“I smell Drakken.” Brit sniffed as she exited the airlock between the Vengeance and the Ring. Hands clasped behind her back, her posture perfect, she strode forward as Lieutenant Star-class Hadley Keyren hurried to keep up. “They all have that peculiar stink.”

Hadley sniffed the air. It was clear by the girl’s silence that the cloying stench didn’t bother her. Brit would never forget it for as long as she lived.

Drakken combatants were here—inside the Ring. Blast this treaty for letting barbarians sully our highest military offices. “Find out where in the VIP wing I am to stay, Hadley. Make sure my quarters are set up as soon as possible.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

A group of officers passed. “Good day, Admiral,” they greeted with respectful nods.

“Good day,” Brit replied, scanning their faces. They wore Coalition uniforms mostly, with one Terran amongst them. No Drakken.

One or more of the monsters were here though. Of that, she wasn’t mistaken.

Brit’s hands flexed at the small of her back. Her stomach muscles clenched with tension. “Hadley, additional crewmembers will have been added to the roster for the new vessel. I want their names, ranks, and specialties. Include their military history and war records too. When it comes to new personnel, I don’t care for surprises.”

“Yes, ma’am. I’ll curate the data and upload it to your data-vis.”

“Very good. Have it ready so that I may examine it while I dine.”

Hadley nodded. “There’s such an expansive menu here on the Ring. Everything looks delicious. I ordered the broiled rainbow fish with a tropical fruit medley for you. And wine. From the Kin-Kan Vineyards, a vintage 6763. Is that acceptable?”

“A ’63? Yes. Very good. Thank you.” Crisp and efficient as always, Hadley was the most dependable aide ever to work with Brit. It would be easy to become accustomed to such a competent executive officer, but she wouldn’t take her for granted. One day, Hadley would leave her side for a position of greater responsibility. In the meantime, however, her training would continue in earnest.

Brit stopped in front of Prime-Admiral Zaafran’s suite of offices with a click of her polished, heeled boots. “Lieutenant Keyren,” she said.

Hadley’s intelligent blue eyes lifted expectantly. Her golden hair was knotted in a chignon above the rim of her uniform collar, as regulations dictated, not a strand out of place: a model officer. There was a dewiness about her, however—a glow, a palpable innocence. Once, Brit had been just as young and sweet and eager to please. That had been before—

She hardened her jaw. “I hope you enjoyed what little there was of your shore leave. It may be some time before we see another.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Hadley’s gaze shifted to Zaafran’s offices. “Good luck in there.”

“Luck favors those who don’t depend on it.” Brit steadied herself and entered the office of the prime-admiral as if it were her own.

Gorgeous babe, twelve o’clock. With his gaze locked on the slim blonde, US Air Force Captain Ruben Barrientes smoothed a hand over his Air Force blues. Too bad he wasn’t wearing his flight suit—his Air Force Thunderbirds insignia never failed to impress the ladies. Chances were though that the hot little number in Coalition blacks didn’t speak or read English and had never heard of the Thunderbirds flying demonstration team, the coveted slot he’d vacated when offered his current, even more coveted position. He’d have to deploy other assets, the God-given kind, to make a good impression.

Time to turn up the charm. His mouth curved in a suave, confident smile as he started forward then hesitated. She was busy tapping away on her tablet. Socializing was probably the last thing on her mind.

True, but she hadn’t met him yet. Targeting the blonde again, he rolled in for the kill.

“Yes, ma’am; no ma’am. Girl, you don’t deserve to be pushed around like that,” he said in her language, low and in her ear, before she whirled around. He wanted to kiss the circle of surprise right off her soft pink lips.

“We are not acquainted,” she stated.

“A terrible tragedy, no? Allow me to correct it immediately.” He extended his hand. “Ruben Barrientes. Call me Tango. It’s my call sign—my military nickname. Texas is my home, but I was born in Argentina. The tango is a type of dance, but really, it’s the only dance. It’s Argentina’s gift to the world. Me—I’m the other gift.” He grinned to say he was joking, but she screwed her face up in the most adorable frown of concentration. She probably didn’t know anything about Texas or Argentina, let alone the tango. More so, he was rambling in an alien language—the Queen’s Tongue or the “QT”—where his desire to connect outpaced his fluency.

Latrino! Beaner! Old memories stirred—of fighting elementary school bullies as the scrawny immigrant kid in Houston. Of struggling to master English, with all its slang and nuances, in order to make friends and fit in. At least the blonde’s baby blues twinkled, as if she found his stumbling endearing. Endearing wasn’t his primary objective, but it was a start.

