* * *

DEEP

“Nice ass.”

Lana glances over her shoulder. The cadet walking behind her flashes a charming if not predatory smile, a mouthful of straight white teeth. Trust me, that smile says, I know what I’m talking about. Military poster boy, the kind accustomed to panties raining at his feet back home. Not exactly Lana’s type, but her cheeks heat as she turns away.

It’s the bodysuit. The stretchy, breathable fabric, fitted from the neck to wrists and ankles, clinging to every curve, the long zipper from throat to navel promising easy access. Lana knows it looks good on her, the sheen of the navy blue, a color that brings out her blue eyes. All trainees wear blue, even the officers going through the program, to differentiate them from the corpsmen and the officers on duty who wear black; the same black Lana will wear in only three months’ time if she doesn’t fuck this up.

This morning in her cube, the tiny dorm room she’s shared with three other women for the last eight weeks, she was elated to put the bodysuit on for the first time. Once she stepped out into the corridors of the ship, once she was among the men, she lost her equilibrium, just like the first time she took a simulated spacewalk and almost puked. She felt their eyes on her, on the suit, and had a hard time forcing down her breakfast. Now as she makes her way through Transport Bay, where one hundred and thirty-six identically dressed trainees await disembarkment, she can’t help wondering if the skin-tight bodysuit and the gazes roaming her figure from every direction are just the first tastes of the many tortures awaiting her at Station Six.

But no, rumors aren’t always true. If anyone knows this, it’s Lana.

She hefts the heavy rucksack containing everything she owns in the universe onto her shoulder, striving to make this look easier than it is—a fundamental skill in the International Space Corps—and works her way through the crowd toward a group of familiar faces. According to the ISC’s Fraternization Policy, friendship across ranks is a slippery slope into full-on “Prohibited Relations.” Rangers flank the many portal doors of the bay, surveying the assembled trainees; it’s wise to stick to your own kind, especially when you’ve got an audience bearing arms. A steady, silent breed, those Rangers, solid and impassive, their black uniforms lined with sculpted armor. There’s something undeniably hot, in a primal sort of way, about well-built men in uniform, armed and trained to protect. Lana wonders—not for the first time—how in the universe Rangers have sex, if no one’s supposed to touch them.

Focus, Marsden.

She sets her rucksack down next to the group of young women, among them, one of her roommates, Matthews. Next to Matthews, a pretty cadet with short black hair and catlike eyes sizes Lana up.

“How goes it?” Matthews sweeps a hand through her loose blonde hair. In transport, some of the rules about grooming have been disregarded, but you’d be stupid, or ballsy, to step foot on Station Six with your hair in your face—and ballsy Matthews is not.

“Hey.” Lana notes that most of the women have swept their hair back into a knot or a sleek ponytail, like hers, and all of the men have finally shaved. She considers pointing this out to Matthews, just as that deep clank-and-rumble resounds through the hull of the ship. Too late; the shuttle is docking.

“I hope you girls’ve got a lotta lube packed in those rucks,” says Cat Eyes, “because you are gonna get fucked.”

Matthews’ eyes widen, but Lana does her best to look unconcerned. She heard the rumors about Station Six during transport, just like everyone else did; the same rumors she heard at Station One when she received her reassignment—rumors about the debauchery on Six.

It all happened so fast, the last minute change, a redistribution of the trainees and her reassignment from the training program at Station Seven to the one at Six—the station where her brother, Adam, has been a trainer for the last year. Of course, Adam never mentioned kinky sex or erotic hazing rituals to her, but why would he? He never expected his little sister to show up at his station. And when she asked him about it on their last com, right before she boarded the shuttle, his answer was vague and superior. Don’t believe everything you hear, Lana.

“I hear they have some serious hazing going on,” Matthews concurs, hushing her voice for effect. “A friend of mine in Basic said her sister went through Six four years ago and she had to suck six guys’ cocks at once and they had a circle jerk around her. So disgusting.” The other cadets make little sounds of horror and revulsion, but Lana’s already heard this particular story about a thousand times in the last eight weeks. Matthews flips her hair at her captive audience and narrows her eyes at Lana. “You’d better be prepared, Marsden.”

