A glass of wine, eh? Finn walked across his room, dressed in nothing but his tattoos. He turned on the shower, savoring the blessed downpour and the blessed cleanser before finally drying off with the blessedly soft towel—all in the privacy of his own quarters. He’d lost count of how many long, lovely showers he’d taken since coming on board the Unity, but after starting out as a street urchin, he doubted that he’d ever take such luxury for granted. His Drakken ship had been a step up from his pirate vessel, but this was light-years beyond even that.

He threw open the door to his wardrobe to find a fresh pair of skivvies. He’d been given a stack of them, brand new, along with new socks and undershirts. It hit him how little he owned, not counting his Triad-issued gear. There was his old Imperial Navy uniform, if one could call it that—a threadbare, mended collection of little more than rags and leather. Another pair of old leather pants hung next to a pair of cloth trousers, a vest, and several faded shirts. None of it would impress a woman like Brit Bandar. She was a class above him—several classes.

You own nothing but rags, Rorkken! Except, maybe, for his Cloudan tunic.

He grasped its luxurious sleeve, examining the condition of the garment. It was silver and white, shot through with threads of pure sapphire. The fitted piece allowed for the breadth of his shoulders and was entirely handmade, no advanced tech inside or out. As a pirate, he’d had no need for a uniform, but for the times he had to make an appearance—or an impression—he’d worn this, his finest article of clothing. With the Cloudan belted over his leathers, sword hanging from his belt, and polished boots, he’d been able to maintain the image of prosperity even in the lean times between raids when the coffers had run low. It was during one of those lean times, before he owned the tunic, that he’d saved the leader of a rogue encampment in the Cloudlands. In thanks, the man had gifted Finn and his crew with varied treasures, including the tunic, tailored specifically to him. Nothing lasted long in a pirate’s hands—valuable goods sold and bartered—but Finn had never let go of the Cloudan. He was too freepin’ sentimental. The day he’d received it, he was called a hero. That didn’t happen often—all right, not ever. The tunic was a way of hanging on to the memory. Aye, and he looked good in it, too.

The garb of a pirate king.

Bandar will laugh her ass off if you show up at her door dressed in that.

Finn shoved the tunic back in his wardrobe and slammed the door. He stalked naked, a pair of skivvies balled in his fist, to where he’d left his Triad uniform hanging in the steri-cleaner. His PCD beeped. Maybe it was Bandar, calling to tell him to hurry over. He pressed the tiny, newly implanted disc behind his ear, the skin there still somewhat numb, and answered cheerily, “Rorkken.”

“I need you to come to the bar.”

“Zurykk?”

“Aye, boss. Who else?”

“I’m headed to the chow hall to eat.”

“There was a fight. I broke it up, but tempers are still hot. Security’s here—Yarew and his people.”

Freep me. “Tell him I’m on my way and that I’ll take care of it.” Finn shoved a leg in his uniform pants as he spoke. “Don’t let him brief the admiral. I’ll do that.”

“Aye, aye, boss.”

He sent a prayer heavenward just in case. Bander had just begun to thaw toward him, and the last thing he wanted was an incident to magnify any second thoughts she might still have about his crew—or about him.

In the bar, several Drakken stood, favoring various limbs or dabbing at their bruised and bleeding faces. Some Coalition personnel lingered, but they gave him a wide berth as they nursed their wounds with cold compresses. Another Coalition officer had passed out on the floor, drunk. The pristine, brand new club was in shambles. Tables were overturned. Shattered glass glittered on the floor alongside puddles of liquor. It stank of sweat and alcohol.

It looked like a Drakken haunt. Finn winced. Thank the gods Bandar wasn’t here to see.

His former second was at his side in an instant. “They didn’t keep the sweef to themselves like we told them,” Zurykk said. “Some of the Coalition folks started drinking it. There was a Terran, too, but he was gone before things went to hells. I guess he was smart enough to know his limits.”

“His name wasn’t Tango, was it?”

“The pilot giving out the little toys, aye.”

Finn snorted. It wasn’t limits that had stolen the man away; it was a woman. He’d probably left with Lieutenant Keyren.

“He took off with Bolivarr,” Zurykk continued. “The Wraith convinced him. Don’t ask me how.”

Bolivarr had left with Tango? Clearly, it had been a night to remember at the all-ranks club.

