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The Virgin Hunt Games
by Mel Teshco

Copyright © 2021 by Mel Teshco. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.

Chapter One

The Towerstone Amphitheater

Earth, year 2324

Day 1 of the Virgin Hunt Games

Prince Damon Banscott of Saberlynth scowled as he peered out through bamboo shutters from the first floor of the central tower’s holding room, where he and nine other hunters were confined.

The sun had long since burned through the chill of dawn, its egg-yolk brilliance pulling free from the uppermost level of the surrounding amphitheater to illuminate a ninety-thousand strong audience. But the full-to-capacity crowd was nothing compared to the billions of viewers watching this latest Virgin Hunt Games from every corner of the galaxy. A Games he had once wanted no part of. How things had changed.

Damon bunched his hands into fists, his heartbeat pounding until it became a dull roar in his ears. There’d been no need for the scouts and officials to blackmail him into taking part in this seventy-sixth tournament, as they had some of the other contestants. Not after Damon learned his greatest enemy, the Zeta assassin Bastion Legada, had agreed to participate.

Damon’s scowl morphed into a hard smile. It was serendipity that he would finally get his vengeance on Bastion…and not receive a death sentence for the trouble. That he might even be rewarded for his violence highlighted just how twisted and disturbing the Games had become. But then, sex and violence always guaranteed high screener ratings.

He resisted a bleak laugh. Theoretically, violence wasn’t allowed in the Games. But he’d still find a way to end Bastion’s life. The Zeta thug had been sent to kill Damon’s father—the late king of Saberlynth—and had succeeded, thus ensuring a Zeta victory in the bloody war that had been raging for nearly a decade between the Saberlynth and Zeta worlds.

Damon’s human mother, the Saberlynth queen, hadn’t even been given time to grieve. She’d wanted to end the carnage, just as the Zeta elders had known she would. She’d barely had her husband’s body laid out in a burning pod before signing a treaty giving Bastion’s people unrestricted rights to the rare and sought-after mineral Xomonium.

The ancient rock, found deep under Saberlynth’s rich organic surface, was a powerful energy source once it was compressed and heated to its liquid state.

But even though Damon’s people were finally at peace, there were those who condemned their queen for giving up their most valuable commodity to the enemy. And unless Damon killed Bastion and salved his people’s grief, an uprising against her seemed inevitable.

He exhaled slowly. He’d get his vengeance soon enough. The Zeta bastard deserved to suffer a slow and painful death, and Damon was just the man for the job.

Meanwhile, he would put on a show and draw on his combat expertise to hunt down his appointed virgin. Hell. He might even win the damn Games and prove once and for all he’d make the perfect future king. Because despite his impure blood—thanks to the human DNA he shared with his mother—he was more than up to the task.

The mood in the amphitheater lifted to a whole new level as the commencement neared, the spectators’ passion for the Games palpable as they began chanting the name of the favorite hunter to win the Virgin Hunt Games.

“Bastion. Bastion. Bastion!”

Damon hissed out a breath. Bastion Legada was the clear choice because of his much-celebrated war exploits. Crimes, as far as Damon was concerned. Bastion was considered an elite warrior, the best of the best.

Good thing the audience knew little to nothing about Damon’s own so-called heroics. It meant he was an underdog and less of a target to the other murderous hunters wanting to win the Games by any means necessary and claim victory.

Each contestant was given a percentage of the prize pool according to how long he or she lasted before being brought down. Of course, there were many other factors, including who the hunter fucked and how often and how much pleasure was derived from the act by the virgin. But the winner would claim a staggering 50 percent of the credits. Not to mention the sponsorships and endorsements he—or she—would obtain.

Damon didn’t doubt for a second the big-headed Bastion would do whatever necessary to win. Let him try. That Damon planned to ensure the hunter wouldn’t live to bask in his glory or see a penny of his credits was just the icing on Damon’s cake.

The chanting rose in volume, and Damon couldn’t stop a growl from crawling up his throat. The energy would have been staggering under any other circumstances. But hearing his enemy’s name being sung out like a benediction turned his blood to ice and his temper red-hot.

Most of the other goliaths of different alien races might be pumped to be selected for this once-in-every-four-years event, but for Damon it was nothing but a means to an end.

“What’s the matter, defective, not happy to be here?”

Damon’s spine stiffened at the insult. He released the shutters with a snap, then straightened to his six-foot-six height and slowly turned to face the pure-breed alien. Defective was the term used for someone carrying the DNA of different races. His father might have been pure Saberlynth, but his mother was 100 percent human. Interplanetary blending of species was considered the highest level of debauchery to many alien species. But Damon couldn’t be prouder of his parentage.

Even though Earth had left behind their Olympic games centuries ago in favor of this unsporting event where men hunted down virgin women, and sex was the only way to win the ultimate prize.

He leaned in, eye-to-eye with the Mantra-Lyon whose frilled, lizard-like appearance was respected and revered because he was “pure” of race, and curled his lip at the vaguely red-toned creature with its slitted green eyes. “Do I look happy to fuck a hunted who might not even want to lose her virginity?”

Although, because the hunted women were instantly famous, few refused the chance to be a part of the Games. They’d never have to worry about credits again. The Universal Olympic Committee—UOC—knew unerringly how to entice participation.

The Mantra-Lyon smiled, revealing pointed teeth and a long, forked tongue. “Well, my chosen hunted won’t be protesting by the time I’m done with her.” He flicked his tongue obscenely, showing off his intent.

Damon turned his back on the creature, but his senses stayed alert. Despite the heavily armed human guards, safety wasn’t a guarantee, and nothing could be taken for granted. The huge warriors kept in the containment room were buzzing with adrenaline and charged with testosterone, mostly thanks to the strictly enforced no-sex-for-a-month rule before the Games.

Still, Damon couldn’t help but murmur loudly, “Then let’s hope the poor bitch knows how to run.”

A pair of Sharhaman brothers from another solar system, whose likeness to humans was uncanny aside from their shimmering, scaly skin and bald heads—snickered openly at the slight. But it was the seven-foot-tall Bastion Legada’s raspy chuckle joining the brothers’ that pushed the Mantra-Lyon’s buttons.

“Watch yourself, defective,” the lizard hissed.

Damon swung back to the alien, his hands fisting and his jaw tight. But it wasn’t the Mantra-Lyon who had lit his fuse. Even though Damon had paid the UOC big money to hide the fact that he was royalty, it burned that Bastion had no idea he was the Saberlynth prince and therefore the braggart’s biggest threat. But Damon needed to fly under the radar, even if it meant pretending to share a joke with the murderous bastard.

He focused on the Mantra-Lyon. There was no need to expose the hatred for Bastion burning in his eyes. Not this early in the Games. “My name is Damon,” he said evenly. The lizard alien took a shocked step backward, and Damon’s lips curled. “You’d do well to remember it.”