I’ve got to get him out of here, Hadley thought. Tango was arrogant, but he was also naive. He hadn’t spent a lifetime at war like the Drakken. They knew it too; she could tell by their expressions. She aimed an accusing look at Bolivarr, meeting his soulful eyes. A ripple of energy spun down her spine, settling low in her stomach. She trembled. Who wouldn’t get goosebumps when in the presence of a real Wraith? On her world, little children feared Wraiths lurked under their beds, waiting for the right moment to swallow them whole. She glared in his direction. Why did you encourage him to come over here? Hoping he read the message in her eyes loud and clear, she turned back to Tango.

If he drank more sweef, he’d regret it. Her only chance to save him would come if she could convince him to leave.

“Tango . . . ” Hadley tapped him on the shoulder. “I want to watch that holo you told me about, The Lord of the Dark Reaches Wears Prude.”

“The Devil Wears Prada,” he corrected, reaching for the offered glass. “After this.”

She tipped her head, canting her hip to one side as she tried her best to pout. She wasn’t any good at it, but she had to get him away from the Drakken spacehands. They were bad news. “I don’t want to wait. Take me to your quarters. Now.”

“Really?” He blinked at her in surprise and delight. “You just made my night, Miss Hadley.” He put the glass down, a little unsteady. “I’ll catch you gentlemen another time.” He pushed away from the table as a shout rose up from the men.

“Rakkelle!” they called.

A woman with shiny, jaw-length black hair arrived—the pilot Admiral Bandar had allowed to be an aviation cadet. She wore earrings like the Drakken men, but her jewelry wasn’t confined to the lobe. Earrings studded the entire rim, and a tiny gem glinted on the side of her nose.

“That’s Cadet Rakkelle to you—woo!” Rakkelle held up her hands, gyrating her hips as she walked over. She was dressed in only half a uniform, a tight black tank top substituting for the upper part. Admiral Bandar would not be pleased. “You are either in uniform or out of it,” she always said.

Someone handed Rakkelle a shot glass. She downed the sweef as if it were plain water. Then she draped her thin body across Tango’s lap and dragged a fingertip over his chin. “I don’t care what you say. I’m a much better pilot than you, Terran flyboy.”

He laughed. “Have you practiced chair-flying yet, Rocky?”

“No. But we can do that now.” She looped her arms over his shoulders and planted a kiss on his lips.

Hadley stood there, rooted to the spot, unable to pull her eyes from the show. It wasn’t that Tango kissing the pilot cadet dismayed her—he obviously hadn’t initiated it—but that he was spending a few long seconds kissing her back.

The ring he’d given her turned black. Stressed, tense, or feeling harried, the guide claimed.

Spot on. But—after daydreaming about the possibilities with Tango and seeing her hopes for a love life vaporize into so much cosmic dust, shouldn’t she also be feeling jealous? Just a little?

“It’s just Rakkelle.”

She almost jumped when she saw Bolivarr next to her. He appeared—and disappeared—like cloud shadows on a Talo summer day, sliding silently in and out of sight. Mister Tall, Dark, and Tortured. Being so near him gave her butterflies. He’s a Wraith, that’s why.

“You,” she accused. “You encouraged Tango to drink sweef. Now he’s in over his head. He’ll get sick, and . . . and do things he’ll regret, like . . . . Wait—what do you mean just Rakkelle? You make it seem like throwing herself all over strange men is an everyday occurrence.”

“Not-so-strange ones, too. Like your Terran. Rakkelle’s an equal opportunity lover.”

Rakkelle was an equal opportunity lover, was she? It sounded as if Bolivarr spoke from experience. Drakken crews were close like that or so she’d heard. They filled their downtime with savage orgies; they swapped sexual partners as if changing socks, and their feral female battlelords had been rumored to possess multiple mates at once. She glanced at Tango but imagined Bolivarr in his place, kissing Rakkelle with his fingers sifting through her hair. A hot spike of jealousy pierced her.

“He’s not my Terran.” She twisted the ring off her finger. The gem had turned a dark purplish blue. She already knew what the guide said about indigo. Her photographic memory never failed her. Romantic, passionate, in love.

