What the freep just happened? Finn blinked, shaking his head. That had been one hells of an introduction—as if he’d been stunned by a shock grenade. First the woman had acted as if she recognized him. Then, for a flash of a moment, a half of a breath, her soul had been exposed to him. He struggled to merge the woman with whom he’d locked gazes with the reality of who she was. Stone-Heart.

She was gods-be-damned Admiral Bandar, and all he wanted was to freepin’ strip off her impeccable uniform and put his hands on her sweet-as-sin body.

Hey, sweetheart, why don’t we get the hells out of here and find someplace to be alone? That’s what he’d like to say, but he could imagine how that would go over. They weren’t at a Borderlands drinking hole, and Bandar wasn’t just any female. He had to behave—to stop thinking of her as a woman and with his cock. To stop noticing her long, graceful neck or the deep hollow under her full lower lip, where he wouldn’t mind suckling.

The snap of physical attraction had hit him hard.

Good thing he hadn’t known how she would look back in the old days, or he might have wanted to be caught. It wasn’t the old days any longer though, and his worries ran far deeper. The loyal band of men and women on his crew were depending on him. As second-in-command on the Unity, he had a fair shot at bringing them with him. Then what were you thinkin’, telling the most infamous Coalition officer that you bathe in blood?

Finn had gone through life wringing humor from oft-depressing circumstances—at times the only way to keep his sanity intact—but blast it all, he damn well knew when to be serious. This was one of those times. He needed this gig.

Unfortunately, his remark had fed into what Bandar already believed—he was a barbarian. Haughtily, she fixed him with a glare, wearing her hatred for Drakken like a war medal. It was obvious that she’d decided to pretend their initial reactions had never happened.

He would play along. Hells, he’d play almost any game so long as starvation stared him in the face.

Yet he returned Bandar’s cold gaze without insolence and without fear. He’d survived this long by relying on his gut. Those instincts now told him that an apology would be a mistake.

She’ll see it as weakness.

“Please, let us eat.” Zaafran waved almost too eagerly at the dining table. It was clear that he sensed the tension.

Turning on the heel of one flawlessly polished boot, Bandar glided after her superior. Nothing wrong with admiring her ah—assets, Finn decided as he trailed her. What man wouldn’t? More than her beauty, he admired her grace. Every move was pure elegance. Through his street rat beginnings, hardscrabble life, and years in the military, he’d rarely crossed paths with women like her.

Zaafran waited until Bandar had taken her seat before doing the same. The officers’ chairs glided to the table, subtly adjusting their height and angle. Smart chairs, Finn thought with dismay. He’d experienced them once already at his in-briefing and orientation. At first, the chair seemed to behave—before turning on him.

Smart chairs were programmed to adjust to hundreds—even thousands—of individual seating and comfort preferences. Those occupied by the two admirals were evidently adjusted, but the ones he’d tried had acted anything but smart. He sized up his chair like an opponent in a fight. Mustering an air of cocky confidence, he lowered his rump into the seat. The chair rocked, swerving sideways and nearly colliding with Admiral Bandar’s before Finn caught the edge of the table.

“They’re not used to Drakken asses yet,” he said with a chuckle.

A sidelong glance at Bandar revealed her disdain. She thought him a brute—that much was obvious. His unfamiliarity with their advanced tech served only to shore up his bathing-in-blood joke, reinforcing her bad opinion. By the gods, though, he’d damn well prove himself worthy to be here, to serve with her. Just as he’d fought all his life to hold on to what rare good things had come his way, he’d fight for this.

I guarantee my skills include a few things you’ll remember more than a chair, sweetheart, he thought before jerking his mind away from visions of sin with his new commanding officer.

Zaafran waved off Finn’s clumsiness. “Once your handprints are logged into the system, the smart chairs will operate as they should. The Ring is hundreds of years old. Retrofitting an ancient structure with modern technology is never without hiccups. Glitches are a way of life here. On the Unity, the smart chairs will obey you, Warleader.”

He damn well hoped so. Or he’d consider dismantling them all and tossing the scrap out of the airlocks.

“Or, rather, soon-to-be former Warleader. It’ll be Triad Captain Rorkken once you take the oath of office to serve the Alliance. Standardization of military rank will be one of the many changes in how we do things in the Triad.” As Zaafran spoke, uniformed aides circled the table, pouring wine. Despite their low rank, they were clean and well-fed—like everyone else Finn had encountered on the Ring. The contrast with his reality was sharp. Your old reality.

