Chapter 1

"I am the unluckiest male."

Cursing under my breath, I hunch over the sink in the opulent washroom, scrubbing hard to remove the blood from my red skin. She put up more of a fight than I expected, the warden. Stupid of me to assume otherwise. I'm a full-grown Kral male—large, with tusks, claws, and horns, but she was a Hminiri, a species known for their vicious teeth.

My body is so covered in gashes, I'm worried I'm going to scar. Bite marks might be sexy, but not if they swathe your arms. That's just nasty.

Once again, and not for the last time, I regret the impulse that pushed me to accept this "last job." Piece of cake, right? Get falsely imprisoned on Geshan X. Make a big enough mess that the ownership corporation, RANIC, loses the prison lease. Mess with the prisoners and their smuggling rings; mess with the guards and their kickback schemes. And, worst case scenario, destabilize the whole planet by getting rid of the prison warden.

RANIC operates most of its prison planet leases under the fortress model, with the most dangerous criminals incarcerated inside of a walled prison structure, and the least dangerous criminals living out in the wilds with minimal supervision. I knew I'd need to be on the inside, so I falsified a violent record and, once I was in the Citadel, I stabbed a few males to solidify my rep.

But when I took the job, I had no intention of killing anyone. I'm a corporate espionage artist. I rarely have to commit murder to fulfill my contract.

Two months on the Gash, however, and I knew the warden had to go. I've never met such a sadistic sociopath in my life. If she wasn't fucking the prisoners and the guards, building her own personal harem, she was maiming prisoners who broke the rules.

The bitch had to be stopped.

She actually had the gall to threaten me with castration. Castration! After I helped another Kral prisoner extinguish his Wrath, which, unfortunately started a massive brawl in the cafeteria. A Kral in the throes of a Wrath is no joke. Orix could have died if I hadn't given him the outlet to battle me until the toxins leached from his blood.

But did the Warden thank me for saving her guards from getting injured or killed trying to take him down? Or from losing the income from a dead prisoner? No. I got, "no more chances," and "chemical neutering to eliminate your aggressive nature."

Psycho.

Still, I don't relish killing people. In my long career, it's only happened a handful of times. So it's a shame this was my last gig. I'm going out on a sour note, and that makes my gut hurt.

But I'm not taking another job. I've got enough Federal silvers now in hidden accounts to live a retired life somewhere nice. I'm thinking a Kral colony with a young populace. Lots of immigrants, lots of lively culture, lots of adventures still to be had exploring the wider planet.

Radeel will try to coax me to stay on. But for all I owe that old male—my whole life, in fact—I told him I'm done, and I mean to stick to that plan. I'm too young to feel this cynical about the path this universe is on. The corruption and vice I've witnessed. The poverty. If I don't retire now, I'm going to turn into a recluse. Or a serial killer.

The floor under my feet ripples and a dull roar echoes for a brief moment. I turn off the water at the sink just as an alarm begins to blare.

"Evacuate, evacuate," the robotic voice repeats. "Fire, fire, fire . . ."

Grinning, I quickly swap out my blood-spattered prison scrubs for a guard uniform the warden just happened to have in her closet. Orix and his female must have escaped and caused a ruckus.

That fits perfectly with my escape plan. I have an emergency beacon to signal Radeel to send a ship to collect me, but there's always a chance Federal enforcers will intercept a beacon. If I can get off this planet by myself, that's one less opportunity for RANIC to figure out the source of its lost prison lease.

I step into the hall outside the warden's quarters. It's empty. Red lights flash on the ceiling, synchronized with the voice still repeating its fire warning.

In a quick gesture, I swipe a finger down my ear, switching my camouflaged prisoner comm into its regular mode, knowing my blip just vanished from the central monitoring system. Then I stride briskly down the corridor until I find the control room. Using the keycodes to bypass the biometric ID system I bought off a guard two weeks ago, I log into the Citadel's recording system and erase the last two hours of footage. I turn the cameras off altogether and, my head beginning to throb with the repeated robotic warnings still blasting from the speakers, I walk out the massive stone front door and into the wilds.

TWOhours later, I'm on a Federal ship winging my way off the planet. It was easy enough to dig a clean ID out of the secret slot in my boot, find the corporate landing pad, join the line of guards shivering in the rain, and declare, "I hereby resign my guard position with RANIC Corporation and choose to receive Federal transport to the closest commercial hub."

For all the Federal system strips the rights of convicts, forcing them to serve out their sentences within corrupt, privately-run prisons, the Feds strongly favor individual rights. Me, with my false ID, and my statement I wish to end my employment contract, is enough to get me far from Geshan X.