“Greetings, Tan-goh. I am Lieutenant Star-class Hadley Keyren.” Instead of taking his hand, she thumped her fist on the center of her chest—the formal Coalition custom for “hello.”

Whoops. He probably should have done it her way. Months of crash courses on the Coalition—then the Triad Alliance—hadn’t polished away all his rough Earthling edges. He’d keep working at it.

Tango was synonymous with smooth. He’d keep it that way.

“So, Hadley, I meant what I said. You don’t deserve being bossed around like that. Scurrying after her, all sweet and eagerness to please, like the girl in The Devil Wears Prada.” The vintage movie was a real classic. He’d always been drawn to old things, and this film ranked high on his personal favorites. Hollywood, however, would have been as far removed from Hadley’s reality as Alpha Centauri for the average Earthling—or at least, it had been until Earth hooked up with the Coalition, leveled up with their advanced technology, and started playing Final Frontier. “We’ll watch it together. You’ll love it. It’s just like watching you and Lady Bulldozer.” He sniffed, imitating the senior officer, “‘Have it ready so that I may examine it while I dine.’”

“Lady who?”

“Lady Bulldozer. The one wearing all the medals and bossing you around.”

Hadley’s gaze chilled, turning dark and humorless. “Admiral Bandar.”

His gaze flew toward the staff offices in hopes of another sighting of the admiral. “Whoa. That was Bandar?”

“It certainly was. Admiral Bandar. I’m her executive officer.”

Admiral Brit Bandar was to the Coalition as General George Patton had been to the United States—and he’d just dissed her in front of her exec. Not only that, but Bandar was his commanding officer now too. The official headshot photo he’d glimpsed during his transition training was nothing like the reality. He wasn’t sure what he might have expected instead but not a tall, sleek, comic book superheroine complete with patent leather dominatrix boots and a black commando uniform. She was only missing a bull whip, and he wasn’t so sure that the admiral didn’t have one tucked in her belt; he’d been too busy looking at Hadley. 

“I’m glad she didn’t hear what I said. She’d probably rip my balls off and spit them out.” Unconsciously, he brought his legs together, focusing on Hadley in time to find her in the midst of chewing him out.

“Admiral Bandar is one of our greatest war heroes. Millions owe her their lives, including me. Yet, you speak of her with such disrespect, as if you’re worthy enough to utter her name at all—”

“I meant no disrespect—”

“Yes, you did. Calling her a . . . a . . . ”

“A bulldozer.”

“Yes,” she seethed. “How dare you, Terran.”

Tango looked at her with growing admiration. Girl was a fighter, not afraid to stand toe-to-toe in battle with him. He liked that—liked it a lot. She reminded him of Elena. He shoved that memory under the rug too. “Hadley, Hadley. This is a misunderstanding. If I’d known who she was, I never would have said what I did. You have to believe me. It was just a joke. I swear.”

“It’s disrespectful to speak of superiors in that manner, joke or not.”

“Point taken. Blame it on my crude attempt to make you laugh. I thought, since we’re going to be serving together on the Unity, that we could be friends. I screwed up badly. I’m sorry.” He spread his hand over his tie and heart, bowing his head. Then, counting to three, he peeked up at her with his most charming, heart-melting smile. “Let me prove it to you. What are you doing later?”

She leaned forward, hugging her tablet to her chest. “You’ve been assigned to the new ship? You’re Terran.”

“That I am. Terran, Coalition, Drakken: we’re all together now.”

“Wait. Did you say”—her voice tightened to a squeak—“Drakken? On the same ship?”

How was it possible for her not to know? Tango grinned. Here was his chance to deliver the big scoop and earn back her respect. He opened his mouth to drop the news but mutters nearby drew her attention.

Hadley’s eyes widened as a tall Drakken crossed the corridor, trailed by two black-suited Coalition security goons. The Drakken wore boots over leather pants. Under a leather vest, his shirt was more than halfway unbuttoned, held in place by rugged crisscrossed weapons belts. Streaks of tattooed and tanned skin peeked out between the well-worn straps. His long hair was tied in a ponytail and decorated with beads. But his expression was hard, his eyes wary, and he needed a shave. Tango stepped well clear as the Drakken officer strode past, leaving behind a faint whiff of leather and burned sugar mixed with bacon grease that had been left out too long.

Tango leaned sideways. “Hello, Jack Sparrow,” he murmured to Hadley.

“Who?”