The servers lifted the lids off several large bowls, allowing steam to rise. As delicious aromas filled the air, his stomach contracted with hunger. Suddenly, he was ravenous, but he took his cues from his tablemates, who waited to be served. He calculated that there was far more food than the three diners could consume. Maybe he’d take some back for the crew.

You’re not a street urchin anymore, living in a warehouse basement with a pack of other children. These aren’t stolen spoils to grab with voracious hands.

Aye, he was going to be a Triad Alliance officer now, with the expectations of certain behaviors—starting with not stuffing his pockets full of food. Those days were behind him. For good, Finn hoped as he breathed in the smells. Every day he’d be able to eat like this, and soon, his crew as well, gods willing. Rumor had it that the Coalition had plenty in storage. Now he knew that the legends were true—they fed their warriors well. Hot meals would no longer be a luxury. If anything, Finn would have to guard against overindulging and going soft.

“Moor-steak?” an aide asked politely.

“Thank the gods, yes.” Finn sighed, fists on his thighs to restrain himself as grilled filets joined his plate. He couldn’t wolf down the meat like he wanted—he needed to use proper utensils and make a good impression. At least, until he got his sorry ass and his crew’s on the Unity. Once they were aboard, getting them off would be much harder. Until then, he could afford no mistakes.

Finally, the aides left them to their meal. Finn’s right hand nearly shook in anticipation as he took hold of his fork and knife. From the corner of his eye, he observed how the other two officers used their utensils and consumed the various foods.

He cut a slice of meat and slid it inside his waiting mouth. Praise be. He was a self-declared carnivore; the taste and texture of the moor-steak nearly had him singing aloud. Another slice followed quickly, then another.

He’d not had a meal this good in a long time. Perhaps not ever. Well, except for maybe the time they’d raided the prison warden’s pleasure vessel on Indra—ah, well, he’d best not share that now; there had been more than food sampled that night. Smiling, Finn took the largest socially acceptable bite of meat.

Chewing, he found Bandar watching him through hooded green eyes while delicately sampling a fruit he’d never seen. Again, curiosity surfaced about the pain she’d revealed. Her eyes were a solid wall, allowing no hint at the woman he’d glimpsed earlier. It was almost as if he’d dreamed her. Maybe he had. He, a former Drakken street kid, dining with two top Coalition officers on board the Ring, could even be explained as a hallucination.

Enough thinking. Back to eating. He lifted a hunk of fresh bread when Bandar interrupted.

“When was the last time you ate?” she asked.

Finn worked his jaw. His first impulse was to lie. He detected no pity, yet he would take no pride in admitting that he and his crew had been existing on the brink of starvation. On the other hand, lying to her seemed distasteful. “Yesterday. It’s been weeks since we’ve had more than one full meal in a day, though.”

“Weeks?” Bandar put down her fork.

Finn did the same with his bread, but gods, how he wanted to dredge the crust through the puddle of gravy on his plate and shove it into his mouth. Drakken tradition was to devour first, talk later—if they talked at all during a meal. Drinking, on the other hand, loosened tongues. That’s when talking occurred. Dining was linked too closely with actual survival. “I’ve not had the money to feed my crew. The Imperial Navy operated on a scrip system. We’d exchange scrip for legal tender. Now the scrip is worthless. I used up what credits I had left as well as most of our food and liquor last week bartering for repairs.”

“You were forced to choose between repairs and food.” Was Bandar appalled? Saddened? Why did that perfectly neutral green gaze irk him so?

Because you glimpsed what was there underneath. Aye, he was a pirate at heart. Once a pirate got a peek of treasure, he wouldn’t rest until it was his.

“I’m not the only ship captain making that choice. It’s happening across the Borderlands.”

“This is precisely the reason we set up camps,” Zaafran said. “They can handle thousands of refugees, and there are plans underway to accommodate millions more.”

“They don’t trust the Coalition enough to accept their help, as they don’t know what they’ll face when coming into port.”

“They’d rather risk starvation?” Zaafran asked.

“Than spend their years rotting on a prison world, aye. Most resort to piracy where and when they can get away with it. But with fewer goods left to raid, their options are dwindling by the day.”