Finn helped out where needed, taking a mental accounting of what had been broken and what would need repair. A pair of medical techs arrived to attend the out cold ensign. “He’ll be all right,” Finn assured them. “Best that he sleeps it off.”

The techs nodded politely and called him “sir,” but he didn’t miss the glance they exchanged when they thought he wasn’t looking. Hoodlums, barbarians—he could see how they viewed him and his men. They were scum-class Drakken, drinking their Drakken brew and endangering the good people of their nice, clean Coalition-built ship.

Finn jerked a finger at the remaining Drakken. “Out here, now.” In answer to his snarled order, the suddenly fidgeting men followed him outside. He said nothing until they’d turned the corner. Then he whirled on them.

“What were you freepin’ thinking, giving them sweef?” No one answered. “You, Markkar. Speak.”

“Warleader—”

“I’m not this ship’s warleader!”

“Captain.” Markkar cleared his throat. He’d taken the beads out of his hair and cut it shorter, closer to Coalition-style. Maybe Bolivarr’s assimilation training had finally driven home the need for them to blend in—if not yet the need for them to stay out of trouble. “They wanted to try some sweef. We tried to talk them out of it. But then we . . . uh . . . ”

“We thought it’d be funny to see them fall on their faces,” Yerkksen volunteered. “Drinking sweef like it was their weak liquor.”

One of the men chuckled; another snickered.

Finn snarled, wrapping his knuckles around the collar of the nearest man and jerking him off his feet. “Laugh again, Nimm, and it won’t go well for you. For any of you.”

Nimm was the least injured of the group, but he still winced. In fear or in pain? Finn hoped it was both. He needed a lesson to be learned here. To teach a Drakken spacehand, fear and pain worked best.

“Help me to understand how this went from sweef tasting to jaw punching.”

Nimm was turning purple and squealing. Finn lowered him back to his feet. No use killing anyone. “Well?”

“They got drunk and started calling us killer swine. They said we were cowards who slaughter defenseless women and babies because we aren’t brave enough to fight real soldiers.”

Finn went still. He knew the humiliation of those words. Unfortunately, sometimes they’d been true. Drakken had earned their shameful reputation by playing outside the rules of war. Not all their crews or their ships but enough to have them all painted with the same broad brush. Unless a ship had been commanded by a leader with a sense of right and wrong, there had been no stopping the Drakken from killing noncombatants—or worse. On the Unity, he and his crew had been given the benefit of the doubt. They’d been treated as fellow human beings, not monsters. They were part of the Triad now, something bigger and better than any of them—but now this. One step forward, two steps back.

Most of Finn’s anger drained away on a tired sigh. “It’s not going to be easy for us here—we knew that. Some still think of us as stupid, warmongering beasts. Do we let a few cowardly barbs prove them right? Are we that easy to provoke?”

They shook their heads. “No, boss.”

“That’s right. We don’t rise to their baiting. Not anymore. I’ll fight for you at every turn; I’ll stick up for you, but when this kind of thing happens, it ties my hands. Got it? Don’t do it again. Now, go to sick bay, all of you, and get some of their hi-tech ointment for those bruises.” The men’s expressions of distaste told him what they thought of that suggestion. “It’s not showing weakness to use their medicine. Unlike most of ours, their meds freepin’ work. I want you in ship-shape tomorrow—that’s an order. No limping around with swollen noses, eh? No reminding everyone what happened here tonight. We’re better than this, right? If they want to act like arrogant assholes, let them. We’ve got better things to do than fall for their games.”

“Aye, sir!”

With a swell of affection, he watched the men walk toward the sick bay. It wouldn’t be an easy transition for them—or for anyone from the Pride. On a smaller scale, they reflected what the rest of the galaxy was going through and would be for years to come. It was more difficult to get along than to fight.

He returned to the bar. The med techs had already taken the fallen Coalition officer. The bar looked even worse now that it was almost empty. With Zurykk, Finn inspected the area as he typed a message to the ship’s chief mechanic, passing along a summary of the damage. “Zurykk, we’re going to find who was involved, theirs and ours. Everyone responsible for this mess will blasted well help clean it up.”

Finn walked to where Yarew stood typing on his data-vis. At the onset of their voyage, he’d given Yarew Bolivarr’s name with a strong recommendation to position him on the security squad. The man hadn’t yet made time for an interview, but Finn bit back his displeasure. Now wasn’t the time to advocate for a Drakken security officer when, in the general opinion, they were nothing but bar brawlers. “If you have a list of the culprits, Yarew, I’ll need that.”