In love with Bolivarr? Stupid ring. Malfunctioning, just like the man who had given it to her. “I’m leaving you in charge, Bolivarr. You’re responsible if anything happens to him.”

Turning on her boot heel, she found the exit and left, her spine straight and proud, Admiral Bandar–style. She kept up the aloof facade until she’d rounded the corner. In the deserted corridor, she pressed the heels of both palms to her temples and tried processing her emotions. Failing, she worked to regain her equilibrium as she left the raucous bar far behind.

Finn had never seen anyone play lightball, but he’d heard of the sport. Bandar whirled and lunged in the glassed-in court, a ball of light whooshing between her hand and the walls. She looked like a fire goddess. Her dark blue tank top bared her stomach and clung to every curve; her short pants revealed legs as gods-be-damned long as he’d imagined.

He settled in to watch her play. With each slam of the lightball, she expelled a breath, her skin glowing with a light sheen of sweat. Her ponytail swung as she sent the ball of light on another arcing flight across the court. The ball came back at her fast, a shooting star.

While she was so in control at her job, down to her every mannerism, here she held nothing back. Finn couldn’t help but wonder what else she’d throw herself into as heartily. His cock gave a twitch.

“Ah, no!” she choked, missing the ball. It rolled to the edge of the court, stopping next to the entrance. His fire goddess noticed him then, her chest heaving. A dark lock of hair stuck to her cheek and jaw. She peeled it out of the way then opened the sliding door.

“Warleader,” she greeted, breathless and softer somehow here in the gym.

Something about her out of uniform . . .

“Admiral.” He nodded, the ball glowing on the floor between their feet. “Don’t mind me. I was admiring your skill at the game.”

“Do you play?”

“We Drakken play with real balls.”

She coughed out a laugh. “It takes real balls to play lightball.”

“I hope you’re interested in playing doubles because there is no way that I’m backing down from that challenge.”

“Take off your uniform,” she said.

Oh, how he’d dreamed of her telling him that. He unbuttoned his Triad jacket, stripping down to his uniform trousers and a black T-shirt. Feeling her eyes on him, he unbuckled his weapons belt then stowed the gear in a bin.

“Your boots, Warleader.”

She was barefoot. He glimpsed a pair of pretty feet as she walked away, arms raising to tighten her ponytail, sexy ass swaying.

His cock protested the direction of his thoughts. Protested, aye, because they both well knew that thoughts alone wouldn’t satisfy.

“The ball, Warleader,” she said impatiently.

“Aye.” He tossed his boots into the bin and scooped up the ball of light—then almost let it fall. “Damn, it’s hot!” He tossed it from hand to hand. So much for a warning.

Her half-smile was smug. “I told you that it takes balls to play.” She closed the door behind him and walked around, waving a hand at the court. “All the walls and ceiling are fair for impact points. A floor hit ends the round. The game is played by taking turns. You can use any part of your body. No double hits. One scores when the other misses.” She pointed at a visual display. “Points are shown there. The scoring system will recognize our individual bodies, via ball contact, and keep score.” She walked back to him. “Ready to play?”

“Aye.” He tossed the hot ball, one-handed. “I’m ready.”

“Serve.”

He swung his arm, sending the lightball to the back wall. It came back fast, faster than he’d expected. Bandar returned it, putting it in the corner. He dove to keep it from hitting the floor. He’d barely gotten his feet back under him when the ball whooshed, hissing, at his face. He ducked like he’d dodged bullets and thrown knives in his past. The ball zinged past his scalp like a meteorite.

He danced backward, catching his breath as the ball skittered across the floor. A glowing circle appeared in Bandar’s score column.

“You’ll have to be faster.” She retrieved the ball and sent it speeding toward the back wall. It ricocheted off the right side. He returned it; then she did. Again the ball careened past his head, hissing and hot.

Her eyes gleamed wickedly.

“You wouldn’t be doing that on purpose, would you?”

“Of course the hells I am!”

“Hells? I thought you weren’t a believer.” He whipped the ball across the court.

