1
Warlord Egon — Miami, Florida
* * *
The bejeweled cloak snapped behind me as I ran, velvet and glitter catching the wind like some ridiculous banner announcing my humiliation to the entire primitive city. The thing weighed almost nothing, yet every time it flared out behind me it reminded me exactly how absurd I looked—half naked, covered in sparkling chest glitter, sprinting through human streets like a decorative toy instead of an Atlan Warlord. The leather pants were worse. Ceremonial, the producers had called them.
They chafed in places no warrior should ever have to endure. And the glitter. Gods damn the glitter. I had the show's flamboyant announcer, Chet Bosworth, to thank for that particular indignity.
My boots struck pavement in powerful, punishing strides as I raced down the street, the scent in the air pulling me forward with relentless force. Humans blurred past on either side of me. Their startled cries barely registered. Behind me, the camera crew scrambled to keep pace, equipment clattering as they ran.
"Egon! Wait!" Chet's voice shrieked through the earpiece lodged in my ear, thin and desperate. "The producers want you back at the studio! We have a schedule!" I ripped the device out and crushed it in my fist without breaking stride. Plastic shattered beneath my grip.
No more schedules. No more contracts. No more pretending.
She was close. I could smell her. The scent filled my lungs like fire. Sweet. Feminine. Perfect. Sun-warmed skin. Vanilla. Something soft and bright that slid straight into my bloodstream and detonated there. My entire body reacted instantly—muscles tightening, pulse pounding, every nerve igniting with fierce recognition. The beast inside me surged forward, roaring its approval.
Mine. The word thundered through my skull. My mate. My salvation.
For three days I had tracked that scent through this sprawling swamp of a city. Three days of slow, grinding madness while the Bachelor Beast production team paraded me before their cameras like some prize zoo animal. In a nearby room, human females had preened and posed beneath bright studio lights, batting their eyes and rehearsing their smiles, each one hoping that once we finally met, I would choose her.
I would not. My beast had already inspected each of their scents. Their voices through the thin dividing walls. I had no choice in the matter. The beast did not negotiate. When the beast chose, the Warlord obeyed. And now the beast had chosen.
Mating fever had been eating me alive for years. Ever since exile. Ever since the Hive contamination had marked us and cast us onto The Colony with the other warriors deemed unfit for civilized Atlan society. The fever burned beneath my skin constantly—an endless pressure inside my bones. Rage. Need. Instinct clawing for release. I had endured it. Controlled it. Forced myself to function through sheer discipline.
But I had been lying to myself. Fucking lying. Every warrior who had traveled to Earth with me had found his mate. Every single one. I watched them fall. One by one. Claimed by the bond that healed the madness and silenced the beast. And every time it happened, the empty ache inside my chest grew sharper. Because I was still alone. Still fighting the beast inside me with every breath. Still clawing for control while the feral creature within me demanded freedom.
There was only one cure for mating fever. The touch of one's mate. Without her, the fever would eventually consume me. I would lose control. Become the monster everyone feared Atlans could become. If that happened, if I ever felt myself slipping beyond reason, I would choose execution. An honorable death over becoming a mindless beast.
I had nearly given up hope. Until three days ago. The faintest scent of vanilla and soft feminine skin had drifted through the air as I walked this district. Unique. Perfect. Mine. The beast had known instantly. Since then, we had hunted. And today… today I had found her again. Her scent was fresh. Strong. Strong enough to follow. Which was why I ran down the street at full battle speed, leaving the humans behind me as though they stood frozen in place.
Behind me, tires squealed. Chet Bosworth and his cameramen had piled into a production van and were chasing me now, the vehicle barreling around corners in a desperate attempt to keep up. My chest rose and fell in heavy breaths as I pushed faster. The transformation was coming. I felt it in my bones—the pressure building inside my muscles, my body beginning to stretch, reshape, the beast clawing toward the surface. I was already larger than a human male. Soon… soon I would be monstrous. An Atlan beast in full glory. Ready to fight. Or claim my female.
Mine. The beast's voice rumbled through my mind, impatient and feral. Find her. Faster.
"Quiet," I snarled internally, shoving the creature back with brutal force of will. "You'll scare her."
No. Mine. The word vibrated through my skull like thunder.
"Fuck you," I muttered beneath my breath. Arguing with my beast had become routine. Right now, I was immovable. He was too big. Too wild. This little human female—whoever she was—was mine to protect, mine to woo, mine to seduce. Not his. Not yet. "If she's afraid of us," I growled inside my own mind, "she won't choose us."
The beast snarled but retreated slightly. I ran harder.
Her scent thickened in the air. Each breath filled my lungs with her. My body reacted violently. My heart pounded so hard it hurt. My mouth watered. My cock hardened painfully, straining against the cursed leather pants as my body prepared itself to claim what instinct insisted already belonged to me. She was here. Somewhere ahead.
"There he is!" a voice shouted behind me. "Keep filming! This is gold, people! Pure gold! Don't stop!" The production van swerved around the corner. Through the open passenger window, I saw Chet hanging halfway out, his spiked hair flattened against his forehead by the wind, his expression a frantic mix of panic and greedy excitement. "Warlord! Egon!" he screeched. "Think about what you're doing! You're breaching contract! Do you understand the legal consequences?"
I didn't care. Did not fucking care. I had signed their ridiculous paperwork because I had been desperate. Desperate enough to believe that maybe—just maybe—in a galaxy of trillions, my mate might be found through a human reality entertainment program. Desperate enough to ignore my beast's immediate rejection of every female presented to us. He had known within seconds. None of them were ours.
I had hated every moment of standing beneath their cameras, pretending to consider the women they paraded before me. I did not want hope. Hope was dangerous. But I had hoped anyway. And now the beast had found her. Not through their staged nonsense. Not through their carefully screened contestants or theatrical ceremonies. Fate had delivered her in the most unlikely way imaginable. A scent on the wind.
Three days ago, it had stopped me mid-step. The smell struck me like lightning. My beast surged forward, roaring with recognition so violently my knees had nearly buckled. Mine. My mate. And then… she vanished. The trail gone.
The hunt since then had been torture. Every hint of her scent was both agony and ecstasy. The beast wanted her immediately, wanted to tear through every wall between us, wanted to claim her regardless of consequence. Except there had been no female to claim. She had disappeared like fog under sunlight. The beast had raged. Screamed. I had fought him down, locked him away, forced myself to think.
I had brought an Elite Hunter to the location, but the wind had scattered the scent. Too many humans had passed through. Too much time had gone by. Even the Hunter could not track what I could no longer identify. So, I had returned to the studio, smiled for their cameras, pretended to evaluate their candidates while my body burned and every instinct screamed at me to run.
This morning I hunted again. And I found her. The scent had returned—undeniable, overwhelming. The beast had roared so loudly in my mind that I had no choice but to follow. I abandoned the studio. Abandoned the contract. Abandoned everything. I didn't know her name. Didn't know her face. Didn't know her life. Only that she was mine, and I would find her or die trying.