Yarew nodded. “I’m working on the report now, sir.”

“Send it directly to me. No need to disturb the admiral at this late hour.”

“I have to, Captain. Security was called. Once I input the report, it’s auto-sent as a priority message to the command staff. Ship’s rules.”

“Understood.” Coalition and their blasted rules.

“I probably won’t finish it until the end of my shift, though.”

That would give Finn time to tell his version of the story. There was more to it than Drakken simply acting like Drakken. “I’ll brief the admiral that it’s on its way.”

Over a glass of wine, he thought. Then she could read Yarew’s report at her leisure tomorrow instead of interrupting her rest. Or anything else she might have planned, he grinned inside. Turning on his heel, he left for Bandar’s quarters.

Damn you, Rorkken. Restless, Brit had grown impatient for the warleader’s arrival. Well into her second glass of wine, she sat at her table and scrolled through possible future vacation destinations, only half looking at the photos of azure seas and powder white sand, sparing only passing thoughts to the large, fluffy resort beds and the men she would invite to them, men willing—no, eager to be used to satisfy her needs. That had been her plan with Rorkken.

Hard to do if he’s a no-show.

Quite frankly, it surprised her. She’d sensed the hunger in his caresses and felt that hunger pressed against her body too. Had either sign left her with any doubt of his desire, the lust in his eyes would have burned it into so much as ash. She reached for her PCD to summon him but instead made a fist on the tabletop. The last thing she wanted to appear was needy. She wanted him for one purpose and that was to put out the fire he caused in her. One long night of fornication, and she’d be over her lust. Over him. Obsession best ended when faced head on.

It had been two hours since they’d parted company. Yet she ached with such anticipation that her breasts tingled and the wetness between her thighs was hard to ignore. Too bad he’d found something else to do; he would have liked what she’d intended to offer him.

What could he have found that was better than her? The pirate wasn’t a stickler for protocol. In the Coalition, the two top officers on a ship bedding each other would have been highly irregular, but he’d rambled on about battlepairs, powerful females, and the free-wheeling fraternization found amongst Drakken military members. Curious, that. For all their savagery, the Drakken were surprisingly without misogyny.

No, it wasn’t decorum that kept him away. He’d made that much obvious. If they hadn’t been interrupted, they would have kissed. Wishing they had, she licked her lips. Kissing was the first ability she usually checked out before hiring a man for the night. She would never put up with a lover who didn’t kiss well. They had to be able to kiss so she could close her eyes and remember . . .

Her entry chimed. “Warleader Rorkken,” the room-bot announced.

Brit jumped to her feet. Don’t run to him, you foolish girl. You’ll frighten him away. Even with the tremble in her stomach, she knew the odds of frightening Finnar Rorkken were low. As she crossed the room, her crimson silk rustled—a pair of lounge pants and a tiny matching tank. One of the thin straps slipped off her shoulder as she donned a sleek cardigan, securing it with the sash. She couldn’t exactly run half naked to him when she’d invited him over for a glass of wine, could she? Her hair flowed shiny and clean, smoothed and scented with the same oil she’d used on her skin.

There. Everything was in place. She’d taken extra steps to ensure Finn Rorkken’s seduction. It would be the first time since losing Seff that she wasn’t paying a man for sexual favors. No financial promise would keep him here, only the promise of her. It would have to be enough.

“Open,” she told the room-bot. 

The door slid open. “Sorry about the delay. I had to . . . ” Rorkken strode in—and stopped, his legs apart, his expression instantly sharp as his gaze tracked down her body. The lust in his eyes, the desire, made her blood sing with nerves—with hunger—and her body ached for his touch.

Not much longer now. You’ll have your time with him, and he’ll vanish from your mind.

“Some wine?” The cardigan was so thin that her erect nipples jutted against the fabric. The slightest movement caused a whisper of abrasion that sent shock waves throughout her body.

“Aye,” he said hoarsely. “Please.”

The door slid shut. He closed the distance in three strides, stopping close enough for her to feel his body heat, to smell his scent of spice and soap. “I hope you don’t mind me saying that you look lovely dressed in that.”

She acknowledged his compliment with a nod. “Not at all, Warleader. You’re very kind.” She poured a glass full of wine for him then drank from hers, trying to steady her nerves.