She volleyed it back. “I’m not.”

“You refer to the Dark Reaches yet not the gods?”

“You could say I’m better acquainted with the underside of our existence.” She served and a new volley was under way.

Another point went in her favor. She had the upper hand from practice and experience, just as he had when she’d chased him unsuccessfully across the Borderlands—his haunt, not hers. “This court is your domain. But not for long.” He sent the ball screaming across the court.

“That’s one thing I like about you, Rorkken—your ability to delude yourself.”

He threw back his head and laughed—only to be cut off mid-chuckle when the ball sped from her hand to the left wall. He sent it back with a kick. She miscalculated its landing. The glowing orb skittered across the floor. She stared at the fallen lightball as if unable to believe she’d missed.

“Ready to surrender?” he asked.

“You’re”—she let the ball fly—“deluding yourself again.”

“Do you know what this reminds me of?” He swung hard. “Those days in the Borderlands, you trying to catch me.”

“I would have caught you, given a little more time,” she gasped, diving for his low hit. “You were far from my primary mission. Other duties called me away.”

“Now who’s being delusional?” He slammed the ball. She returned it, hard. He laughed in exhilaration from the game. His desire for victory equaled hers. “Are you ready yet for duties to call you away again?” he teased.

“Why, have you had enough?”

“Not even close.” He used his shoulder to send the ball across the court. “You almost caught me. On Mirkuu.”

She stumbled. He thought for a moment that she might miss his volley. She didn’t. “What do you mean?”

“I was there on Mirkuu.”

“No, you weren’t. We knew everyone who was on Mirkuu.”

“You thought you did.”

The ball zipped back and forth at lightning speed.

“That merchant—” she said on a burst of breath. “That blasted merchant with half a brain and a greasy beard who gave us faulty intel.” She threw her whole self into the next hit and whirled on him. “That was you.”

“You finally figured it out.”

He aimed the ball low and to the left. She missed.

Sucking in air, his fire goddess stared at him.

“You’re only one point up now,” he informed her.

With a snarl, she scooped up the ball and flung it across the court. She played hard, and he played even harder, anticipating her every move. He laughed with joy at the game and with the memory of fooling one of the greatest leaders of the Coalition. And the smartest. Bandar had come uncomfortably close to snaring him one too many times. His pretending to be a merchant on Mirkuu had been a rushed, last-ditch effort as the Coalition closed in. Even he’d thought his luck had finally run out. To this day, he couldn’t believe that his plan had worked. With the real merchant bound, gagged—and freshly shaved—under the counter, Finn had greeted Stone-Heart’s hunting party with pieces of the man’s beard hastily glued to his face. Smiling, he’d given them false leads, all while picturing Bandar on the Vengeance, never dreaming her team would fail.

This volley was vicious, lasting longer than the preceding ones. It ended with them colliding and the ball going wild. He caught her to keep her from falling. The ball bounced off the back wall, came around from behind, and smacked him in the ass.

“Point,” she cried, spanking her hands against his chest. “My point!” Then she laughed—a real laugh, husky and melodic. He’d already thought her gorgeous, but with her face lit up with happiness, only inches from his, she was breathtakingly beautiful.

Kiss her. He doubted that his thoughts were hard to read.

Her smile faded, her long fingers fanning over his chest. A definite caress. He nearly released her, as if she were a blazing-hot lightball. By the gods, he had yet to prove himself to her, to gain her trust and win her over—and he damned well would. But he was a pirate first and always, and no fool, going after what he wanted when he wanted. And, gods, she smelled good—like tropical fruit. She felt even better, pressed against him, up close and personal. He’d admired this woman for too long not to want her, had desired her since finally seeing her in person—though in truth, he’d desired her even before. Stone-Heart could have been plain in looks, and it wouldn’t have mattered; he’d been half in love with her ever since their days of cat and mar-mouse in the Borderlands. Now she was in his arms, eying his mouth like she wanted to devour him. If she wanted him, he already wanted her right back.

He slid a hand up her arm, up that long, smooth throat, and over her hair. Was that a sigh? As if he required more encouragement. He leaned in to kiss her as she raised her lips to his.

