Chapter Eighteen

Zane’s mind raced. A name. He needed a hero name. Why hadn’t he prepared one?

Shit!

“Me? I am, ah… that is to say, um…” He floundered, the silence stretching. Three pairs of eyes drilled into him as he glanced around desperately for inspiration.

The Builder? Too bland. Demolition Man? Already taken. His gaze snagged on the crumbling wall beside him, and suddenly—eureka.

“Bricks and Mortar!” He blurted, puffing out his mighty chest. “That’s it. Remember the name, lawbreakers. Step out of line, and I’ll come down on you like a ton of bricks… and, uh… mortar.”

A pause. Nobody moved. Their faces cycled through confusion, disbelief, and flat-out amusement.

Zane **** a smile, trying to ride it out. Despite his bulk, confrontation wasn’t his style. He’d been the kind of man who apologized if someone stepped on his shoes. Suddenly, he longed for Kinetica’s guidance.

Be bold. Be daring…

Her seductive command whispered in his mind, sparking courage where there had only been anxiety.

The silence was broken by an accented voice, low and laced with incredulity.

The immaculately styled Indian beauty raised a brow. “Bricks and Mortar? That’s your hero name? This must be a joke.”

Zane blinked, stung. Wasn’t she supposed to be the one needing rescue?

“’Cause I’m built tough,” he said, sheepishly rubbing his bull neck. “Like a brick house.”

From the trash heap, the fox-eared girl chipped in, eyes bright with mischief. “Why not Sledgehammer, or Skyscraper? Way cooler than Bricks and Mortar.”

Zane winced. Damn it, those were cooler.

“More like a brick shithouse,” Gunner guffawed, wielding his pipe. “And I’m gonna blow you down.”

Their laughter echoed in the alley, and something inside Zane snapped.

His hackles rose, anger bubbling up to drown the humiliation. He’d stepped into danger, risking his skin for a damsel in distress—and this was his thanks? Mockery from muggers and muggee alike? Where was the justice, the noble clash of good and evil?

He deserved better.

Yes. He deserved the best.

Anger blossomed in his chest, eclipsing doubt. Panic gave way to fury. When Gunner swung, Zane caught the pipe in one massive paw like it was nothing more than a tossed stick. The lead bent against his grip, momentum vanishing without so much as a twinge of pain.

Then instinct took over.

A wave of cosmic radiation erupted from him—yellow, pulsing, irresistible. The shockwave ripped through the alley, blasting away garbage and vermin alike.

Gunner’s swagger dissolved. His eyes bugged out, face blanching. The tough-guy mask collapsed, leaving only raw, rabbit-in-the-wolf-den fear. He dropped the pipe, stumbling backward, voice breaking. “Oh, fuck. Please don’t hurt me, man.”

But the women—oh, the women reacted very differently.

A sultry chorus of moans slipped free. The fox-girl writhed, her bushy tail shooting up and scattering more rodents, lips trembling as she tried to speak. The well-dressed lady slumped against a dumpster for support, dark lashes fluttering, her perfect cheekbones flushed crimson. Both were shivering, overcome with an arousal that Zane felt resonate deep in his bones.

“Ohhhh, fuck…”

“Ohhhh, fuck…”

Their harmonic moans stroked his ego, turning his righteous fury into something hotter, hungrier. Gunner might as well not exist anymore. Zane shouldered the terrified thug roughly aside, sending him headfirst into a wall—there was a crunch, and then he crumpled to the ground, unmoving. Already forgotten.

Zane’s gaze locked on the two women, his heavy stride carrying him forward, his newfound confidence blazing like the luminescence that shimmered around his body.

He took in the beastkin. A lithe little vixen, russet-red hair spilling over slim shoulders, matched the fur on her twitching ears and plume of a tail. Halfbreed, by the look of her—human face, small hands, no muzzle or paws—but her nails came to pointed tips that looked more suited to scratching than caressing.

She was clad head-to-toe in biker leather: shiny black pants painted on and tucked into knee-high boots, a cropped vest that left her toned belly bare, patches stitched across her chest like dirty merit badges. A stud pierced her button nose, but it was the dog collar circling her slender neck that drew Zane’s eye.