How exactly one is to prepare for a six-man circle jerk, Lana’s not sure, but she’s not surprised Matthews doesn’t offer any tips. If Lana’s assigned to room with the mouthy blonde again on Six, she might just have to quit the Corps right there and let the shuttle haul her back to solid ground; twenty-one months of training out the window. In the meantime Lana doesn’t waste her breath. Who’s to say her friend’s sister didn’t enjoy blowing six guys at once? Hell, maybe it was her idea.

Or maybe there’s no sex on Six at all. Wouldn’t that be even crueler? Get all the trainees primed up during transport, plant salacious rumors that are bound to spread, and when they disembark subject them to three long months of celibacy on a remote space station loaded with officers in uniform. Turn off the viz and bind their hands at night so they can’t even masturbate. Bind their hands when they shower, assign a bunch of petty officers to wash them down…

“I’ve heard the same thing,” says Cat Eyes, a condescending smile on her lips. “I hear they rape you if you don’t perform well. I bet they just love to do it to pretty white girls with lovely long hair.” Her voice drips with mock flattery, her dark gaze raking over Lana.

“All I’m saying is no one better try to rape me,” Matthews says, as if the threat was directed at her. “Any prick who tries has it coming.”

Lana turns toward the portal doors, weary of the conversation; sometimes the women in the Corps are worse than the men with all the bravado. The redhead in front of her swivels around and raises a sharp eyebrow at Matthews. She has a pretty, heart-shaped face and wears a corpsman’s insignia above her ample chest. Lana’s seen her around; not really the kind of woman you forget. Sat next to her at breakfast this morning, but didn’t attempt conversation—Frat Policy and all. Her call sign, Scarlet, has been stitched into the ISC badge below her insignia.

“Don’t be ridiculous. No one’s getting raped.” Scarlet’s green-eyed gaze flicks to Lana. “Don’t listen to them, sweetheart. They have no idea what they’re talking about.” She turns to face the portal doors, shoulders back, and tosses her head, reddish curls bouncing. She hasn’t pinned her hair up. Though she’s about the same height as Lana, she seems taller.

“Aren’t you nervous?” Lana whispers.

“Of course.” Scarlet gives Lana a sly look over her shoulder. “That’s just part of the fun.” She winks effortlessly—Lana has never been able to pull off a wink like that—and stands at attention as a departure officer assumes her place in front of the nearest portal, computer tablet in hand. Other officers file into place, ready to call the roll.

The multi-layered portal doors slide open, revealing the small airlock chambers that will whisk the trainees up into the Transport Level of Station Six. Lana watches as trainees are sorted into the lighted chambers, five at a time, her heart drumming an anxious rhythm as she listens for her name.

Scarlet steps forward—Lana doesn’t even catch her real name when it’s called among the flurry of others—and takes her place in one of the chambers. She gives Lana another wink and a mischievous grin as the doors shut.

When Lana’s name is called by one of the officers, he tells her, “Echo Unit,” with a too-familiar sidelong glance. Before she can figure out if that look, prompted by her last name, was triggered by her brother’s infamy or worse—her own—she’s herded into a chamber. The bright white light pools over her and the four other trainees inside. The triple doors slide shut, one over the other, and as the floor begins to rise, Lana’s stomach sinks.

This is it.

Once she sets foot on Station Six, she’s officially in. Technically, training begins tomorrow, but everyone knows evaluation begins the second you breathe Six’s air. From that moment on, there will be no way out of the DEEP Training program but to drop out or to be dropped, take the long shuttle ride back to Corps Central and face the training board a failure. Have that excruciating talk with her parents over the com, the one in which her mother tells her with utmost sincerity, It’s perfectly fine, Lana. Honestly, we had no expectations.

She stands up straighter, recalling Scarlet’s flawless posture. The other trainees in the chamber stir, like restless animals about to be released from a cage. Life on the shuttle is cramped and bloody boring, but Lana knows the taste of freedom on the comparably enormous station will be fleeting. DEEP Training means long, intensive hours slaving away at the mercy of the rigorous program, and in particular, her Commanding Officer—her trainer. Deep Space Extra-Vehicular and Emergency Preparedness is a pass or fail program, and Lana knows her CO will have the ultimate say in whether or not her performance meets the bar, whether or not she achieves her dream of a long-term assignment in deep space. DEEP is the gateway to that dream, and her trainer will hold the key.