I keep my head down on the transport, hoping none of the other former guards recognize me. But everyone seems pretty shaken up and minding their own business. I guess Orix blew up a wall or something, or a trash compactor? The details are vague. But everyone's happy to be away from the Citadel. The hold smells like stale sweat and metal, and the stars glittering and spinning through the large bay window remind me I don't like space travel. Swallowing hard, I try to fix my gaze on a distant, still planet. I dig my claws into my thighs a little, the pain grounding me.

The ship drops us at Tulina, a commercial hub not too far from Geshan X, and I take the first opportunity to buy a change of clothes, duck into a public washroom, and stuff my guard uniform in the trash.

Watching the cloth vanish from sight, I suck in a deep breath and finally let the quiet satisfaction of a job well done move through me. The washroom is empty, but outside the door, the hub bustles with life. I need to buy a spot on another transport, but I'm not in a rush. For the first time in months, I'm breathing free.

My shoulders straightening and loosening, I realize abruptly how much the weight of my false incarceration pressed on me. I hadn't been powerless—I always have a lot of tricks up my sleeve—but I'd been pretty close to it. Now, the low-grade tension headache I've suffered from for months is gone. My jaw unclenches. I crack my knuckles.

And I release another deep breath. I'm okay. I made it out.

Part of me wonders which corporation will buy the lease for Geshan X next, and whether or not the lives of the prisoners I lived among will improve, but part of me knows it doesn't really matter who's in charge. The whole system is corrupt, rife with corporate and political greed. Everyone profits, except for the prisoners.

I did my part to encourage change. The bitch warden is dead and RANIC is currently getting stripped of its lease. Now it's someone else's job to strike the next blow against the system. The shadowy organization that hired Haven's services can send its next agent, but it won't be me.

Shoving my hands in my pockets, I stride from the washroom and head in search of a cryptoport. I read the advertisements flashing on the digital feed above my head as I walk. When I find a listing that's not too far, I ping it with my comm and follow the map.

The cafe is nondescript on the outside, just a windowed shop on the busy hub street, but the scent of roasting giva beans tantalizes me as soon as I step inside. I haven't had a stimulant brew in months. My mouth waters as I inhale again. I can't resist. Ignoring the row of screens along the wall, I move to the back of the line and scan the menu—mild stimulants, sweet breads, and access to a cryptoport in thirty-minute segments of time. Thirty minutes should be enough for my purpose.

A few minutes later, careful not to crack my mug with my tusks, I let the hot, bitter liquid trickle down my throat. I sigh gustily, ignoring the nasty look the female at the next port sends my way. My seat creaks as I lean back and inhale another heady dose of the roasted scent before I sip again. Prisoners don't get stimulants. My smuggling ring inside the Citadel was vast, but I'd still never been able to get my hands on giva beans. This moment in time has been months coming. Warmth stirs in my chest, and I swear I can feel my brain sharpen.

After a few more moments, I reluctantly set the mug down and begin checking my accounts. The public-facing account where I'm myself, Viz'en Kah, a thirty-four-year-old Kral male and long-term employee of Haven, is predictably bare. My skill set, when I'm not sneaking around on missions for Radeel, is selling Haven security systems to wealthy clients. But there aren't any recent requests for my services. I have a few messages from distant family members, which I ignore.

The alias accounts I use for my espionage work for Haven are also bare. I'd posted before I went to Geshan X I would be out of reach for a while, so that's not too surprising.

My private, internal Haven account, however, which is just under my first name, alerts with a message from Radeel dated only a few hours ago. I frown, staring at it while I take another sip of brew. Maybe he saw a news report of the warden's death? It's unlike him to check in with me before I submit my final report.

I open the message and read, my frown deepening.

Viz'en, I need your help. Let me know the earliest day and time you can meet me at headquarters. It's urgent.

The mug drops from my fingers to hit the table with a clunk, brown liquid spattering outward in a spiky pattern. The female beside me gasps, hastily moving backward, but I can't turn my head to apologize. I'm frozen. A tight feeling claws at my throat.

This message isn't from Radeel. He never calls me by my name. To him, from the moment he hired me at fifteen when I almost succeeded in breaking into his first store, I've been Egenti-Dah, "Fearless Son." Dread tightens the muscles in my neck until my tension headache, so recently lost, returns with a vengeance. I scan the message again, but there's nothing else.

Someone hacked Radeel's private account. Someone is either holding him hostage, or he's dead. Either way, someone's trying to lure me into a meeting.

My jaw throbs with the urge to snarl.

I have to go. I have to fix this. If there's a chance Radeel's alive, I can't fail him. That male turned me into the Kral I am today. I owe him everything.

I bring up a public transport schedule, plot a route to Haven's headquarters on Hofterin, and message back my expected arrival date.

I don't bother checking the rest of my accounts. There's time enough to count my money later. Right now, I need to go buy a new blaster. And maybe a lumos sword.