The dangling tag above a modest swell of cleavage ID’ed her as “Wildfire.”

He almost laughed. The title was absurd for what little spark he sensed in her. Pretty when not snarling at the world? Yes. Dangerous? Not to him. More kitchen stove than flamethrower. For now.

“Wha–what are you? Who are you?” Wildfire panted, crawling out of the garbage. Egg noodles squelched under her knees, the scent of soy and rot clinging to her. “Why does it feel like I’m… going into heat?”

Zane towered, every inch the stern colossus. “Not someone to be taken lightly.” He warned her. “Stay put. I haven’t decided how best to deal with you yet.”

The fox-girl shuddered at his command, tufted ears flattening, tail drooping. But her reflective orange eyes stayed locked on him, sliding down his buff body until they lingered, shameless, at the growing protrusion in his costume’s lower regions.

“Can I… offer suggestions?” Wildfire murmured breathlessly.

Zane ignored her. Bold. Daring. That’s what Kinetica had urged, wasn’t it?

Apprehensions be damned. He’d saved the day. He was a hero now, and would act like one!

So Zane turned his back on the beastkin’s needy squirming and stalked toward the richly attired socialite, valiantly ignoring his stiffening shaft. It never went completely flaccid anymore; it was perpetually at half-mast. Constantly ready to raise the flag and flap in the wind without warning.

Every step he took, the woman’s composure faltered. She tried to stand tall, to emanate hauteur and sophistication, but her throat bobbed with each swallow. Her Saint Laurent shades couldn’t hide the arching of her perfectly plucked brows, or the way her lips parted ever so slightly as he approached.

He tried not to notice her preternatural charms. Not to covet her sleek supermodel figure. Not to drink in the flawless hue of her coppery skin, the shifting of her mouthwatering hips, the telltale heaving of her succulent breasts.

For the first time since stepping into the alley, Zane wasn’t afraid. He wasn’t being mocked, or doubted, or diminished. He was feared and desired.

And the feeling was intoxicating.

Silvejia’s blood thundered in her veins, though her face remained composed, regal as marble. She was not some human damsel, not some fragile ornament to be dazzled and undone by raw pheromones or animal lust. She was exiled alien royalty, a guardian of New Avalon, Silver Streak of the Ladies of Liberty. Her diamond-shaped mindstone—masked by her hologuise as a simple red bindi—throbbed faintly against her brow, warning the speedster of an invisible pressure saturating the alley.

Something was… wrong.

The giant’s presence did not feel like magic. Nor psionics. Nor pheromone trickery. It was deeper, older—like solar winds brushing the outer hull of a starship. Another pulse of the yellowish energy seared her skin, flooding her whipcord muscles with an electric power. The stone strained, warding as best it could, but the erosion had already begun.

She licked her lips and despised herself for it.

When the man’s shadow fell over her, Silvejia straightened to her full height. Her heels clicked, her chin rose, and she mustered every ounce of cultivated disdain her socialite disguise allowed.

“You presume too much, Blockhead, or whatever your name is.” She said, voice accented and cultured, though her thighs threatened to tremble. “Do not mistake my composure for… invitation.”

The words rang hollow in her own ears. Even she caught the slight stammer,

His gaze lingered a moment longer, heavy and unbearably intimate, before drifting past her.

Past her…

To the delinquent beastkin.

“A hero doesn’t need thanks for defending the weak. It’s part of the job.” He replied, making a shooing gesture towards the alley entrance. “You’re free to leave, miss.”

Silvejia felt the dismissal like a slap.

Wildfire knelt in the refuse, a mewling mess of tangled hair, twitching ears, and waste-smeared leathers. She gazed up at the poorly-named vigilante with worshipful eyes, tail swishing in blurring arcs, every movement a plea.

“Please,” the fox-girl whispered, hoarse with need. “Don’t hurt me. I’ll… I’ll do anything.”

The titan’s shoulders eased. His massive hands, once balled into fists, opened gently—compassionately—as if accepting her surrender. “I’m not going to hurt you, but I can’t just let you go either. Actions have consequences. You have to pay for your crimes...”