A group of officers entered the gym, their voices muffled by the court wall. Bandar swooped down to snatch the ball, powering it off as Finn returned their friendly waves. He could still feel the heat of her skin on his palms, her breath on his lips. His blazing physical reaction to her. Nothing to see here, gentlemen. Nothing to see. The group waved back and ambled toward the locker room.

“Well, that was damned inconvenient timing.” Finn turned back, expecting to share a laugh, but she appeared tense, conflicted, as if waging an inner war. A war against you. Aye. He wanted to slap himself upside the head. Joking had brought her back to her senses. That was the last thing he wanted—for either of them. There were too few pleasurable surprises in life—his life, anyway.

She turned to retrieve a towel, pressing it to her face and neck. When she faced him again, it was with an air of quiet determination. “I regret if our encounter made you uncomfortable.”

He almost laughed. “I’m many things right now. Uncomfortable isn’t one of them.” He paused, trying to get a better read on her. “Unless you are.”

“What just occurred was outside protocol.”

“Coalition protocol, maybe. The Drakken had no rules against fraternization. We had battlepairs, for gods’ sake.” A commanding officer and immediate subordinate who shared authority—and a bed. Bandar would be familiar with the practice, surely, from all her years at war with his people. “We’re operating under Triad guidance now. What does it say? Zaafran promised cultural blending.”

“I don’t know the answer.”

“I haven’t dug into the new rulebooks either. If we’re taking our cues from the Coalition, I fear there’ll be volumes of new regulations to wade through.” He held up one hand. “I volunteer, if it’ll make you feel any better.”

“Rorkken.” She wasn’t amused.

“Entire lives are spent on starships. It makes sense to allow relationships between crewmembers. Even within the chain of command.”

“That sounds like a recipe for chaos.”

“It increases morale. It binds crews together.”

“Relationships can sour.”

He shrugged. “Wading through emotional complications makes us stronger as warriors.”

She considered him for a few long seconds.

“On my first assignment, before I was promoted to warleader, I served under a battlepair. Never did I see a more tightly run ship. It’s why the Imperial Navy encouraged the practice. But they also ruthlessly tore couples apart. They knew what everyone else did: even when split between different ships, battlepairs made for tighter cooperation across the fleet.”

“Bah. It sounds like a way for the Drakken to control their women. Keeping them under their thumbs, even lightyears away.”

“Our female battlelords would disagree.”

“Your infamous female battlelords, yes.” Her expression hardened with distaste. “As I understand it, they wouldn’t have been satisfied with a mere pair. Triples or quadruples were more to their tastes.”

“For some, aye. But never were they under any male’s thumbs. We had many women in positions of power. At the helms of ships, as surface warriors, boots on the ground. Unlike your Coalition, where females are but a small percentage of your officer corps.”

He could see her chewing on what he’d told her. “We have room for improvement in that area, certainly,” she admitted. “Perhaps there are some things we can adopt from each other’s cultures.”

“Which brings us back to the subject of protocol, Admiral.” Finn glanced around to see if they had any eavesdroppers. “And whether we were in violation or not.”

She ran the towel over her graceful neck. “That decision is on hold.” A few beats passed, then her tone turned teasing. “Pending further review.”

For the first time in memory, he, Finnar Rorkken, Scourge of the Borderlands, wasn’t sure what to do or say. “Are you interested in grabbing some dinner?” he offered. Dining together would further solidify their truce and hopefully set them back on their original course—one that didn’t include anything physical. Although he’d much rather continue navigating her uncharted territories. “For unity’s sake, of course.”

“Of course. Go ahead and eat, Warleader. I plan to stay and finish my workout.”

If it’s a workout you desire, sweetheart, I have a few creative ideas in mind . . .

Rorkken, he warned himself and tried to forget that near-miss of a kiss.

“But afterward, you are welcome to stop by my quarters for a glass of wine.” She walked away, hips undulating. Dropping her towel down a steri-tube with an elegant flick of her wrist, she disappeared into the locker room.

Gods be. He was famished—and not, for once, for food.