“Looking to escape on vacation already?” The corner of his mouth edged into his cheek as he nodded at her data-vis, glowing with views of an island.

“I like to plan ahead,” she said.

“I thought you might have been already looking to escape me.”

“Wishful thinking. I’m afraid we’re stuck with each other for the near future.”

He chuckled, watching her swipe through the photos. “I’ve never vacationed, officially. I’ve seen some beautiful places, though, in my travels. I’ll have to tell you about the Cloudlands sometime.” His shoulder brushed hers as he leaned in for a closer look at a beach ringed with frond trees; another zing of awareness shot through her body. She set her wineglass on the table. Enough waiting. Enough small talk. She needed to know how he kissed.

As if he’d read her mind, he placed his glass on the table, next to hers. He’d hardly touched a drop. “Was the wine not to your liking, Warleader?”

“Other things are more to my liking at the moment.” His eyes never leaving hers, he slid his work-roughened thumb over her jaw. “Not warleader,” he corrected, “Finn.” He slid the cardigan off her shoulder and pressed his lips to the crook of her neck.

She shivered. Only his hand, pressed to her upper back, kept the cardigan from slipping off her other shoulder to the floor. She sighed, eyes closing as he kissed the side of her throat. He felt good. He felt right.

“There’s a time and place for rank and rules,” he breathed in her ear. “One’s bed is not one of them.”

“We’re not in bed yet.”

“No?” He let go, and her cardigan whooshed into a puddle around her ankles. Then he swept her off her feet so fast that she gasped, her breath interrupted when he sealed his lips over hers.

A second later, her back hit the mattress. The solid weight of Rorkken’s body followed. She was scantily clad; he was fully clothed, boots and all.

“We are now,” he said gruffly, crushing his mouth to hers.

The kiss wasn’t meant to tease or to coax; it was raw and hungry, making no secret of what he wanted of her.

Good—it matched what she wanted from him, and put to rest any doubts about whether the man could kiss well. Hot and callused, his hands smoothed underneath the silk and over her bare flesh, sending her into a frenzy of need—of now. The kiss broke only when she helped him struggle out of his uniform jacket and T-shirt, then the last of her clothes. A glimpse of his broad shoulders, ripped abs, hard chest, and just the right amount of chest hair tempted her before he returned for more kissing. He looked and felt like a man; he smelled like a man under the fresh soapy smell of cleanser. He didn’t douse himself in exotic oils like the man toys, something she’d always found unnecessary and often a turnoff. When she was in a man’s arms, she wanted to know it.

“I’m still wearing too many clothes,” he said a short, breathless while later. He reached for the waistband of his pants, unfastening them with one hand. Rolling off her body, he then shoved off his boots.

Her lips tingled, missing his mouth already. She curled up on her side to watch him undress. His pants came off next, treating her to a view of his muscled back and tight buttocks. It seemed the Scourge of the Borderlands had a very nice backside. He was, however, nothing like her past lovers. The man toys had been physical perfection. Rorkken wore his life’s history on his skin.

A scar, waxy and lumpy, sliced across his rib cage. Another on his thigh looked like a healed-over puncture wound. He’d been stabbed with a knife or a sword. As a pirate, a Drakken combatant . . . or a hungry, desperate orphan?

Sympathy squeezed her heart at the tragedy of his upbringing. She blocked the emotion immediately. If she were to feel anything for this man, it would be lust. Nothing more. Yet his body drew her gaze even though every glimpse of that golden, imperfect flesh reminded her of what she had done—and what she was about to do. Off-white slashes laced his chest and stomach, most of them lost in the tattoos swirling over his shoulders and pecs. All of them had been created with black ink, not painless imprinting with nano-dye; she was certain. He’d gotten his body art the hard way.

The ruthless way.

Don’t look at him. She didn’t want to see the scars, the tattoos. She didn’t want to see a Drakken.

With a feral twinkle in his eye, he climbed back into the bed, taking her by the shoulder and rolling her onto her back.

“Mmm,” she purred. Finally.

Leaning over her, he braced his upper body on his extended arms. His erection seared the flesh of her inner thigh as he straddled her before pausing.

“Come here.” She tried to pull him closer.

He resisted, locking his arms. His mouth formed a mischievous smile. A rugged, wicked boy—that’s what he reminded her of when he smiled like that.

A very grown-up boy, she thought, acutely conscious of the feel of him against her thigh. As if he’d guessed the direction of her thoughts, he moved his hips, sliding between her legs intimately but not penetrating. Damn him.