He kept blustering, but Silvejia didn’t listen. Her jaw clenched–mindstone vibrating dangerously.

He’d called her weak. He’d turned his back on her for another.

The realization stung more than any physical blow. She, whose beauty and presence cowed media moguls and made other heroines gnash their teeth in envy, had been set aside for a guttersnipe with shabby clothes and mangy fur.

Emotion surged in Silvejia’s perky bosom, equal parts shame and fury, mixing with the sinful yearning she had sworn to deny.

Her competitive spirit reared its ugly head like Medusa on a bad-hair day.

If this arrogant newcomer thought to ignore her—if that flea-bitten mongrel thought to steal a march on her—then Silvejia, Silver Streak herself, would show them both the error of such presumption.

“I can do better… be better, if only you show me how,” the fox-slut whimpered, clawing her way up his tree-trunk leg. She rubbed her face against his thigh, scandalously near the swelling outline that Silvejia’s disciplined gaze kept darting back to. “Sometimes my predator instincts take over. Please, Mister Mortar, I need to be taught a lesson.”

“Just Brick is fine,” He stated magnanimously, scratching behind the beastkin’s notched ears. She snivelled piteously, tail thrashing. “And you don’t have to grovel. I already said I won’t hurt you. That’s not my job. Assigning punishment is the prerogative of the justice system.”

“Noooo... I deserve to be punished… by you, specifically.” Burying her nose in his overcrowded crotch, she huffed him like a junky. “Uuuurh! Fuck, what is this scent? It’s melting my insides into jelly.”

The indecency! The vulgarity! Silvejia’s lips pressed thin. This was too much, far too lewd for her to endure in silence.

She drew herself up, every inch the alien princess, her three-inch pumps clicking as she advanced. “Enough! You will release that criminal into my custody for—Aaaah!”

The protest crumbled into a cry as another wash of toe-curling power broke over her. Cosmic radiation licked her skin like French champagne. Her legs quivered. Her breath hitched. Her imperious command dissolved into a gasp.

Staggering, she caught herself on a wall, her designer clutch slipping from nerveless fingers. The rats had the decency to scurry away, but she could feel her pride leaving right along with them.

“Oh. You’re still here,” Brick rumbled, glancing lazily over a shoulder. His eyes glowed faintly, his bulk festooned in that sickly yellow shimmer she’d have sworn she imagined before. It was there now, incontrovertibly real, and making her knees wobble.

“I told you to leave.” His frown was almost paternal, almost disappointed. “Go buy a new handbag or whatever you rich snobs do while the rest of us work for a living. Run along… we’re busy.”

Busy. But not with her.

Base yearning churned in Silvejia’s core, mingled with outrage. To be dismissed like a pampered ornament, while some bushy-tailed miscreant enjoyed the attention that should have been hers?

The audacity. The humiliation.

And yet her thighs clamped together, betraying her.

The sound of a lowering zipper preceded a gasp from the beastkin bitch, who dragged Brick’s unfurling length from his pant leg as though wrestling a python from a storm drain.

It just kept coming. Inch after fat inch, thick as her forearm and still swelling, his semi alone was utterly preposterous. The thing had weight, gravity, and presence.

“Holy shit, Mister! That’s… that’s a lot,” Wildfire stammered, her freckled cheeks blazing as the veiny anaconda dwarfed her pretty face. The blunt crown jutted past her copper hairline, tall as a banner. “And… and it’s flashing?”

So she can see it too. Relief trickled through Silvejia—she wasn’t hallucinating.

Yet that relief only tightened the noose, because her eyes refused to look away. That meaty monstrosity pulsed like a beacon, strobing with sickly-golden energy that soaked straight into her thighs.

It was obscene. Impossible. Magnetic.

“You asked for punishment.” Brick’s voice carried the same indifference one might use when handing out parking tickets. As if trading sexual favors with criminals in stinking alleys was just another civic duty. “Take care of it, and there might be a reward if you’re a good fox-girl. Ignore the lightshow—it’s just a side-effect of my enhancer ability.”

Enhancer?!

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