“Jack Sparrow, from Pirates of the Caribbean.” Explaining was futile. “It’s another old movie we’re going to watch. I have thousands of them with me. TV shows and music too. Get ready for a crash course in Earth’s pop culture.”

Hadley wasn’t listening. Her full attention was on the Drakken disappearing into the waiting room for the prime-admiral’s office.

“Another one of our shipmates, I guess,” Tango said.

“He was wearing the rank of warleader.”

“Why else would he be here?”

Hadley’s eyes closed. “Goddess . . . ” she whispered and sagged against the bulkhead.

The prime-admiral’s office commanded a sweeping vista of the inner wall of the Ring of the Goddess. Hundreds of thousands of portholes glittered across the enormous wheel of the space station, like a jeweled cuff bracelet spinning high above the planet Sakka, the Goddess Keep. It had been years since Brit’s last visit, but the structure’s sheer size and history—and role as the seat of their parliament and the nerve center of their military—never failed to humble her.

The last time she had set foot in these hallowed halls, she’d helped devise the strategy to thwart a major Drakken offensive by their relentless warlord. She’d never anticipated returning so soon as the victor of their once endless war. Too many years they had assumed victory would come only with a final assault on the Empire’s center, leaving billions dead and a civilization broken. Instead, the warlord had toppled from within—a people’s victory. The Drakken High Command had scattered, fleeing as their empire self-destructed like a dirty bomb, but without all the poison contained. A few of their monstrous battlelords were still on the loose—dangerous creatures, displeased to see their power wrenched from them. 

According to the intelligence report, the situation was grimmest in the Borderlands. War criminals were disguising themselves to evade capture, and piracy was on the rise. Hundreds of the refugee camps set up by the Reunification Commission were unwittingly offering food and shelter to war criminals—after all, who could tell one Drakken from the other? No wonder Zaafran wanted to see her! She would be more than happy to help the Coalition mop up the mess. Her lips twitched into a satisfied smile. Perhaps “peacetime” would not be so bad after all.

“No, have him wait there.” Zaafran’s voice carried across his private office. He stood in front of his wall of windows, his index finger pressed to the PCD in his ear, as Brit entered. “Yes. I’ll call when I’m ready to see him.”

“Admiral Bandar is here, sir,” a security guard announced.

Zaafran strode toward her, his smile broad, his physique trim. Mick had always been a handsome man—elegantly featured with a square jaw and thick, salt-and-pepper hair, the latter his only real change since their days as eager young ensigns. She allowed him to hug her. She’d known him for too many years to refuse.

“Kin-Kan wine before lunch?” he offered.

“You remembered,” she purred.

“Always.”

The table was set for three, she noted. Interesting. Who else would be joining them? She kept her silence—and her impeccable military bearing. The prime-admiral would share when he was ready.

Side by side, they sipped the luscious, ruby-hued wine and admired the view. Brit left it up to her superior officer to either speak seriously or make small talk.

“I want to discuss your new command, Admiral.”

So much for small talk; he was going straight to business. She preferred it that way.

“Brit, we’ve followed orders for all our military lives. Some have been easy, some difficult.”

“Of course.”

“Our duty takes us from our loved ones. It overrules our own choices, our personal freedom. Yet we serve because we are a special breed—a breed apart.”

“With all due respect, Prime-Admiral, this is a conversation one might have with a new, untried ensign on their maiden voyage. I’m one of your most experienced commanding officers. My loyalty and my devotion to duty is something that you should expect without question.”

Zaafran compressed his lips as he studied her.

“Without question,” she repeated.

“I know, Brit. You, more than any other officer. But I . . . You . . . ” He sighed. She’d never seen him speechless.

“Better that I show you first.” He activated his holo-vis. “Display Triad.” A metallic triangle appeared, glowing as it spun slowly in front of them midair, each edge differently colored. “From the Reunification Hearings has come our future—the Triad Alliance. Planet Earth, the former Drakken Empire, and . . . we”—he pointed to the edge colored blue, then red, and finally black—“form the Triad. The Coalition as we have always known it is no more.”

Surprise exploded inside her, but her military bearing remained confident and unflinching. One hand gripped the delicate stem of her wineglass; the other arm pressed to her back, elbow bent just so. Her shoulders were straight, her chin up and expression serene. Her only visible reaction to Zaafran’s bombshell was the barest lift of her left brow. “This is what the Reunification Commission has been cooking up during those closed-door hearings.”

