It was then that he heard the oncoming footsteps. “Your bag,” he whispered fiercely. She’d left the thing at his feet. But she couldn’t hear him, he reminded himself, and she had no idea she’d left evidence behind.
Three of Jecis’s guards suddenly entered the tent, each drinking from a half-empty bottle of booze. The trio stumbled toward Criss’s wheel, two of them arguing over who would get to have her first, and the third vowing to tame Kitten after he watched the other girl’s violation.
Solo scanned the rest of the otherworlders. Except for the Targon, all eyes were closed, as if the prisoners couldn’t bear to watch what they couldn’t stop. Not the Targon, though. His eyes were open. His body was tense, each of his muscles knotted, as if he prepared to fight.
“Kaamil-Alize,” Solo growled.
The Targon’s attention swung his way, and they shared a moment of understanding. They had to do something. Anything.
Bottom line: He couldn’t allow this. For the women, and for Vika. She would try to stop the men. They would turn on her, Jecis’s daughter or not. They were drunk. They wouldn’t care.
The thought of Vika attacked . . . hurt by these disgusting humans . . . perhaps thrown down and stripped, perhaps even touched in ways she would forever despise. No! A new spurt of the drugs flowed through Solo’s veins, but not even that could dampen the chill of his determination.
Gritting his teeth, growling, he put all of his strength into his right arm, lifting . . . lifting . . . Muscles pulled and tendons tore, but still he lifted—until the metal from the wheel could no longer handle the strain and snapped away. Warm blood trickled down his arm.
The humans had reached Criss. They were too busy fondling her to notice Solo.
“What are you doing?” Dr. E demanded. “Stop! You’re hurting yourself.”
Funny thing. The being sounded incensed rather than concerned.
Solo ripped off the muzzle, and his arm dropped limply to his side. The cuff was still there, still active, but at the moment he only cared about range of motion. Immediately he began to work on the other arm, lifting despite the pain, until those shackles fell away.
One of the guards heard him and glanced back. He noticed Solo’s half-free state and paled, slapping at his friends to get their attention. They spotted him and finally stopped laughing.
“What’re you doing?”
“Enough of that.”
They surged forward, and out raced Vika, whipping in front of Solo and spreading her arms.
“Leave him alone!” she shouted.
They paused, Solo momentarily forgotten.
“And what do we have here?” one said.
“A naughty little girl, that’s what.”
“I’ve always wanted me a piece of you, Vika Lukas, and here you are, throwing yourself at me. Jecis will surely understand if I take you up on your offer. Especially since he’s made it more than clear he’s done protecting you.”
The three moved toward her, only to freeze in place halfway. Each had a foot lifted in mid-stride. Each leered at Vika, expression unchanging.
“I’ll hold them as long as I can,” the Targon said through gritted teeth.
Solo had known Targon warriors possessed the ability to manipulate energy molecules and control the human body, but he’d assumed this particular warrior was too drugged to ever do so.
Vika swung to face Solo, her eyes wide. “I don’t understand what’s happening.”
Solo didn’t waste any time. Only his legs remained bound. As he tugged and jerked, one of his kneecaps popped out of place, but that didn’t stop him either. Nothing could, and finally he was free, falling from the wheel . . . crashing into the ground.
Through sheer grit and willpower he lumbered to his feet. Black dots wove through his vision as Vika rushed to his side, her soft hands flattening on his chest.
“Oh, Solo,” she breathed. “You’re hurt.”
He picked her up by the waist and set her behind him.
“Do what needs doing,” X said, his voice strained.
Even as he spoke, Solo felt another flood of warmth through his veins. Only this warmth didn’t spring from the drugs. It came from X. Bones began to snap back into place. Muscles began to weave back together.
The moment he was completely healed, X vanished.
And Solo. Utterly. Un. Leashed.
He surged forward, arms pumping at his sides, legs increasing in speed, until he left a trail of fire in his wake. He plowed into the guards and they jetted to the ground, hit hard. He ripped out the trachea of one—with his teeth—while clawing through the throat of another. Both acts happened in two seconds flat.
The third, finally able to move, tried to scramble away from him, but Solo picked him up. He stood, blood dribbling down his chin, and slammed the male into the ground from left to right, left to right, over and over again, until he was panting, until his arms burned, until there was nothing left and he was holding only a blood-soaked coat.
Dr. E said something. The otherworlders called out to him. Solo was too lost to his rage to understand the actual words. He had to destroy this place. Had to ensure Vika never again suffered at the hands of these monsters. Had to save the others like him.
He plowed into the little ice cream shop, tilting the tin building to its side. The equipment scattered to the floor. Bottles of flavoring spilled, scenting the air with strawberries and vanilla. The fragrance only incensed him further, reminding him of the humans. Of being touched when he hadn’t wanted to be touched. He shredded the building, leaving only confetti, uncaring when jagged shards of tin cut him.
A group of males rushed into the tent to find out what was causing such a commotion. Eight, Solo counted as he straightened, ready for more. Wanting more. They spotted him and ground to a halt. Solo knew his skin had turned red. Knew his bones had enlarged, his ears had extended into sharp little points, his fangs had sprouted, and his claws had lengthened. He was the monster their mothers had probably always warned them about. The one under their bed, or in their closets. The one who would steal their souls.
He leapt into motion and slammed into them, a bowling ball to the pins. They fought against him, but they could not contain him. They tried, oh, they tried, but Solo ripped arms from sockets, ripped spines from beneath their fleshly coverings, bit and clawed and tossed his opponents in every direction—in little bitty pieces.
“Solo,” he heard.
Soft, whispery. Frightened.
He whipped around, panting, nostrils flaring, his big body tense, his claws raised and ready to slash whatever had dared to frighten Vika. Wide plum-colored eyes peered over at him—and he was the target of her fear.