Lana has done her research; DEEP has an approximate sixty percent failure rate. Of course, she wouldn’t be here if the Corps didn’t believe she has a real chance, if she didn’t believe she has what it takes to make it. If she didn’t want it down to the marrow of her bones. But making an excellent first impression on her trainer is vital, and it all starts when the chamber doors open.

She takes a deep, steadying breath. The chamber locks into place, the layered doors open—one, two, three—and Lana gets her first glimpse of the organized chaos that is Station Six’s Hub as she and the other trainees stumble into the fray, dispersing in search of their respective units.

The Transport Level of the Hub is a transparent web; Lana drifts along the entry passage, glancing into the various rooms, each one surrounded by clear walls on three sides, the back end open to the passage that loops around the entire level. She glimpses an intake officer in several of the rooms, the black uniforms easy to spot in the sea of blue. Other officers stand above the web in the raised corridor that runs through the center of the Hub, observing the commotion below. Lana wonders if her trainer is up there… her neck is craned so far in that direction, she walks into a wall of muscle.

An unyielding officer with a black cap pulled low over pale green eyes and a firm set to his jaw glances down at her with annoyance.

“Sorry!” she gasps. Nice eyes, though. She takes a step back, managing to glimpse the call sign stitched into his badge. Hilt. And the rank indicated by his insignia. Staff Sergeant.

“Reporting?” he barks. Not a man of unnecessary words.

“Um, Echo Unit? Sir.”

He points over her shoulder into one of the rooms, where a young and very blond male intake officer checks trainees in.

“Thank you, Sir—”

But Hilt has already moved away into the crowd.

Lana makes her way over to the blond’s room, not daring to glance at the raised corridor again. She stands off to the side, watching the intake officer check her unitmates in on a computer tablet, taking the opportunity to get her first look at her peers—her competition. Aside from herself, Echo Unit appears to be all men. Lana waits until every man in the room has either been checked in or dismissed before she approaches the officer herself. She notes his call sign, Score, and his rank, Petty Officer.

He looks her over; a quick inventory, head to feet. “Name?”

“Cadet Lana Marsden, Sir.”

There it is. The narrowing of the eyes, a twitch so slight Lana might have missed it if she wasn’t so used to it. Sometimes it’s an infinitesimal lift of the chin, a slant of the shoulders or a clearing of the throat, but she has rarely encountered an officer in the Corps who doesn’t react at the mention of her family name. Fortunately, her brother has made it something of a legend, his own very public disaster eclipsing the whispers of her own. When a young pilot, first in his class, receives the Silver Cross for heroism only two years out of flight training and later that same year loses his wings, it makes big news on the viz.

She waits for the rest, prepared to murmur the usual Thank you, or Yes, he’s my brother, or We’re proud of him too, or even the very worst, Yes, it really is a shame, as if Adam’s demotion somehow negates everything he accomplished before. But Score just taps something into his tablet and turns the device toward her. A glowing blue dot radiates light from the center of the screen. “Finger,” is all he says.

Lana touches her right index finger to the blue light, allowing the device to scan her in and configure the security data in the tiny chip implanted in her fingertip. When it’s done, Score gives her a glance with just a hint of appreciation in it. Or maybe it’s her imagination… It never fails to take her aback when any officer looks at her with anything beyond the standard aloof courtesy—which, in the Corps, is about as warm and fuzzy as it gets between ranks—even though her best friend, Layla, says that’s naive.

But Layla’s not in the Corps, so she doesn’t really understand the chain of command.

“Welcome to Station Six, Cadet Marsden. You can report for clearance.”

“Thank you, Sir.”

Score directs her to the center of the Hub, where she gets into a lineup near the steps to the elevator bank. Up front, officers check the contents of each rucksack before granting the trainees access to one of the elevators. Each time an elevator fills, Lana watches it whoosh through the ceiling, lifting the trainees into the higher levels of the station, her stomach surging along with it.

Why this time? She should have been more nervous to leave Earth after Basic Training almost a year ago, to report to Station One. By now she should be used to the rigors of the Corps, the security checks, the men in uniform everywhere she looks, the intimidating air the officers don as effortlessly as their shit-kicking boots. Maybe it’s the rumors worming their way under her skin, but there seems to be a nearly palpable electricity in the air. She watches as the other trainees in line fidget and worry away at the lumps in their throats as they wait for their rucksacks to be searched.

