After ending bridge duty for the day, Brit had taken shelter in the command suite, busying herself with administrative details. From her desk, she listened to the goings-on outside, but despite the open hatch, her position assured isolation. She was exhausted after working two full shifts in a row—even more so than she’d been before launch. Twice, she’d found herself dozing off, jerking awake only moments later. Unacceptable—like so many other things on this ship.

The crew’s day was divided into thirds as on all Coalition ships—one shift for duty, one for resting, and the third—mid-shift—for discretionary matters. Brit was technically on her sleep period while Rorkken was on bridge duty. Johnson was on his mid. So far, she liked Johnson. The former US Space Force colonel had come with a stellar record, having served two tours with an elite army unit, the Green Berets. He’d received medals for valor and had been commissioned as an officer, pursuing not one but three advanced degrees and flying several trips to space. Divorced with no children, the man was clearly devoted to his career. Yet he’d spent his recent years working in intelligence at an Earth structure called the Pentagon.

A staff flunky like Mick.

However, he made a sensible addition to the crew. Unlike Rorkken.

She peered through the office wall that in its current privacy setting offered an unobstructed view of the bridge. Rorkken stood with his hands on a countertop as he studied a rotating 3D schematic. His hair was neatly combed, secure in its ponytail, and he’d shaved. The earrings still glittered noticeably, but the tattoos were mostly out of view. She supposed that when confronted with clean, running water and orders to use it, the Drakken weren’t so grubby after all.

He almost fits in.

But not quite enough. She’d hoped for the Triad uniform to diminish his good looks and for him to blend into the background alongside the other males on the ship. She’d spent her career serving side by side with men. Few had turned her head; few had inspired more than passing notice. But not this Drakken.

It’s only because he resembles Seff, her common sense argued less and less.

But close enough, her conscience insisted, needing that reason, that explanation—any explanation, really—to desire this man. Why else could she be so drawn to him?

Drawn is an understatement, and you know it. He was as good-looking in his Triad tri-colors as his leathers. Although she had to say she missed the peeks at his golden flesh.

Brit, she admonished, forcing her attention back to the reports she’d been studying. It almost seemed a cruel game of the gods to make the first man to whom she’d react in all these years a Drakken. Little wonder she didn’t believe!

Since that horrendous day on the Arrayar Settlement, she’d never looked at another man. She’d never responded to flirtations or sexual invitations. Rumors that she preferred women to men had never lasted—she’d made her disinterest in either gender too plain. And yet, she was a sensual, sexual being and had always been—much to her devout parents’ dismay: behavior which had led to her early marriage. Her cravings for human contact or physical intimacy had to be satisfied while on shore leave on distant planets—with lovers who wouldn’t demand more than a few nights of sex. She couldn’t give any more.

After Arrayar, her focus had changed. She’d changed, redirecting her passion to war, and it had worked out quite well. She had become the highest-ranking military female in the Coalition.

The Triad Alliance, she corrected, watching as that damned pirate Finnar Rorkken patrolled the bridge of the ship that ought to be transporting him to a prison planet rather than providing him with a uniform and a paycheck.

And providing him with purpose.

Purpose, yes. He wouldn’t be a square-filler, a figurehead, so he’d said that first day. He, a Drakken, wanted to be her second in the truest sense of the word.

And what had she gone and done? She’d given in to him! She hadn’t refused his request to share in command decision-making. What would she surrender to him next?

“Admiral.”

Brit jumped at the sound of Hadley’s voice in her PCD. “What is it?”

“I’ve received the medical reports from Doctor Kell. I see you’re at your desk—I’ll be right there.”

Brit swung her chair around to face Hadley as she crossed the expanse of the bridge. The lieutenant’s pace accelerated past a group of pilots-in-training. The tall blond pilot Barrientes swiveled in his seat, his narrowed gaze following Hadley with interest.

Although Hadley kept her chin in the air, her pink cheeks revealed she was as aware of the handsome officer as he was of her. She hurried through the open door and aimed her data-vis at Brit’s for a secure transfer. “Doctor Kell says you are to call him if you have any questions.”

Brit smiled. “What do you think of the new Terran pilot?”

“Ma’am?” More blushing. The lieutenant was going to have to do a better job freeing her face of emotion if she was going to rise through the ranks. She had the smarts. Perhaps not the hardness, nor experience, despite her impressive record as a bridge officer on the Centurion. Brit made a mental note to wean Hadley off some of her administrative duties and assign more demanding tasks as the opportunities arose. Hadley would also need to expand her horizons—she couldn’t work all the time. It was important that she grow and mature.

“Barrientes,” Brit clarified. “He seems to pay a lot of attention to you. What do you think of him?”

“I have observed a number of cultural differences, but I’m sure he’s a fine officer, Admiral.”

“Between us, Hadley.”

“Well, he acts as if he’s humanity’s greatest gift to womanhood. He practically said as much when he introduced himself. I’ve never met anyone so—so insufferably arrogant!”

As Brit had suspected, her lieutenant had developed a soft spot for the pilot.

So the Terran was insufferably arrogant? Unsuitable men did have that certain allure. Her eyes returned to Rorkken. The Drakken scratched a hand over his chest, laughing at something his little imp of a pilot had said. He was far more than simply unsuitable. He was wrong on every level. He was Drakken.

She dismissed Hadley and opened the report from the ship’s physician, selecting Rorkken’s exam results. The findings had been listed in several columns with Doctor Kell’s text providing translations of the figures and his personal observations:

Captain Finnar Rorkken

Gender—male

Age—approximately 35 standard years

Birthdate—unknown

Birthplace—unknown

Father—unknown

Mother—unknown

Unknown, unknown, unknown! What, had he arisen from the seas? Appeared spontaneously in a birthing basket? It seemed that way. If Rorkken was to be believed, he’d had no formal schooling or medical care until age twenty-seven—which corresponded to the approximate year of his enlistment in the Drakken Imperial Navy. Preposterous! How could so many years be blank?

She read on:

So he’d survived a childhood fever without consequence. Twice lucky. The man had the luck and lives of a kir-cat.

He’d consented to the nano-meds because she’d asked. That pleased her. She couldn’t have him running around with no ability to self-repair.

Exceptional? She scowled. A smart Drakken was a dangerous Drakken.

Nutritional deficiency during infancy? Brit blinked. Rorkken had starved as a baby?

Through a miasma of shock, concern, and disbelief, she read a second time to make sure she’d comprehended, but the words remained the same. Rorkken, the strapping warleader, had been a hungry orphan.

She threw down the report. Damn him! Damn him to the Dark Reaches. She fisted her hands on her desk, head throbbing. Of all the things she hadn’t wanted the Drakken to become, human topped the list.