“This and much more. We, the former Coalition, will provide most of the resources and infrastructure in these early stages of reorganization. Earth is too small and backward, of course, and the Drakken Empire is in disarray.”

“So what you’re saying is that we’re still in charge.”

His slight smile gave the answer she wanted.

“As it should be,” she murmured, comforted by the knowledge that some things—the important things—hadn’t changed. The Coalition had, after all, won the war.

Her commanding officer spoke to the holo-vis once more. “Show next.” A warship beyond her wildest dreams replaced the triangle. “Feast your eyes on the first Triad Alliance ship.”

The ship was nearly twice as large as the Vengeance, with a massive drive core and an impressive array of weaponry over which any ship captain would sigh. “She’s magnificent.”

Zaafran beamed with pride. “She’s every bit as much a symbol of our future as the one I just showed you. Congratulations, Brit. The TAS Unity is yours.”

“The Unity? Bah. What kind of self-respecting warship has such a feeble name?”

“A new kind of ship. A ship for a new era. A ship for diplomacy.”

Her brow went up again. She was a soldier, a warrior—an operational admiral who made decisions at the helm of a battleship. Not a staff admiral consigned to writing doctrine in an office. Not a diplomat.

“She symbolizes the Triad Alliance’s first steps toward the future,” Zaafran continued. “As her commanding officer, you will lead a crew consisting of Coalition, Terran, and Drakken.”

And Drakken. So there it was. Brit took a delicate, controlled sip of wine, rolling it on her tongue before swallowing. “How many?”

“The final figure still has not been set but plan for between six and seven hundred. Our initial mandate requires quotas of approximately sixty percent Coalition, thirty-five percent Drakken, and five percent Terran.”

“Approximately two hundred Drakken then. More than I’d like to see but still a manageable number. I’ll assign the bulk below decks and out of sight. The rest will report to the master steward. They can keep the ship spic and span. No one cares for galley duty. I’m sure the rest of the crew will appreciate the extra hands scraping food off their plates and whatever else the scrub-bots miss. As for those from Earth, I can’t decide if their number is too small to be of concern or just enough to get in the way.”

“No,” he said firmly, unamused. “That’s not the way it’s going to work. The crew will be integrated, not segregated. We’re going to make peace work. We’re going to prove that we all can get along. And if you don’t feel up to the task, Bandar, I’ll pull you off this assignment right now and send you to Ninfarr, where you can follow the Vengeance into early retirement.”

Shock vibrated through her at the unexpected reprimand. She deserved it; she’d clearly angered him with her impertinence. Mick’s intensity reminded her of how they’d sat around war tables in their younger days, strategizing to thwart Drakken onslaughts. He’d been one of the Coalition’s greatest tacticians before his promotions had removed him from the bridge of his warship. For that reason, Brit had refused to follow in his footsteps, even though it meant sacrificing power and never ascending higher than her current rank.

It mattered little. She wasn’t here for pay or status—she wanted to be close to battle. She wanted to hear and feel it. She would not be denied the up close and personal satisfaction of punishing her enemies. The creation of the Triad Alliance—an ill-advised political experiment—wouldn’t change that. Serving with Drakken wouldn’t either. It would just . . . complicate it a little.

Zaafran’s expression gentled unexpectedly. “Gods, Brit. Forgive me.” He paced a few steps away and rested a hand on the top of his head. Once more, he seemed to struggle to speak. “You’re the strongest person I know. You always have been. But this . . . it’s asking too much, even of you. Especially of you. Anyone who experienced what you did—”

“No.” She’d almost showed emotion. Almost—but her posture was perfection, her expression utter serenity. “We will not speak of that.” True to her nickname, her tone and expression were cast of stone. “Sir,” she added, conscious of how closely she skated to insubordination, regardless of their history as friends and equals. Mick Zaafran knew what few others did. Only he, the Prime-Minister, and a few other high-ranking officials had access to her personnel records and the need-to-know of her life prior to her selection as a cadet in the prestigious Royal Galactic Military Academy. He had every right to question her capability. Her connection to the Arrayar Settlement cast her objectivity—and thus her ability to function as the commanding officer of the Unity—into doubt. She wouldn’t fail, however. Her career was her life.

Blast it all, her career was all she had left. She wouldn’t let the Drakken destroy it whether directly or indirectly.

The knuckles of her left hand dug into her back. “No, I am not unbiased when it comes to Drakken. You are correct in that regard, but how many of us are? Be honest.”

He nodded.