When it’s her turn, she drops her ruck on the table and unzips it for the clearance officer. Thorough, says his badge. Master Sergeant. The highest-ranking officer she’s encountered on Six yet.

“Swipe,” he says without looking at her, delving straight into her ruck.

Lana swipes her finger over the blue light emitting from the tablet on the table. She watches Thorough dig around, counting her clothing items, toiletries and personal effects. Next to the table, a bin holds prohibited items that have already been confiscated—snack bars from the shuttle commissary, a computer tablet, a gold necklace, even a pair of high heels—but she isn’t worried. She’s memorized the trainee manual and packed exactly as allowed. Even so, it’s a little unnerving having a male officer she’s never met before counting her panties—black cotton briefs, precisely to code, and the same as everyone else’s, but still. The longer he digs in her ruck, the more on-edge Lana feels. Is there a problem? She resists the urge to ask. There are officers who bend a little and those who do not, and maybe it’s just his big hands pawing through her ruck, but this one looks like the kind you don’t press.

Surely he didn’t get a call sign like Thorough for anything less.

Finally he looks at her, an insinuating prickle in his gray eyes as he pulls something from her ruck. She stares at the rubber penis in his gloved hand—hot pink and unabashedly large.

“What the hell is this?” His lips curl in a slow, serrated smile.

Lana’s mouth falls open long before the words come. “I… that’s not mine.” She can’t even gather the wits to add Sir to the end of her protest before she’s digging in the ruck herself. Definitely her things. She checks the zipper, finds her ID number on the tag.

Thorough glances over at the tablet, reading. “Then you’re not Cadet Marsden?” He yanks another item from the depths of the ruck. A lacy bra, emerald-green.

“I am, but, that isn’t mine. Sir!”

Thorough holds the bra in the air, letting it dangle from his gloved fist like some vermin he’s caught running wild in the Hub. Lana feels the trainees in line behind her craning their necks to gawk. She notices the other officers—Rangers—appearing out of nowhere, one to each side of Thorough’s table, observing the spectacle.

“Look!” Desperate, Lana grabs at the bra and stretches a lacy cup over her hand—enormous. “This isn’t even my size!” She expects him to glance at her chest to verify this. He doesn’t.

He lifts the pink dildo in his other hand instead. “No? How about this?”

Even though she’s never seen the giant dildo before, Lana feels the flush of blood creeping into her face. Some of the trainees behind her snicker. Thorough gives them a cutting look.

“Sex toys and lingerie are a Code violation.” He tosses the prohibited items in the bin and keeps rooting through her ruck. “Take her down to the brig. Her CO can sort it out.”

Lana stiffens as one of the Rangers comes toward her. She feels the other trainees edging away, making room. “Wait, please.” Stay calm. “This stuff isn’t mine, I swear. Somebody must have packed it in my ruck by mistake—” But it’s no use; arguing is only making a scene. The Ranger’s face remains impassive as he draws Lana’s hands in front of her and slips a pair of metal cuffs on her wrists. She bites her lip, hard, her entire body flushing hot as the cuffs snap shut.

The Rangers lead her away, up the steps, past the elevators and along the raised corridor. Panic courses through her as she’s marched to the far end of the Hub.

They’re really going to do this.

Lock her up.

She feels the eyes of the officers in the corridor moving over her, several administrative types gripping tablets and gazing down their noses at her, and those below staring up through the glass. She tries to ignore the strange torment, the inconvenient and almost unbearably arousing friction as her nipples, suddenly hard, rub against her bra. She catches a flicker of red and dares a glance at Scarlet, who watches, looking puzzled, hands on her hips.

Lana tries not to wriggle in the Ranger’s grasp, her bodysuit sticking to her sudden sweat, the cuffs and the humiliation chafing equally as a nasty thought twists its way into her gut.

Is this just one of their games?

Her throat pulls when she swallows, suddenly dry. Has she, Lana Marsden, exemplary trainee, been designated a bad girl? The girl who tries to smuggle a dildo and lingerie onto Station Six… and now her CO gets to decide how best to punish her?

The Rangers load her into a small service elevator. As the elevator sinks below the Transport Level of the Hub into the lowest level of the station, she struggles to get a grip.

Breathe.