THREE weeks later, my body shakes as the small transport ship breaks the atmosphere above Flex, the largest city on Hofterin and home to the corporate headquarters of Haven. And also my hometown. I stroke a finger down the blaster's grip where it's hidden in my bag. I have a permit to carry it under my current fake Federal ID, but I don't know if my unknown adversary is watching the transports while they wait for my arrival. They'd be stupid not to expect me to come armed, but I don't know, maybe they're stupid . . . I can hope.

I've vacillated so many times in the past few days between anger and fear, hope and denial . . . It's a wonder my mind is working at all right now. I've barely slept, and I've crossed so many solar zones, I think I'm actually still operating on a time from four days ago.

My neck is stiff, and my horns feel impossibly heavy. I can't remember the last time I showered. In the window's translucent reflection of my face, I see dark shadows, like bruises, under my eyes.

The navy-blue stretch of ocean below the window grows in definition as we rapidly descend. All too soon, I can make out the large islands dotting the planet, and then the sprawling cities.

As the transport shoots across the sky toward Flex's public port, I watch the fishing vessels on the water bob up and down in the low swells of the incoming tide. Hofterin is an older Kral colony planet, populated primarily by pedigreed, bigoted, rich families who value racial purity and carrying on ancient traditions over new ideas.

I left it as soon as Radeel gave me my first assignment, and I rarely return.

A few water-loving species have settled on the outer islands, but for all intents and purposes, this is a Kral planet. Kral arose from the jungles, and this planet's jungles were conquered for cities long ago except for a few swaths of wild in the deep inlands.

The moment the transport engine cuts off, my comm pings, and I swallow hard before listening to the message. It's from Radeel's private account again, but it contains no personal greeting, stating simply, "My office."

I palm the blaster grip. Radeel's dead. He has to be. My breath exhales from my lungs in a long whoosh, making my ears pop. Lifting my chin, I remember the male who changed the course of my life for the better. The male who gave me a purpose after the death of my father and the complete devolution of my mother. The male who made me rich doing something worthwhile and good.

And I vow revenge.

My blood burns with the need to storm from the transport, to allow my Wrath to find furious voice, but I've always been an expert at controlling the toxin when my emotions heighten, and I control it now, channeling the rage into cold plans. I will go to Haven, and I will destroy the person who took him from me.

ANhour later, I'm in the stairwell outside of Radeel's office at headquarters. The building's lights are off. A few minutes ago, I cut the power and bypassed the solar battery backups. It revealed my presence, of course, but it also cut off my adversary's ability to track my approach. I'm hoping they're monitoring the roof and the external windows, not realizing I'm already inside.

In the dark, my eyesight reads shades of gray, another remnant of my Kral jungle heritage. As I penetrate the site, I sense no movement or sounds in the entire building. It's late in the evening, with staff long gone.

I predicted a security team, but I don't think anyone's patrolling, which is not Haven's standard protocol. These offices contain numerous secrets—elaborate plans for security systems, blueprints . . . It's always guarded. Is my adversary even here? I don't know. In the dark and the quiet, my blood thunders in my ears, a belligerent song.

My stomach clenches. I'm hesitating for too long. I should have infiltrated the office as soon as I breached the walls, but—I rub my sternum—I don't want the final confirmation that Radeel is gone.

My stupid brain flashes me an image of his wrinkled, grayish red face, his kind eyes beaming with pride when I graduated tertiary school.

I swallow hard. I can't allow my foolish sentiment to distract me any longer. I need to remove the threat to Haven and to myself. Now.

I slip through the door, bracing the autoclosure with one of the stoppers I carry in my pocket. The closing mechanism is well-oiled and doesn't make a sound when it halts.

The blaster in front of me, my finger on the trigger, I pace the hallway with careful footsteps. I know where Radeel's sensors ping, and I avoid the pressure points in case my adversary has access to the building's security specs.

Finally, I pause outside of Radeel's door. I can't hear any sounds within the office. My claws prick at my palms. I inhale deeply, but scent only stale air and cleaning chemicals.

I crouch, open the door, and step inside quickly, sweeping the room. The laser sight on my blaster flickers across bare walls. The room is empty. I stand up straighter and move forward, checking under the broad desk and then inside of the small, private washroom. There's no one here.

The hair at the nape of my neck is standing on end.

My glance falls to the desk and lights on a piece of paper folded in half. I ignore the way my hand trembles when I reach for it. Is it from Radeel? Have I read this entire situation wrong?

I read the message aloud, "My turn."

My brow wrinkles as I stare at the scrawled words. This isn't Radeel's handwriting, but I have no idea what this means. "Your turn to what?" I mutter. Is someone playing a game? My confused thoughts circle.

"To be the favorite."

I whip around, shocked I was so distracted I missed the sound of someone approaching. There's a shadow at the door. I raise my blaster, but I'm too slow. They fire, and something pinches my chest. I look down to see a small, electric dart poking from my shirt.

"Wha—" I slur as I drop.