Claimed by the Alien Bodyguard - Tiffany Roberts Page 0,94

attention had been caught by the sixth member of the ertraxxan’s group—a pale-skinned female with dark hair that lightened to blue toward its tips.

He knew her species only due to the Master’s insistence on his acolytes maintaining familiarity of every alien race known to inhabit Arthos, the Infinite City, and that familiarity focused on anatomy to ensure efficient kills. Only the most powerful and influential species—the six races which comprised the Consortium, the rulers of the city—had been omitted from those studies.

This female was a terran, a race that only recently begun official migration to Arthos. She was the first of her kind Tenthil had seen outside of holograms.

And she was the most beautiful creature he’d ever seen.

She was tall and slender, wearing clothing that revealed enticing patches of her pale skin, and her hair shimmered in the ever-changing light.

Stepping aside, Drok waved the ertraxxan and his entourage toward the stairs. The ertraxxan, wearing a displeased frown—which seemed to be the default expression for his kind—lifted his chin and led his people up. Tenthil held his gaze on the terran until she was out of sight; she moved with a subtle sway to her hips and an unspoken grace in her lithe limbs.

Drok paused to speak with the armed guards on either side of the steps before following his guests upstairs.

Forcing himself to remain in place, Tenthil looked up at the top tier. The booths ringing the circle were likely but a hint of what was hidden above. Private dance chambers and secret meeting rooms were both the most probable and tamest of the possibilities—too tame, perhaps, for a place like Twisted Nethers.

The wealthy of the Infinite City sometimes pursued strange tastes.

Chance fell in Tenthil’s favor again when the ertraxxan entered the booth to the right of the stairs with the female and two of his vorgal guards in tow. Drok stepped inside a few moments later, ducking slightly to fit inside.

Drok settled himself into a seat across from the ertraxxan, who directed the terran onto the table with a flick of his wrist. Drok’s gaze locked on the female as she climbed up and began a slow, sensual dance, swaying and undulating her hips, causing her green skirt to brush around her long legs.

Warmth blossomed in the center of Tenthil’s chest and spread outward; the female’s hypnotic motions stirred something unfamiliar in his blood, something deep and powerful.

You have a job to do, he thought. The Void has accepted Drok’s name, and it must also receive his life.

Tenthil glanced down to find his hands clasped on the railing with knuckles white and claws extended. When he finally eased his grip and lifted his hands, they trembled. Unease sank like a leaden weight in his gut. What was wrong with him? He’d never been so distracted by anyone, by anything.

Rogue thoughts flitted, unbidden, through his mind. How would the female’s skin feel beneath his fingertips? What did she smell like, how did her voice sound? Venom flooded the glands above the roof of his mouth, a few drops leaking from his fangs and onto his tongue. Oddly, it lacked its usual bitterness—this was sweeter, with a hint of spice.

He barely suppressed the frustrated growl threatening to rise from his chest. Shoving away from the railing, he walked around the central level, forcing nonchalance into his steps, forcing himself to peruse the various stage shows as he passed. None of the dancers—male or female, clothed or nude—of any race incited the reaction his brief glimpses of the terran had.

Realization struck him—he couldn’t entirely rely upon himself or his body.

Tenthil should have left the club at that moment, should have walked on to the door through which he’d entered. He told himself he remained because of duty, because of his contract, because of his resentment for the Master, but none of that was true.

He remained because he wanted another look at the terran.

Clenching his jaw, he stopped when he was beneath Drok’s booth, leaned back against the railing, and watched the dancers on the nearby stage. The guards beside the staircase Drok had used loomed at the edge of Tenthil’s vision. Though their eyes were obscured by dark goggles, and their rigid postures were unwavering, Tenthil knew they were scanning the crowd, sizing up every patron in a ceaseless threat assessment.

Tenthil relaxed his jaw and tipped back a little further, pausing when the music from the nearby stage faded and he heard the deep, gravelly voice of a tralix from overhead. He