She’ll get a reprimand, a formal note in her file. That’s all. No one is going to punish her—not like that. That’s all just fantasy. The oversexed imaginations of a bunch of bored and horny trainees. Her CO is most definitely not going to show up and strip her down and humiliate her further. That’s ridiculous.

But the thought alone has her squirming in place.

Of course, in her panicked, runaway imagination, the CO in question is ridiculously hot and just as unattainable. He looks like a Ranger. Maybe he’s wearing one of those helmets with the mask and he’s got a big, shiny pistol on his hip… and before she knows it, her blood is rushing to all the wrong places.

No. Between officers and cadets, sex is strictly forbidden. Which is why the rumors about Station Six are wrong.

And there’s nothing at all kinky about being singled out, cuffed and taken to the brig.

* * *

Catch takes the service elevator down to the hangar alone.

Normally he heads down to the Hub to check out his new batch of virgins in the flesh on arrivals day. Not all trainers do. First never bothers. But Catch likes to get a look at his trainees while they’re herded onto the station and sorted. While they’re off their game. Nervous and overwhelmed, irritable from transport. Battling shuttle lag.

More importantly, he wants them to get a look at him.

Catch knows he intimidates most virgins, and it’s not just the tattoos or his reputation. It’s important he be seen during their first anxiety-charged moments on Station Six as a reminder that he will be as integral to their experience here as the air system. Pass or fail, it’s up to him, the officer watching from above.

But today, he’s late. A last minute meeting with the XO and another meeting on its heels with the training leads meant none of the trainers made it to Transport in time to watch the virgins disembark.

And now this. Cleaning up a mess for First’s little sister already.

Score met Catch as he was coming out of the trainers’ meeting to show him the incident report. Catch immediately deleted it rather than authorize and log it in the system. As long as Thorough keeps his mouth shut, First will never have to know about this little stunt or the items confiscated from his sister’s ruck: two lace bras, three pairs lace panties, and one dildo, according to the report.

As the elevator sinks, Catch’s irritation climbs. What the hell was she thinking, smuggling that shit onto the station? When trainees break the rules this early, it’s never a good sign.

Everything Catch knows about his trainees before they step into the training core comes from their files. Lana Marsden is no exception. First hasn’t told Catch anything about his sister that he couldn’t read in her file, which indicates a dedicated and highly disciplined cadet with above-average potential for passing DEEP Training. She’s a Northern Fed, five-six, one hundred and twenty-six pounds, and has brown hair and blue eyes like her brother. The only flag in her medical file is an allergy to mushrooms. She rated within the top fifteen percent of her class coming out of Basic, fourth out of almost two hundred women. On Station One she completed six months of training with Communications Division before her acceptance to DEEP. Her evaluation scores are impressive, the only criticisms noted by her previous trainers things like pushes herself too hard and needs to manage expectations of herself. Catch had the impression of a hardworking and nerdy nice girl, not a spoiled brat. No prior Code violations. Not one thing in her file that hinted at this type of behavior. First didn’t hint at it either, though First’s not one for dropping hints. Surely if his sister was a shit disturber, he would have said so.

Then again, she’s six years younger than First, and they haven’t been on the same planet for eight years now. Maybe big brother’s out of touch.

Apparently, she told Thorough the confiscated items aren’t hers, though. Maybe they aren’t. Maybe this is all some misunderstanding.

Surely that’s the story she’s going to spin.

Or maybe she just thought she’d get away with it. Maybe Lana Marsden thinks the rules don’t apply to her because her brother is a trainer. Maybe she’s not a serious contender for deep space status at all. Maybe she heard the rumors about Six and assumed this quarter would be a free-for-all. Maybe she’s nothing but a tourist looking for a party and a long line of hard dicks to play with. She wouldn’t be the first. But she won’t find that here. Not in Catch’s unit. If that’s what she has in mind, her long, arduous service in Catch’s command will make her wish she’d never come to Six and wasted his time.

By the time he steps into the hangar, Catch’s blood is running hot. He stalks past the fleet. The recon cruisers, the Meridian, the Skywatch, big beefy ships, the ones he figured he’d be piloting when he gets old enough he wants to slow things down. He avoids the patrollers but it’s tough not to snatch a look at the sleek Phoenix line, the birds docked prominently in the center of the hangar. The flashy Starfall, the peppy little Starchip and the pride of the fleet, the Starcrasher. A gorgeous Crasher is docked in front of the security door and as Catch swipes through he gazes up at it, just once.

