Page 18 of Trak (Virilian Mail Order Mates #1)

Fourteen

Trak’s tail flicked in annoyance as he approached the door to his chambers.

The guard who had been posted was missing.

He was paying very well for upgraded security to watch over Anna and would be firing this agency if they didn’t have a good explanation for this lapse.

If only he could hire Virilians. Unfortunately, what was left of his race was mostly scattered across the galaxy.

He opened the door to find Nandi flitting about, waving a digital card in her hand.

The maid spoke so fast he couldn’t understand her, even after removing his English chip.

A quick scan of the room revealed a metal gift box on the bed and something gleaming on the floor.

He bent down and picked up an ornate metal collar, ringed with spikes.

His stomach turned to ice as he recognized it as a plorian slave band.

These barbaric items were used among some species to transfer ownership of individuals.

They were largely symbolic these days, but the meaning was crystal clear.

Someone had sent this to Anna, and now she was gone.

Pulse pounding and fury building, Trak plucked the note from Nandi’s waving hand. He read it and his worst fears were realized. That barbaric Belka-Tu had taken matters into his own hands and claimed Anna—who was not his or anyone else’s to claim—for his own.

Trak dug his V-link communicator out of a pack on his belt and stuck it in his ear.

He told his core team what had happened as he dug a communicator screen out of a storage locker.

He rarely used these things. Virilians didn’t trust important information to be transferred without face-to-face discussion. This was a time to make an exception.

“We should have killed those guys,” Pizol said. “Ambassador or not, this is a violation of galactic laws.”

“Which don’t apply in this station,” said Niir. “We had no way to know Giru Limpa would go to such lengths to exact payment.”

“Or maybe he just wanted the human female as a trophy,” said Pizol.

“He will not survive this,” snarled Trak. “I would say this counts as extreme provocation.”

“I cannot disagree, my lord,” said Niir, using his formal address.

“Pizol, I am sending you a set of override codes on a secure channel. Use them. I want this station shut down.” Trak sent his first officer a secure message on the communicator with the secret codes. All quadrant leaders were given them in case of emergencies. This qualified.

“Got them. I’m already at an interface,” said Pizol. “They won’t leave with her.” He signed off.

This was why his first officer had his full confidence. Despite the questionable advice and unfortunate sense of humor, Pizol’s judgment and actions were swift and smart.

“Niir,” Trak said as he stalked back outside, into the corridor. “Use your contacts to find where the Belka-Tus are staying in this station. I want their location.”

“Yes, sir.” Niir signed off, leaving only Yanc on the connection.

“I need a weapon,” he ground out to his chief engineer.

His gaze caught on a smear of black on the floor and a thin trail that led away.

It was blood. So that was what happened to the security detail posted to his rooms. He felt pain erupt on his head—twin points where the primitive, warrior form of Virilians would soon become visible.

He looked down at his own hand and saw red striations glowing under his skin.

His sharp canine teeth were growing, turning to fangs.

If he needed proof that Anna was more than important to him, it was here, revealed in the transformation of his own body.

“What kind, Trak?” asked Yanc, unaware of the changes wracking through his prince’s body. “We have all kinds. Plasma, laser, projectile, wide-radius—”

“Something precise,” he replied around painfully distended canine teeth. “Something deadly.”