Chapter 6

Lorran:

“What are you doing here?”

The female—Bronwyn—stood at the partition, as if she gathered the courage to enter the helm. She clutched a notebook to her chest like a shield, then lifted her chin. Striding toward the empty seat next to him with the confidence of belonging, he reluctantly found himself admiring her act of bravery.

Fucking hell, he did not want to admire her. He needed to stay focused on the mission. Her presence was a temptation, however admirable, that he could not afford.

“Asking the tough questions, I see.” She folded her legs underneath herself in the seat.

Stars. He had been an ass to her. He should apologize. His brothers set a terrible precedent for starting off badly with their mates, and Lorran followed suit.

She continued speaking, “Some grumpy guy told me I was thinking too loud, and he needed to get some sleep, so he kicked me off the bunk bed. Wow, I literally never imagined saying those words.”

And he especially did not want to like her because she was brave and adorable.

“That would be Mylomon, my partner for this mission and superior officer. You should not be here,” he repeated.

“Yeah, yeah. Dangerous mission, fragile human. I get it.” Her hair had been pulled back into a queue, but the curls strained to escape. A few strands around her face hung free in long, twisting curls.

“No, I mean here, in the navigator’s seat.” Damn it all, he wanted to see her hair unbound.

With a dramatic huff, she stomped over to the seat furthest away. The navigator and pilot’s seats faced the console. Two additional seats were built into the wall, across the helm and facing each other.

“Better?” she asked. He tilted his head in agreement. “How long until we get…wherever?”

“Approximately thirteen hours in total. We arrive at the jump gate in ninety minutes.”

“A gate is a big fancy teleporter?” The color drained from her face, leaving her rich complexion otherwise ashen.

“A gate creates a temporary wormhole between another gate. Teleportation works on the same principle, only scaled down.” He held out two hands and moved them closer to demonstrate.

“Is that safe? For me?”

“Yes,” he said truthfully, withholding that traversing through the gate would be uncomfortable. Already affected by teleportation sickness, she could not enjoy the process. Bypassing the gate would add days to the journey—an unacceptable option when there could be survivors. “A basic field kit should contain medication to counteract the side effects. You will take the medication to be cautious.”

She nodded. “Can I call my mother? Just to let her know I got here okay. I tried, but my comm won’t connect.” Bronwyn held up a comm unit, the flexible resin screen glinting in the light.

“That is not possible. This is a covert mission. No communications.”

“I thought it was a rescue mission,” she replied.

“A covert rescue mission.”

A grin tugged at the corners of her lips, which perplexed him. “Tell me why you smile,” he demanded. “I am not being charming or amusing, yet you smile.”

“I seriously doubt you’d know charming if it came up and bit you in the ass.”

“Incorrect. I am charming and a delight,” he said with surety.

“Sure, Jan,” she said and rolled her eyes.

“I know what that means.” He did not know the identity of this Jan, but the message conveyed with the gesture of passive-aggression—possibly sarcasm—was known to him. His brothers’ mates favored that gesture.

“Look, I know you’re all salty that I’m crashing your top-secret, boys-only clubhouse, but I didn’t plan this. The computer said you were on the shuttle, and the medic guy dropped me off. I’m not going to apologize for you failing to get the memo. The volunteer center arranged everything. Sorry not sorry.”

“I received no such memo. The message arrived only after I discovered you hiding like a stowaway.”

“I wasn’t hiding,” she protested, her voice rising.

“The privacy screen was drawn.”

“With my bright pink luggage out in the open? The medic gave me something for my headache—which is fine, thanks for asking—and it made me drowsy.”

“That is…perfectly reasonable,” he admitted, irritation draining away.

“Will you two be quiet? There will be no sleep once we arrive! Do not disturb my rest now!” an angry voice shouted from the back.

Lorran shut the partition and initiated a sound dampening program.

“Apologies. I did not intend to raise my voice. I know this is not your fault,” he said, determined to employ some of the charm he so humbly bragged about to turn this situation around. He understood something of Terran females, as his brothers’ mates were Terran. He considered Hazel a good friend, and he quite liked Rosemary.

Bronwyn drummed her pencil against the notebook on her lap. “Who takes three weeks to repair communications? I thought you guys were like badass space warriors, the defenders of the universe, but you can’t even get your messages. What sort of slide shoe operation is this?”

Lorran shook his head in confusion. The translation chip worked without fail, but it often garbled idioms. “Slide shoe?”

“Slipshod,” she repeated slowly, like he inadequately processed information, which was fair. “It means negligent, like a pair of crappy shoes that keep falling off.”

“This is a very specific situation.”

“That needed a word. Obviously.” Her cheeks puffed as she sighed dramatically on the last word.

Adorable. He felt compelled to share this observation, but she tossed him a sharp glance, causing him to remain silent.

“Sorry. I’m being an absolute grump, and that’s really not me. Today’s been a lot, you know. Sorry for real.”

He nodded. “We owe each other apologies. My family has a disastrous record for first impressions with our mates.”

“Keeping that traditional alive and well.” She grimaced. “Sorry, that was still grumpy.”