The memory comes on like a black storm as he stalks the narrow corridors to the brig—the command from Fleet Control repeating in his headset, the nauseating feeling of knowing he’s going into free fall and there’s not a damn thing he can do about it, fighting the urge to vomit and struggling to see straight as the universe spins out around him and his control panel goes berserk.

Crasher 2, return to Jump… Crasher 2, return to Jump…

Sometimes he still hears it in his dreams.

He hasn’t decided yet if he wants back into the cockpit. Which is okay, since no one has asked yet. Point is, he was there and now he’s here. And it doesn’t bother him as much as it should. As much as people seem to think it should. As much as it bothers them.

Catch likes being a trainer. He’s a damn good one, too. What the hell is wrong with that?

What he doesn’t like is being a goddamn glorified babysitter.

The moment he opens the door to the brig, the stench hits him. The dank room holds several cells, a shuttlehiker curled in the corner of the first awaiting deportation, his stink and his snoring filling the room. No civilians are allowed on the outer stations, but occasionally one manages to stow away aboard a shuttle. Little surprise that a trainee was able to smuggle a few goodies past her initial clearance check. It happens all the time. Security in transport isn’t as rigorous as it is on Six. The way Catch sees it, the outer stations, Six and Seven, are a last gut check on the precipice into the black. Any virgin who arrives with prohibited items in their ruck and therefore a chip on their shoulder or a defiant bent in their nature will have to surrender it—or fail the program. Take that shit forward into the deep and you might as well harbor a death wish.

Catch would know.

Beyond the shuttlehiker, the cells are empty. All but the last. He glimpses First’s sister in the near-dark, standing, facing into the corner.

He takes his time, boots thudding on the floor. Let her sweat it out. He could turn up the security lights to get a better look, but that might put her at ease. And right now he couldn’t give a fuck about putting Lana Marsden at ease.

As he approaches, he takes in the long ponytail that tumbles down between her shoulder blades. She’s slim, but the skin-tight bodysuit reveals inviting curves, a narrow waist and a flare of hips. He realizes only as he reaches the bars of her cell that she’s been cuffed and hooked to the ceiling. She stands stretched, balanced awkwardly on the toes of her boots. Cruel, but maybe she needed the shock. Crueler still, if she were just a couple of inches taller she could probably unhook herself, or at least turn around. As it is, she tries but can’t quite twist enough to see him.

As Catch watches her struggle, grasping the hook above her head with her hands to relieve the strain of the cuffs against her wrists, his gut clenches in that familiar way. If he didn’t know who she was, he might let himself appreciate it a while longer, the look of her trapped on that hook. Instead he clears his throat, which is suddenly tight, and gets on with it.

“Cadet Marsden. Your brother is highly regarded on this station.”

“Sir, I apologize for arguing with the clearance officer.” Her voice is soft in the near-dark, her tone firm but deferential in exactly the right degree. “It won’t happen again.”

“You’re not new to the Corps, cadet, but you’re new here. So I’ll give you one warning. Speak to me like that again and I’ll leave you in here for the rest of the week. The only words out of your mouth will be ‘Yes, Sir’ and ‘No, Sir.’”

“Yes, Sir.”

“If you talk back to any officer on this station again, he or she has my permission to have you on your knees, cleaning the toilets in the head for the next month. The men’s head.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“While they’re in use,” he clarifies.

She wriggles a little in the cuffs, trying to see him. “Yes, Sir.” Her voice wavers this time. She’s afraid he’s serious. He would be, if First wouldn’t kill him for it.

“Are you sure? You don’t sound sure.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Because if you’re not, I can leave you here to think about it. Someone will come to take you to the head and deliver the occasional meal, and you can just dangle and rethink your decision to come here. Will that be necessary?”

“No, Sir.”

If it didn’t smell so godawful in here, he might even draw this out. Let her sweat a little longer. But his irritation is dissipating just looking at her backside. He knows she’s not fragile or she couldn’t have made it this far in the Corps, but she looks delicate dangling from that hook.

