Page 14 of Silent Lucidity

His fingers instinctively curled, lengthening his black claws, and his muscles bulged as the fullness of his rage struck him. Bitter venom filled his mouth, leaking from his clenched fangs. He longed to attack, to destroy, but he held himself back; the ruckus he’d raise in doing so would not go unnoticed by the other acolytes, which meant the Master would quickly learn of it. Tenthil had no desire to give the Master reason to invade his mind with even greater force.

Slowly, his rage diminished, and the tension in his muscles eased. But a fire still burned hot and low in his belly. For the first time since he’d returned from his mission, Tenthil deliberately shifted his thoughts to the terran dancer—to the way her eyes had captivated him, to the way she’d moved, to the way her body had felt against his. To the way she’dtasted.

His cock swelled, its ache rivaling the throbbing in his head.

Animalistic lust? If this is mere lust, I am as great a fool as he believes.

He paced back and forth in the small space, and his resemblance to a caged beast was not lost on him in that moment—a realization more bitter than his venom. He breathed in. He could stillsmellthe female upon him. Groaning, he tugged off his jacket and lifted it to his nose, drawing in the terran’s lingering scent.

He threw the jacket into the corner before pulling the weapons from his belt and laying them on the chest in which he kept his few worldly possessions. After kicking off his boots, he removed his shirt and pants, tossing them toward the jacket.

Freedom only slightly eased the strain in his cock.

The terran’s image clarified in his mind’s eye, and he inhaled again to take in more of her faint scent. It was intoxicating despite its weakness.

Tenthil wrapped his fingers around his shaft and growled. Pleasure like he’d never known filled him, enhanced by his desperate, driving need for release. He stroked his fist down the pronounced ridges of his cock and shuddered. The female danced alongside him in his memory, her eyes locked with his. He slid his calloused hand back up as the music to which they’d moved joined in his recollection, setting the pace for his pumping fist.

How would it feel to have her hand on his shaft, to breathe in her aroma as she touched him? How would her skin feel beneath his fingertips, how would it respond to his attentions?

Breath ragged, he shut his eyes and pictured her in the room with him, pictured her hand—with its slender, delicate fingers—wrapping around his cock. He imagined her leaning forward without missing a stroke and pressing her lips against his; the phantom sensation of her soft, yielding flesh sculpting to his mouth tingled across his face.

His body tensed, his fist tightened, and his hips jerked forward as he came with another low, guttural growl. Pleasure spiraled through him in a rush as the pressure in his cock released, spraying his seed onto the floor in great spurts. He gritted his teeth and pumped faster, harder, until there was nothing left—not even breath in his lungs.

The need raging within him did not ease.

Three

The next day, Tenthil was agitated during his morning exercises. He’d dealt with similar frustration in the past. Beneath the Master’s watchful gaze, it was best to find quick, productive ways to vent such emotions—they could not long go unnoticed. He chose the sparring ring, where he could channel his anger into combat under the pretense of further honing his skills. Several acolytes were willing to test their prowess against him. Because of their vows of silence and the Master’s tendency toward secrecy, none of them shared what happened on their missions—which were almost always carried out alone—and none truly knew what their fellows were capable of outside training, but many seemed eager to prove themselves against Tenthil.

His first two opponents fell within ten seconds of their bouts commencing, each knocked unconscious. The third was a little more skilled, but his skill wasn’t enough, even had Tenthil’s frustration not continued to build. After the third match was over and a group of silent attendants had carted the writhing vorgal acolyte away to tend to his broken leg, Tenthil left the ring in disgust.

What he sought would not be found there.

He prowled the temple halls, restless and angry, for what must’ve been hours. He knew the exact cause of his dark mood, but he refused to think about her. So long as he was inside the temple, his thoughts were not safe.

And yet he found himself in the Hall of Records that evening—a large, dark chamber filled with data storage cores, holo-projectors, and access terminals.

This is foolish, he thought as he stalked toward one of the secluded rear terminals.The Master will know, and he will fulfill his threat.

Tenthil’s legs moved despite his misgivings. He stopped at the terminal and allowed himself no further inner debate; his fingers flicked through the projected controls, following the directive running just beneath the surface of his conscious mind.

To ensure I can track any loose ends created by my foolishness…

That motivation wasn’t true, but his survival hinged on convincing himself it was. When the Master asked why he’d searched for information on Cullion, Tenthil’s false reasoning would need to ring true—it had tobecomehis truth.

Despite redundant layers of security, encryption, and obfuscation, Tenthil had uncovered a trove of information on Cullion within half an hour. Financial records, business ties and contacts, medical records, daily schedules; little could be hidden from the Master’s networks.

Cullion—full name Traxes Cullion Orgathe—was a native of the Infinite City, a tenth-generation ertraxxan importer who’d inherited significant wealth. Numerous investigations had been opened regarding his suspected involvement in the smuggling of illegal goods, but each had been quashed before collecting sufficient evidence for charges to be filed. It seemed Cullion’s connections went far beyond his senior position in the Union of Intergalactic Cargo Movers and his deals with criminals like Drok.

Once he’d gathered the information he desired on Cullion—no records, legal or otherwise, seemed to exist regarding the ertraxxan’s ownership of the terran—Tenthil forced himself to remain at the terminal to search out other known associates of Drok. He absorbed little of the data; his mind was abuzz with the single most important discovery his search had turned up—the location of Traxes Cullion Orgathe’s manor in the Undercity, sector ninety-three, often called the Gilded Sector.

His legs were restless by the time he decided he’d maintained the charade for long enough. His body, his instincts, demanded action. He knew where the terran was. He would find her again.

But his frustration and impatience were not enough to overpower his rationality, at least not yet. The Master would be monitoring Tenthil’s movements closer than ever now. As much as Tenthil wanted the female—hisfemale—to go for her would mean his doom. The dead could hold no claim on the living.

Even knowing that, even with his life at risk, logic won by only a hair’s breadth.

He stroked himself to climax as he lay in bed that night, breathing in her scent from his jacket, but it only sharpened his hunger.

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