“It sounds like a recipe for war,” Bandar said. “Outlaws in possession of military-grade weaponry, driven by desperation and distrust. What do you suggest we should do, Warleader?”

“Reach out to the rogue Drakken ships and offer food and fuel with no strings attached. Don’t force them to stay in the camps. Make it their choice. If you were to offer them a blanket pardon, it would also go a long way toward gaining their trust.”

Bandar softly coughed, bringing her glass of wine to her lush lips. “Pirates serving on Coalition ships and pardons for Drakken criminals, what’s next?”

Stone-Heart laughing at one of my jokes, naked and in bed? Finn willed his tongue to stay put.

Bandar did a double-take at him, almost as if she’d read the mischief lurking behind his eyes. A fleeting look of pain crossed her face, and for a breath, he thought her composure might falter again—but she replaced her glass carefully and turned her attention to the colorful fruit on her plate.

“In light of what we’ve discussed, it will certainly be timely for the Unity’s first deployment to be in the Borderlands. I’m familiar with the territory, and we know Rorkken is as well. We’ll have to continue to brainstorm how to entice rogue Drakken vessels out of the shadows.” Her gaze lifted and met his. “A blanket pardon is out of the question. That will have to be decided on a case-by-case basis.”

“If you’re looking for a spotless record, Admiral, you won’t find one.”

“The fact that you’re my first officer proves your point, yes?”

“Aye, I’m the best of the worst, they tell me.” He let out a self-deprecating chuckle. His chair rocked precariously, and he gripped the edge of the table to steady himself. Damn chair. “But before this voyage is over, you’ll consider me the best of the best, Admiral,” he vowed.

“I expect no less from any member of my crew, Warleader.”

“Speaking of a good crew . . . ” Finn took a breath and said what he’d come to say. “I understand there are billets set aside for as many as two hundred Drakken on the Unity. I also understand that not a single Drakken other than myself has been invited aboard. I have fifty-two tried and trusted crewmembers on my ship. Good and loyal men and women. We’ll need them, every one, if we’re to accomplish our mission.”

Zaafran sat back in his chair. “Is this wise? Their loyalty must be to the Triad and Admiral Bandar, not to their former leader. If we break them up, it won’t be as much of an issue. But if they remain an intact unit—”

“I’ll talk to them, sir. I’ll explain how the new chain of command will work. They’ll listen to me.” Without this chance, they’d go hungry, he wanted to add, but he’d play the sympathy card as a last resort only.

“I assume you also have reservations about the idea, Brit,” Zaafran commented to Bandar.

“Actually, I do not.”

They both glanced at her, surprised, as she speared a ripe berry with the tines of her fork.

“Their loyalty to Rorkken may prove an advantage,” she said. “They answer to Rorkken, who answers to me. If there’s a problem, he will remedy it. But there won’t be any problems on my ship, will there, Warleader?”

She wanted this to fail. He saw it then. She wanted someone on his crew to start trouble, and they’d be off her ship, all of them.

“There won’t be trouble, Admiral. I give you my word as warleader.”

Which meant little to her, he sensed.

“I’ll hold you to it, Rorkken.”

“I won’t fail you.”

Something painful flickered in her eyes at his quiet tone. Again, the wall had parted, doing something to his gut. She had the kind of haunted look that would send a man to the ends of the universe to make it better, if he could. What the hells had happened to her? Who had done her wrong? Her name might be synonymous with war, but Brit Bandar, the woman, had suffered heartbreak.

She turned to Zaafran. “I’ll take Rorkken’s crew in its entirety, if that’s acceptable, Prime-Admiral.”

Zaafran waved a hand at Bandar in relief. He likely figured he was one step closer to launching them out of his hair.

Finn folded his arms over his chest, armor creaking. He’d won, but instead of celebrating having his crew on board, he was thinking about what a gods-be-damned long voyage it would be. First, there was something between him and Bandar that he couldn’t figure out—something to do with hate and hurt and one hells of a mutual sexual attraction. Combined with their patrolling of the Borderlands to hunt down rogue Drakken, her spurring to arrest them, and his wanting to save them—he’d leave now, if he were smart.

Problem was, Finn had always had more hunger than smarts. He needed this job, and his crew needed him to keep this job. He’d waged worse battles against worse odds than the one between his heart, his cock, and this hands-off woman.