He swipes his fingerchip over the scanner on the latch. The lock clanks and the door opens, and he enters the cell. He circles around her. The light spilling into the brig from the corridor skims her cheekbone. She looks up at him, her gaze direct.

Catch just hopes it’s dark enough that she can’t read his response.

First’s description of his little sister had been brief but clear. Or so Catch thought. “She’s a dork,” he said, when word got around to the other trainers that his sister was arriving today. When one of the assistant trainers asked what she looks like, First leveled him with a steel gaze and said, “She looks like me, shitrag.” First is huge. Just over six feet and broad-shouldered, lanky but muscular, with big hands, a square jaw, and thighs that could probably split a skull. So the image this conjured in Catch’s mind, and probably in the minds of the other trainers, wasn’t pretty.

Which might have been the point, in retrospect.

True, she does look like her brother; First just wasn’t clear what he meant. Yes, First is a hulking beast. He’s also graceful, somehow, lithe and athletic. And extremely good-looking. His sister’s been cut from a similar cloth.

Her eyes are dark in the shadows of the brig as she watches Catch, pupils overtaking that familiar blue. Her chest rises and falls in quick, shallow breaths, her full pink lips pressed together. She’s working very hard to look like she’s not losing her mind. Over the cuffs? The cell? Him? Catch can’t tell. He can’t seem to form a coherent string of thought at all.

And she just stares at him, uncertain. Waiting.

She doesn’t look angry or defeated, like he might expect. She looks alert, vividly humiliated, as she squirms on the hook. There’s fear, too, just beneath the surface, threatening to shake her apart, though she seems to have a handle on it—for now.

She also looks like she might just drop to her knees and suck his cock if he frees her—but that part is probably wishful thinking. Clearly she’s dying to be let free, but she doesn’t ask for it. Much as he might like her to ask. To beg, even. It’s the cuffs and the humiliation that get him. The tenderly bruised pride. But she’s not going to break. She’ll stay just as she is, her mouth shut, as long as he commands her to. This much he can tell by the deference in her gaze. His cock stirs at that look. An uncomfortably familiar pang of arousal roils low in his gut, even as he swallows it down.

First’s sister.

The thought snaps him out of it like an ice-cold slap in the face.

He leans in, so close he can feel her hot little breaths on his neck. Christ. He reaches up and grasps her slender wrist, feels her pulse beating against his thumb. He turns the cuff, exposing the clasp, and presses his fingerchip to it, disengaging the lock mechanism. When he lets her arm go, it drops like dead weight. He frees her other wrist and she stumbles back, heels dropping to the floor, and he catches her, his hand clamped on her upper arm. To her credit, she doesn’t protest. Doesn’t try to sell him a story about how that stuff in her ruck isn’t hers. She doesn’t say a thing.

“You’re going to keep yourself out of trouble, and I won’t tell your brother about this.” Strange, how he doesn’t sound like himself. Like this is just some scene he’s watching on the viz, some stranger playing Catch and doing a lousy job of it.

For a moment she looks stunned. Then she blinks and finds her voice. “Yes, Sir.”

He hooks a finger under her chin and holds her gaze, trying to ignore the electric charge crackling between them—does she feel it too?

“This incident will be stricken from your file. But if you act up again, make no mistake, I will bounce you right back down here to cuddle up with your new friend.” He nods at the shuttlehiker, who’s still passed out, snoring sloppily. “You don’t want to get on my bad side, Marsden. I don’t care whose sister you are. You follow my orders or I drop you from DEEP so fast you’ll be back on solid ground before you know what happened.”

The words come out smoothly, a recitation he’s uttered numerous times, to numerous trainees, over numerous infractions. Catch knows how to step into a room and take control. To use his bearing, his tone, his mere presence, to command respect, compliance, obedience. If he’s honest, the training core suits him better than the cockpit ever did. He was made for this, being a trainer. Though the words, this time, are a lie. It would take a hell of a lot for him to drop First’s sister before the end of the quarter, to eject her from the station, even if she was failing miserably.

There are certain things Catch would put up with only for his best friend, and his sister’s inadequate performance will be one of them, if it has to be.

Even so, he’d just as soon intimidate an adequate performance out of her.

“Yes, Sir.” Catch detects the hint of a tremble in her chin, but her voice remains firm. He releases her and she takes a discreet step back. “I won’t be any trouble, Sir.”

* * *