Page 8 of Hunted By Khor (Alien Mate Hunt #1)

T he stone beneath me has retained yesterday's heat, but my body shakes anyway. Not from cold. From the absence of him.

Everything hurts in specific, memorable ways.

My inner thighs are chafed raw from grinding against stone while his tongue worked inside me.

Bruises bloom across my hips where he held me still for the fourth—or was it fifth?

—orgasm. My throat aches from screaming.

Between my legs, everything throbs in time with my heartbeat.

Swollen, oversensitive, desperately empty.

Seven times. He made me come seven times with just his tongue, then left me here. Alone.

I crack one eye open. Purple fruits arranged on a flat rock, just within crawling distance. Three of them. The exact number I ate yesterday when they barely dulled the edge of need. A leather pouch of water beside them, beaded with condensation.

He knew exactly where I'd collapse. Knew exactly what I'd need come morning.

My legs don't work yet. I learned that yesterday. After what his tongue did to me, walking becomes theoretical for hours. The muscles simply refuse to coordinate, liquefied by pleasure. So I crawl.

The movement is humiliating and necessary in equal measure.

My breasts drag against rough stone, nipples still sensitive enough that even this friction makes me gasp.

The position makes me hyperaware of how wet I still am.

How empty. Last night's desperate attempts at self-relief left evidence everywhere: nail marks in the dirt, stones scattered from my thrashing, the ground beneath where I slept still damp.

The first fruit tastes like ash and copper, familiar now. But underneath that, I detect something else. Salt. Musk. The bastard rubbed them with his sweat. The realization should disgust me. Instead, my body clenches around nothing, recognizing his scent even in this diluted form.

“Pathetic.”

I spin toward the voice, nearly dropping the fruit. Not Khor. This voice is younger, lighter, with an accent that turns the Pyraxian words almost musical. Green scales catch the morning sun where he leans against a boulder, watching me crawl and eat scraps like an animal.

Vek. Has to be. Khor mentioned him. Another hunter, younger, eager. Watching from the borders of Khor's territory.

He's smaller than Khor. Maybe six and a half feet to Khor's seven. His scales gradient from forest green to pale jade at his throat, unmarred by scars. Pretty, in an untested way. Everything about him screams easy living. Never had to fight for territory. Never had to really hunt.

“That's all he left you?” Vek steps closer, but stays carefully outside grabbing distance. Smart. Or maybe he can see the violence in my eyes. “Three bitter fruits and warm water?”

“It's enough.”

“Is it?” He crouches, still maintaining that careful distance. This close, I can smell him. Citrus and ozone, sharp where Khor is all smoke and spice. “I've been watching since yesterday. Saw what he did to you. Heard you screaming. Watched him leave you here to suffer through the night alone.”

My hand tightens on the fruit. “And?”

“And I have better offerings.” He swings his pack around, opening it to reveal supplies that make my stomach clench with real hunger.

Dried meat glistening with fat. Fresh fruits that smell sweet.

Bread wrapped in leaves. A full water skin that sloshes heavily.

“Real food. Clean water from the northern springs.”

When did I last eat actual food? Three days ago? Four? The purple fruits dull the sexual need but do nothing for real sustenance. My body is eating itself, burning through reserves I don't have.

“There's a catch.”

“Not a catch. An exchange. You eat, drink, recover your strength. I provide shelter from the storm.” He gestures at the horizon where clouds are building, dark and strange-colored. “In return, you consider me as an option.”

“Option for what?”

“For mate. You haven't taken Khor's bond bite. That makes you available. The ancient hunting codes are clear on this.”

I force myself to standing, though my legs shake and threaten to buckle.

Everything between my legs throbs with the movement, reminding me of what's missing.

What Khor didn't give me yesterday despite the seven orgasms. His cock.

That massive, ridged thing I've been craving since he showed it to me at the spring.

“You think offering me dried meat will make me forget all that and choose you instead?”

“I think his scent has claimed your blood.

The way a female's body changes during her first heat, bonding to whoever triggers it.” He touches his throat scales.

They brighten and pulse in a pattern I don't understand.

“But that's not real choice. That's biology.

