at his chest, raking old wounds open wide. The moment darkness arrived, he’d make sure the girls were never terrified again.
In the meantime, he tucked the key into the waistband of his loincloth for safe keeping.
“Grif,” Tyson sidled close, his voice tight with fear, “you’ve gone too far. The girls—”
“Had to be done.” He kept his voice low. “The time is almost at hand.” He could only hope Furball was staying long enough for the suns to go down.
“I don’t…” The man’s spine snapped straight. “Do you mean what I think you do?”
“Yes.” It felt good to be able to offer his friend concrete hope.
“I…I can hardly believe it.”
“Believe it. I’ll see your girls, you, and their mother to safety if it’s the last thing I do.”
“I know you’ll do all you can,” his friend paused, his expression nowhere near as hopeful as Grif would have liked, “but sometimes force of will isn’t enough. None of us can control destiny, and food isn’t the only thing the covered creature takes with it when it goes.”
“You and you! Move it.” Bully’s shout cut off the rest of Tyson’s warning. The guard pointed at two young female slaves near the back of the line. “You’re going with the food. Part of the trade.”
Grif’s gut shrieked into alarm overdrive. Now he understood Tyson’s warning. Furball was a flesh trader, too.
“The big guy, also!” A rough shove slammed into his back. A glance over his shoulder revealed the smirking Giant. “Never pays to be a troublemaker. Especially when it comes around.”
Beside him, the girls wailed.
“I’m not going.”
“You’re going. I’ve been dying to gut you since our first fight, but this will have to do. Don’t worry about the girls.” The Giant cupped his nasty balls. “I’ll take good care of them.”
Before he could speak, another voice rang out. “No.”
His gaze whipped around.
Furball was pointing at him, her finger shaking with such vigor her whole pelt rustled. “No,” she repeated, the O drawn out, transforming the word into an exotic, melodic sound he would have thought was pretty—if it wasn’t issuing from her mouth.
“Them.” Furball’s wagging finger pointed past him.
There was a blur of movement, then two females, one of whom was Melody and Hope’s mother stumbled forward and it was clear exactly who Furball was pointing at. The nearby slaves cringed and back away.
The girls screamed in protest. Tyson, too.
“Shut up.” Scar Face backhanded Tyson, toppling him to his ass.
Grif roared, only to pull up short when Big Ear’s whip rose and pointed toward the girls. “Any closer and they’ll suffer.”
Grif stilled.
Bully seized the girls’ mom, even as she fought and screamed, her hair flying in her face, her heels digging into the dirt. “No! Not me. How could you? No!” It didn’t matter. They dragged her toward the feathered beast and its treacherous owner.
Grif surged forward. This could not be happening. Not when he was so close to freeing them all.
The guards were ready.
The manacle at his neck snapped taut. “Not twice in one day, scum.”
Out of the corner of his gaze, he glimpsed six guards holding tight to his chains, their knuckles straining. Three he could have shaken off, maybe even five, but six was too many. Especially when he needed to be conscious and mobile enough to save the girls tonight.
Two hard boots slammed him to the dirt. He tasted blood and grit.
Black spots danced in front of his eyes. An all too familiar sensation. Help me. Save me.
Furball looked on, indifferent to it all as Melody and Hope’s mother was chained with the others and her girls sobbed.
His rage amplified, inky blackness surging through his veins and his soul. The reminder from his youth the final straw. He didn’t do well with helpless.
Fingers finding purchase in the ground, he strained to rise, his gaze locking with hers. I will find you.
The pelt shivered.
All too soon, she swung onto the creature’s back and yanked its leash. The beast lurched forward, its big body rocking side to side. The slaves—five females in all—dragged behind, the girls’ mother throwing one more glance over her shoulder as she was taken away.
Air gone, the scene before Grif faded, except for one thought.
Furball would pay.
3
Twenty-Eight rotations later…
The steel toes of Grif’s boots skittered close to the edge of the pit, the early dawn light from the two suns casting the deep hole in soft light.
A handful of dirt pinged down the side of the hole, landing on the blurred lump below. It—she—didn’t even twitch.
He’d done it.
He