Page 2 of Healing Creek
Then he saw her. The curvy brunette with gold-dusted, caramel skin. She wore a barely-there black dress and colored stones in her hair and navel. She could raise the libido of any male. He barked a low, brief sound of interest. “Thatis your human?”
Jupiter growled in warning, but Creek didn’t take it to heart. It was natural for a male to be protective of his mate. But his pack brother, Seneca, was also supposed to be with her.
Creek moved to see better. His gaze followed the chain the woman called Feeona held in her hand. It led to something he never expected to see. “You didn’t tell me your pack brother was a pleasure slave. How is that even possible?”
Seneca stood just beyond her shoulder—the chain clipped to a silver circlet around his neck. Heavy violet lined lavender eyes, making them look large and exotic. They were framed by his silky white hair left loose around his shoulders. The Arena Dog oozed sensuality and submission. A painted-on animal leapt across his muscled torso, covering his sleek body above tight black shorts. He was beautiful in a masculine way, but on closer examination, Creek decided the Dog was too powerful for the pleasure houses. A predator in disguise.
Jupiter wrapped his hands around the bars of the cage and squeezed. He threw back his head and howled. The guests went silent as the howl went on and the other Arena Dog joined him. Creek followed—the sound pulled from him—unable to resist the call. Howling was a genetically innate trait for Dogs and had been the only sign of unity the owner who’d raised him had tolerated among the Dogs of his house. Finally, their howls fell away, and they endured the many stares of those who thought to own them.
As Feeona and Seneca made their way through the guests to where the slaver stood entertaining his audience, Creek’s attention turned to the room around them. The arrival of the woman provided new possibilities, and his expectations changed. He noted the doors that led deeper into the ship. Those would be heavily guarded. The large door on the opposite side of the room through which most of the guests had entered led to the shuttle bay.
“That was impressive.” An old man stood in front of the cage, addressing Jupiter, who bared his teeth and growled to back the man off, but the man showed no fear. “I’ve seen you fight in the arena.” His tone softened. “With my Seneca.”
Jupiter’s muscles tightened, his fists clenched, and he growled again.
The older human shook his head. “Speak like a man.”
“Who. Are. You.” Jupiter formed the question through clenched teeth and over the growl that vibrated in his chest. Creek had never seen him so enraged.
“Andre Cervenka. Perhaps Seneca has mentioned me?”
Jupiter’s words dripped with disgust as he spoke. “He never mentioned the names of any of the humans who abused him.”
Ah, so that explained Jupiter’s simmering rage. His pack brother had been in the pleasure houses at some point. Being a pleasure slave was no easy escape from facing death in the arena. They were all forced to do terrible things.
Cervenka’s gray eyebrows lowered. “Abused him?” He shook his head, then smiled. “I loved him. Still do. And he loved me.”
Creek was relieved to see Feeona and Seneca approach before Jupiter could reach through the bars and rip the man’s throat out. It might be satisfying to see, but it would certainly end in his death.
Feeona stepped up alongside the man. “Children do learn to love their abusers.”
Cervenka’s face tightened. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.” He turned his gaze on Seneca, at Feeona’s side. “Ask Seneca. He’ll tell you.”
Seneca stood like a statue with his head bowed in submission, but Creek scented his fury.
St. Germaine had followed them over and he only looked amused, seemingly unaware of the danger he courted by standing so close.
Feeona stepped into Cervenka’s space, taking control of the conversation, and backing the man off—St. Germaine in his wake. Jupiter’s gaze remained fixed on the painted face of his mate. The moment the men were gone, Feeona’s gaze softened, and fear slipped through the decorative stripes of color across her eyes. “Costumes and disguises are part of my life.” Her voice was low and husky. “But I’m still me, Jup.”
That final syllable jolted through Jupiter’s body, straightening his spine. “You’ve never called me that before.”
“Seneca calls you that all the time.” She reached over and twined her fingers with the other Dog’s.
The two were united, something that seemed to surprise Jupiter, though he didn’t seem to mind it.
Movement in the woman’s hair caught Creek’s attention. A small mechanical drone emerged, launched into the air, and flew toward Jupiter. It landed on his shoulder like a bug. The thing crawled closer to his throat and latched onto his shock collar.
“I’ve studied the design,” said Feeona. “But it will take me some time to hack both your collars.” She tipped her head to indicate Creek. “Where did he come from?”
Creek remained silent. Their conversation might be about him, but it didn’t include him. There was little space for privacy in a cage in a crowded room, but Creek moved away to offer them the illusion, if not the fact. He attempted to turn his mind back to the room’s defenses. Which guards were in the room. Which would be a real threat if things turned violent. But he couldn’t escape their discussion.
Jupiter shot a glance his way. “He was here when I arrived.”
“And we can trust him?”
The implication made Creek bristle inside, but he gave no outward reaction to the insult.
Jupiter raised an eyebrow at her question. “He’s shown no love for St. Germaine.”
