrow will be challenging.”

The green scales don't reappear, but I can smell something now. Different from Khor's sulfur-and-spice scent. Younger. Earthier. Male.

Another hunter. And he's been watching.