I'm offering you the chance to choose without your blood screaming for him.”

“My blood, my choice.”

“Is it? When you can't think past the need for his specific touch?” He pulls out dried meat, tears off a piece, eats it slowly. Makes me watch. “I'm younger. Stronger in different ways. I'd learn what you want instead of training you to want what I give.”

Thunder rolls across the desert. Still distant, but building. The air pressure drops, making my teeth ache.

“The storm will flood these canyons,” he says. “I have shelter. True stone, above the water line. All I ask is that you listen to my offer while we wait. No claiming. No forcing. Just conversation.”

“Conversation.” I laugh, the sound scraping my raw throat. “While I leak his scent and crave his cock. Sure. That'll be productive.”

His scales shift to deeper green. Embarrassment? Arousal? Both?

“You're very direct.”

“I'm very tired of games.” I pick up the second purple fruit, take a deliberate bite. The taste of Khor's sweat makes my body pulse. “Say what you really want.”

“I want you to choose me. Freely. Without another male's pheromones driving the decision.”

“Why?”

“Because you survived four days with him without breaking. Most females beg for the bond by day three when the need gets too strong. But you're still fighting. Still choosing.” His throat scales pulse brighter. “I want a mate who chooses strength, not one who surrenders to it.”

“You think I haven't surrendered? I came seven times on his tongue yesterday.”

“But you didn't beg for his bond bite. That's the difference.”

More thunder. The wind picks up, carrying the scent of rain and something else. Metal. Ozone. The storm will be violent.

“Where's your shelter?”

“North. Half a mile. Easy walk even in your condition.”

I look at the pack of food. My stomach cramps with hunger. Real, physical hunger that has nothing to do with the sexual need. I could eat. Get strong. Think clearly for once.

But.

My body doesn't respond to Vek at all. He's objectively attractive. Healthy. Strong. Offering everything I should want. And I feel nothing. No heat. No interest. Just a vague appreciation, like admiring a painting.

“Thanks for the offer. But no.”

His scales darken. “You'd rather starve?”

“I'd rather choose my own suffering than accept comfort from someone I don't want.”

“That makes no sense.”

“It doesn't have to make sense to you.” I grab the water pouch, take a long drink. “You should go. Find shelter. The storm won't wait for your hurt feelings.”

“He's not coming for you. You know that, right? He's testing you. Seeing if you'll break and accept any male who offers relief.”

“Maybe. Or maybe he's seeing if I'm strong enough to reject comfort when my body screams for it.”

“Why would that matter?”

“Because easy offends me. And I think it offends him too.”

Lightning flashes. The storm is moving fast. An hour at most before it hits.

“This is your last chance,” Vek says. “Come with me. Survive the storm in comfort. Or stay here and hope he bothers to save you.”

I pick up one of the stones scattered from last night's desperate activities. Test its weight.

“You should go.”

“You're making a mistake.”

“My mistake to make.”

He stares at me for a long moment. Then backs away slowly.

“When the storm hits, remember you chose this.”

“I'll choose it again.”

He turns to leave, then pauses. “For what it's worth, I hope you survive.”

Then he's gone, disappearing into the canyon's maze. I'm alone with the purple fruits and storm clouds that grow darker every minute.

I pick up the third fruit, tuck it into what's left of my suit along with the water. Thunder rolls overhead. The air tastes electric. Dangerous.

I should find shelter. Should run. Should do something other than stand here waiting for disaster.

A sound behind me. Soft. Deliberate.

I don't turn. “I know you're there.”

Silence.

“Both of you.”

More silence, but the quality changes. Charged. Two predators who've been watching the entire exchange.

The air shifts. Someone moves to my left. Green scales catching peripheral vision. Vek circled back. Or never really left. To my right, a shimmer of heat against stone. Crimson scales. Khor.

They're both watching. Waiting. The storm builds overhead, and I'm caught between two hunters while the canyon fills with electric tension.

Neither speaks. Neither moves closer.

The storm will force this. When the rain falls, I'll have to choose. But for now, in this suspended moment before the sky breaks open, I'm exactly where I chose to be.

Between two predators. Belonging to neither.

Waiting for the storm to decide what happens next.