“However, my devotion to duty and my loyalty to my people is without question. I accept this mission—it is my honor to do so. And I will carry out my orders exactly as you have stated.” She shot him a sly glance. “You never said I had to like it, though.”

His mouth twitched. They sipped more wine in companionable silence. “There’s something else not to like, I’m afraid,” he said after a moment. “Your new second-in-command. We’ve chosen Finnar Rorkken. He holds the Drakken rank of warleader.”

“Rorkken?” Rorkken—that bastard, that thief! The wily brigand who’d evaded her every effort to ensnare him. “He’s the Scourge of the Borderlands!”

“Was,” Zaafran corrected.

“I came close to capturing him several times. Had my primary focus not been on protecting the Coalition from the Imperial Navy, Rorkken would have been mine.” Oh, how she’d longed for that face-to-face encounter—with her triumphant, him in wrist and ankle cuffs. She’d have made him pay for the secret admiration he inspired in her. “It’s been years since I’ve heard his name. I assumed he was dead. Though in truth, I haven’t given his pitiful soul much thought.”

“He left piracy behind and accepted a commission in the Imperial Navy seven years ago. He’s commanded a medium-sized warcruiser ever since.”

“But we mustn’t forget what he was.”

“We all have pasts,” Mick said. “It was a dirty war.”

“I assumed Star-Major Madras would be reassigned with me.” A young go-getter with political connections—a few too many for her liking—he had been promoted far ahead of his peers—thanks to those connections—to assume the coveted slot of her second-in-command. She had been skeptical of Madras at first, and perhaps a little hard on him, but they had gotten on quite well of late. “He’s served at my side for less than a year.”

“I know that it’s sudden. My hands are tied, Brit.” He softened the blow. “Parliament voted. The new laws governing the Unity insist that she be commanded by a former Coalition officer, with a Drakken officer as the second and an officer from Earth as the third. Most of the personnel from the Vengeance will be reassigned to other ships, but I assure you that your senior officers will be well taken care of. I’ve already secured Madras a high-level temporary-duty position here on the Ring. He’ll go far, despite this interruption.”

“Of all the Drakken officers to choose from, Rorkken was the best you could do?” she grumbled.

“He’s the only Drakken of any respectable officer rank who isn’t dead, in hiding, or on trial for war crimes.”

“My, what impressive qualifications—last cookie at the bottom of the box and a broken one, at that.”

“I think you’ll be pleased in spite of your reservations. He’s a good officer.”

The only good Drakken was a dead Drakken.

“Or, if you’d rather, you can return to the Vengeance while it sits in retrofit on Ninfarr,” he said as if reading her mind.

“Ninfarr. That damn stink pit.” Brit drew her shoulders back.

The prime-admiral’s amusement at her indignation didn’t quite cover his seriousness. Unless she cooperated, Zaafran would sit her on Ninfarr for who knew how long; she would be stuck in a locale she hated, out of commission and useless. She’d rather share the bridge with a Drakken.

She took a controlled, small sip of wine as the prime-admiral spoke into his PCD: “Send him in, Joss.” A pair of security guards entered the alcove across from them. Then a barbarian with heavy boots stomped inside and stopped, only his profile in view as Zaafran stepped forward to greet him.

The Scourge of the Borderlands in the flesh. It was unfortunate that their first meeting would be without him in a cage—where he would have been if up to her.

His Drakken attire and adornments fluttered, tinkled, and clanked in contrast to the clean and silent black uniforms of his escorts. He was formidable in build—lean, powerful, broad-shouldered. His nose had a small hump where it had probably been broken at some point. Otherwise, he seemed clean featured, even handsome in a raw, compelling way.

Good looks, wasted on a barbarian. Like most Drakken, his clothing revealed a good bit of skin. His tattooed flesh wasn’t filthy or sweaty—as she was used to from his kind—but golden and smooth, although his uniform—if one could call it that—was faded and had quite obviously been mended by hand in several places. Brit couldn’t imagine life without self-repairing fabric. Thankfully, his clothing carried only a whiff of the smoky-sweet scent she would forever associate with his kind—but it was enough to turn her stomach.

The Drakken came to attention, bringing the knuckles of his right hand to his forehead. “Warleader Finnar Rorkken reporting as ordered, sir.”

Zaafran answered with a fist over his chest. “How was your journey?”

“Long, sir.”

“And the in-briefing?”

“Also long.”

Zaafran chuckled. “I’ll pass along kudos to Star-Lieutenant Joss for a job well done. Come, I want to introduce you to your new commanding officer.”