She moaned in frustration, which only intensified his look of satisfaction. “Why did you stop?”

“I’m soaking it all in.”

“Soaking in what?”

His voice was huskier now. “Me, in bed with you.”

His sentimentality caught her unawares. It was just sex. Wasn’t it? This wasn’t supposed to mean anything. She couldn’t have that. “Rorkken,” she warned, growing impatient.

“It’s Finn.”

She groaned. “Finn.”

He sifted his fingers through her hair, watching in awe as it rippled to the pillow. “Gods, you’re beautiful, Brit. I know I said as much before, but you truly are.”

The sound of her given name on his lips wasn’t something she was ready to hear, but of course he would use it. The bed was no place for rank as he’d said, and he’d been right.

“Thank you,” she murmured, suddenly shy. She’d been paid similar compliments by many men over the years, some of them men she’d paid to say such pretty words. Yet none had displayed the frankness in their eyes that Rorkken did now. None had actually made her feel beautiful with one look like he did.

Finally, he stopped talking and started exploring. He took one nipple into his mouth, hot and wet, suckling. A sigh slipped out of her, her back arching with the gentle, erotic tugs of his lips, the rasping of his tongue.

Yes . . .

Her eyes closed as his touch took her away to another place, another time. Then he moved, kissing his way to her navel and below.

She choked back a moan when he started pleasuring her between her legs. What was he doing? Hadn’t she been clear enough regarding her desires? She wanted intercourse, and she wanted it now.

She tried to sit up, but he pushed her back down with a firm, flattened hand on her stomach. “Enough foreplay,” she protested. She had not the patience for it. “Fuck me.”

His grin was smug, his eyes dark and hooded. “All in good time.”

“No. Not in good time. Now.”

He chuckled, slipping two fingers inside her. “Is that an order?” His voice was husky, as if coming from far away.

Against her will, she made a strangled moan as those wicked, determined fingers explored her. Her thighs fell open, hiding nothing from his view. He found her clit, and she gasped. Damn him to the Dark Reaches. He wasn’t as practiced with his touch as the man toys, but it was that lack of bought-and-paid-for finesse that pushed her to an unexpected and far-too-fast climax.

She cried out as her body convulsed. “Damn it!” He’d made her come. He’d taken over the entire act, right down to her premature orgasm. How dare he?

He withdrew those magic fingers, leaving her throbbing with the aftershocks of pleasure. Eyes squeezed shut, she felt rather than saw that damned boyish grin as he returned to kiss her, murmuring smugly against her lips. “All that swearing, Brit. Why? You seemed to like it very much.”

“I wanted you to be inside me when it happened.”

“I plan to be, when you come the next time. And come again, you will. All in good—”

“No, damn it. Not in good time. Now.” She sought his mouth for a scorching kiss. There was no time for teasing, no time for talk. He was here for one reason—this.

She threw her leg over his buttocks to keep him from escaping. He caught her fever; his kiss was hard and burning. The weight of his strong body pressed her into the sheets. His movements were less controlled now. His scent was sharp. Soon, she thought. Soon, she thought. Soon he won’t be able to hold back, no matter what his blasted timeline is.

Closing his hands in her hair, he lifted his hips and thrust oh—so deep.

Yes . . .

Her entire body sang out in pleasure, welcoming him.

He slid a hand under her thigh, gripping her backside to keep her pressed close. She moved with him, letting him take charge of their rhythm.

Ah, yes . . .

His touch was firm, possessive. His breaths were harsh, his skin damp with exertion. Brit savored the sounds and scents, letting the sex sweep her back to the past, a time before the pain, before the grinding loneliness. Eyes closed, she escaped into her mind.

Seff . . .

She imagined their small, narrow bed and the window above, opened to Arrayar’s dry night breezes. She had been so young then—Seff, too. Afterward, they had cuddled and giggled, careful to keep their voices low.

“Brit,” he said on a groan. “Ah, Brit.”

Why, oh why, was he compelled to talk? His voice was nothing like Seff’s. Yet even in the silence, even when there was nothing but their breaths and sighs, Rorkken kept jolting her out of the past, reminding her quite vividly with every heated caress, every kiss, every thrust of his hips that she was in bed with him—a man, not a long-dead boy.

He makes you feel.