Brit stood at ease but maintained impeccable posture as both men turned in her direction. Rorkken slowed, as if noticing her for the first time. His eyes crinkled at the edges as they narrowed—warm, thickly lashed brown eyes under a pair of neat, dark brows that drew together in boyish inquisitiveness.

Her breath caught. Seff. He looked like Seff.

Brit’s heart convulsed like a wounded animal, her mouth drying. How could this be? The Drakken resembled her long-dead husband, but older—the love of her life, lost so long ago that she could hardly remember his face, the feel of his arms, the sound of his voice. Yet now he was here, in the very form of the monsters who’d taken him from her.

The wine in her glass sloshed. She put the glass down with a loud clatter. Zaafran glanced at her as Rorkken, the shrewd bastard, contemplated her with a gaze far too penetrating and perceptive for her liking.

She couldn’t seem to rip her focus from his face. She knew exactly how he’d look if he threw his head back and laughed. Grief simmered inside her, along with shock and joy—and attraction. Physical attraction.

No. Damn it all, not that—anything but attraction toward a Drakken. There was only one kind of lust she felt for them and that was vengeance. Ever since her arrival at the Royal Military Academy, where she’d grappled with her post-traumatic stress and grief, the determination to avenge herself and Seff had kept her going. It had ruled every decision she’d made.

The bands of control now clamped so tightly around her chest that she could hardly breathe. Her heart raced; icy perspiration prickled her skin. Brit Bandar was a mess.

Admiral Bandar, however, would reveal nothing.

She dragged her attention away, averting her narrowed eyes until she’d gained control. Rorkken’s resemblance to Seff was slight at best. Of course it was. The barbarian was taller and older. He was bigger-boned, and even his skin tone differed from her late husband’s. In fact, the more her shock abated, the more she realized the differences that she should have noticed before. Yet that first impression had been enough to rip open her old scars, allowing for feelings that she’d worked so hard and for so many years to suppress.

By the time she let go of the wineglass and resumed her impeccable military bearing, she was certain her face registered no shock. She was less sure if she’d exposed herself in that unguarded moment, though. The warleader peered at her, as if he were unsettled himself. What had he seen?

Brit made the first strike, a defensive measure. “You’re staring, Warleader. Do you not know who I am?” Her brow went up. “Or is it that you do?”

The warleader paused before answering. Smart man, that.

Zaafran interrupted. He seemed anxious to regain control of the proceedings. “Admiral Brit Bandar,” he told Rorkken. “The commanding officer of the Unity.”

Shock flickered in his warm brown eyes. Stone-Heart. She saw the thought, as clear as day. Her mouth formed into a not-quite smile.

Rorkken brought the back of his hand to his forehead in a salute. She’d expected him to recoil in fear when meeting her, to be somewhat diminished in her awe-inspiring presence.

Not Rorkken. It seemed that the knowledge of her identity only intensified his interest. She wished she could erase whatever he’d seen, but time could never be turned back. She of all people knew that. “Admiral,” he said, “It is an honor.”

She was acutely aware of the tilt of his head and timbre of his voice—hells—and the way he watched her with Seff’s eyes—double hells. How dare the barbarian make her think of Seff? How dare he make her respond to him as a male? She heard respect in his tone, saw it in his body language, and yet . . . his frank, searching gaze pondered her as no man had dared in more years than she cared to remember.

He makes you feel like Brit again.

For the first time in her long career, she didn’t know how to react. She chose what always worked best—cold silence and a haughty glare. Her trademark.

Rorkken didn’t flinch. “I don’t expect you to feel the same about serving with me.”

“As a matter of fact, I’d rather cough up blood.”

“And waste good blood? We Drakken would rather use it for a nice, warm bath.”

Outrage boiled until she realized his remark was meant as a self-deprecating jest. He’d teased her. No one teased her. She was Admiral Bandar—no one would dare.

This Drakken dared.

Her reaction swung between hate, surprise, and respect—hate for his kind, surprise that he recognized how society viewed the Drakken people, and respect for moderating his brash self-confidence with self-awareness and intelligence, traits she wouldn’t have expected from a Drakken barbarian. Murderers, all of them—but she would have to find a way to tolerate this one. For duty’s sake.

For her career’s sake. Zaafran’s words came back to haunt her: “If you don’t feel up to the task, Bandar, I’ll pull you off this assignment right now and send you to Ninfarr.” He’d given her no way out—either work with Rorkken or sit with the Vengeance in dry dock, far from the front lines. The choice was clear.

Dry dock would give her too much time to think.