Yes. Even with her eyes closed and the past filling her mind, she felt the scrape of his shaved beard, something Seff hadn’t yet had. Those rough whiskers contrasted with his soft lips, grazing down her throat, her shoulder, her breasts. No, Rorkken didn’t feel like Seff, and yet, he felt so good.

Worse, the longer he fucked her—no, made love to her—the more difficult it became to block out his scent, the feel of his body. Every time she felt a scar under the palm of her hand, every time she felt his powerful body move, she was reminded. Yet it was his frank desire, and the obvious and genuine pleasure he took in making love to her—to her—that pushed her closer to the edge. The man toys faked passion so well that sometimes she had almost believed them overcome. Rorkken’s desire, however, was genuine.

With that realization, she convulsed with pleasure, bringing her precipitously close to orgasm. Crying out softly, she tried to hold back. She wouldn’t let go with Rorkken in her mind’s eye.

It needs to be Seff.

“Come for me, sweetheart,” a gruff, rumbling voice urged. “Let go.”

She almost exploded with that gentle command, as if she were Rorkken’s puppet, climaxing on order. Holding back, she gritted her teeth, moaning.

Where was Seff? She tried desperately to conjure his face.

“Brit,” he whispered in her ear. “Look at me.”

She squeezed her eyes shut even tighter and buried her lips in the warm, scented hollow between his shoulder and neck. Skin that tasted and smelled like Finn Rorkken. His powerful pulse rapped against her cheek.

He rolled onto his back, pulling her with him. No! Her head hung low. She didn’t want him to see her face, to see her eyes closed. To invade her fantasy—or prevent it altogether.

“Brit Bandar. I would have thought you, of all people would be an eyes-wide-open woman—no fantasies, no bashfulness, nothing but clear reality.” He remained hard, seated deep inside her, but his caress was affectionate as he touched her cheek. “Open your eyes. I want you to know who’s making love to you.” He pushed upward, grinding against her. She couldn’t ignore him any longer.

She moaned. “Please.”

Rorkken made a deep, satisfied sound. Her body was so taut, so ready. One more push like that and she’d . . .

“Look at me, sweetheart.”

Sweetheart. She didn’t like that he’d called her that.

She loved that he’d called her that.

Gasping, she opened her eyes to his hard-featured face and eyes that didn’t look quite so much like Seff’s anymore. His gaze was less boyish, less playful—darker and more intense. “That’s it, sweetheart. That’s it. Look at me. Feel me.”

She did feel him. Gods, she did. She brought her head down to kiss him, a spontaneous move. He held her there, stroking her back as he kissed her, sweetly, hotly, and with feeling—feeling that she, incredibly, returned.

One more deep thrust and she was gone, shattering with pleasure. So blinded to anything else, she was only vaguely aware of Rorkken’s fingers pressing into the flesh of her upper arms and the violence of his last plunges before he came. He tore his mouth from hers, growling her name, shuddering as heat spurted into her.

And then it was quiet.

Dazed, she sagged atop him, blinking, trying to collect her wits. Somewhere in the midst of her passion, she’d closed her eyes again—not to block out sensation this time but hold it in.

Gradually, her mind cleared of fog. Below her, Rorkken wore a soft expression as he wove his fingers through her hair, bringing a thick lock to his lips as he inhaled then twisted the strands around one thick finger. The way he lay there, sated and drowsy as he played with her, seemed almost more intimate than the sex. She shivered, enjoying that affectionate touch, hungrier for it than she ever would have guessed.

He’d wedged his left hand between his head and the pillow. On the underside of that raised arm, just inside his rounded bicep, was a single tattoo. Her gaze stopped as if tripping over a roadblock. It was separate from his other tattoos, as if in a place of honor—a black bird of prey clutching two crossed bloody sabers in its talons.

Recognition sent a chill racing down her spine. That raptor had visited her nightmares more times than she could count; it had haunted her ever since the day it swooped heartlessly down from the sky to steal what she loved most. It was the centuries-old symbol of the Drakken Empire, and her lover wore it on the arm closest to his heart.

Her ears began to ring, and it suddenly became hard to breathe.

What have you done?

A small sound of pain escaped her lips as the full impact of her actions slammed into her. She’d taken a Drakken soldier to bed. She’d fucked the enemy.

What have you done!

She’d abandoned everything she stood for.

She’d betrayed the memory of those she’d loved.

Slut, she called herself. Traitor. She struggled out of bed, hurried to the bathroom, and slammed the door.