“My brothers will expire from mirth when they learn of this.” He could imagine Seeran’s glee. The male hardly expressed an emotion other than disdain, but he could hear Seeran’s laughter now. Still, Lorran remembered the years after the Earth invasion when the fires in Seeran’s gut died and his brother had been cold, dormant in a half-existence. He’d take Seeran’s teasing and mockery, as was a brother’s due.

“Can we start over?” Bronwyn asked. She leaned forward, the notebook in her lap forgotten. “We both agree that the situation wasn’t exactly our fault, but we were showing our butts.”

“I did no such thing! And I would certainly remember your ass. It is noteworthy.”

“Oh my God, really? Is noteworthy code for big? You know what, scratch that. It’s a phrase that means behaving badly.”

“My cock is noteworthy, so make of that what you will.”

Silence hung between them as he awaited her response. Perhaps he had gone too far, as he always did.

A delightful dark flush spread across her face, followed by an uneasy giggle. “We just met and you’re going with a dick joke? Is that your idea of charming?”

“You are laughing. I have successfully defused the tension.” He allowed himself a moment to bask in her laughter. A shallow charm was easy for him to maintain, and he quite enjoyed charming the female.

His female.

That had to be a mistake, because who would entrust him with the responsibility to protect a mate?

“Let us start over, as you have requested. I am Lorran Rhew, an intelligence officer onboard the Judgment.” His tone conveyed the impressiveness of his position. It was acceptable that she did not coo or gasp in awe at her good fortune for being matched with such an impressive male.

“You mentioned brothers?”

“I am the youngest of three sons. Both my brothers have Terran mates.”

Her entire body perked, as if with interest. “Really? Is that unusual?”

“No. My eldest brother, Seeran, found his mate first. My other brother, Mene, was set up by our mother. She is a wily female.” Stories of his parents, brothers, and nephews came easily. He worried his stories would bore Bronwyn. She opened her notebook. At first, he thought she took notes—odd but flattering—then realized she drew.

He craned his neck to catch a glimpse, but she twisted in her seat, blocking the page with her body. “No peeking,” she said.

Desperately wanting to peek, he resisted and continued. She laughed in the right places and asked questions. The tension between them evaporated, and Lorran found he enjoyed the ease of speaking with Bronwyn.

“You sound close to your family,” she said.

“Perhaps more than is good for me. They are…meddling.”

“I think you’ll be very familiar with the overbearing kind of love my momma brings.” That grin reappeared.

“I know this situation is less than ideal. I expected to celebrate the holiday with my family. This mission was an unexpected assignment,” he said.

“We both have had a hell of a day. So, about me. I’m an artist, but I worked a day job in a call center for an insurance company because I’m not interested in being a starving artist.”

He wanted to know more about her art and what she drew in her notebook, but was distracted when she said, “And I can’t believe I wasted five years with Oscar. Sorry. I know it’s not cool to complain about your ex—”

“You had another mate?”

She blinked, as if trying to remember what she said. “Oh yeah. Well, fiancé. I’ve never been married. Unless you count right now. We’re technically married.”

“By Terran standards.” A legal contract, which felt cold and void of meaning.

“On paper, yeah.” She brushed back a stray curl, exposing her neck just where it joined her shoulder.

His mark would be there, deep and for all to see. Only then they would be mates.

“Um, you’re staring. I don’t have a case of bed head, do I?” She patted her hair. “This is the weirdest birthday ever. Yay, me.”

Terrans gave tokens of affection on birthdays, along with confections. He did not have a gift to give and did not have any confections. The stockpile of ration bars did not count.

He remembered. Reaching under the navigator’s seat, he retrieved the container of cookies. Moving close, he crouched at her feet. “Bronwyn, I would like to tell you that I had these prepared for you, but I shall endeavor to be as truthful as possible. I possess these cookies by chance, but I desire to share them with you on your birthday.”

“Coincidence cookies and call me Wyn. Bronwyn sounds—”

“Odious.”

“I was going for old-fashioned, since it’s my grandmother’s name.” She reached for the container, then hesitated. “Not to sound ungrateful, but why do you have cookies?”

“My brother’s mate is Terran and prepared them fresh. I know it sounds unseemly. A male should provide nourishment, but she is family.”

Preparing and sharing food was an intimate activity, reserved for family or the closest of friends. Terrans had different views on sharing meals and food preparation. Try as he might, he had difficulty accepting that it was common for Terrans to accept nourishment from a stranger for currency.

Bronwyn—Wyn, he corrected himself—plucked a sugar-coated morsel from the container and chewed thoughtfully. Powdered sugar clung to her bottom lip, and Lorran had a powerful urge to lick her lips clean.

“Mmm. Tastes serendipitous,” she said in a low voice that went straight to his cock.

“Wyn,” he said, wanting to taste her but settling for the feel of her name on his lips.

She licked the powdered sugar residue from her fingers, holding his gaze.

He fed her another cookie, holding it to her lips with an unspoken invitation to open wide.

Her pink tongue darted out, licking her bottom lip before taking a nibble. Fine white powder scattered across her mouth, collecting at the corners.

He wanted to taste those sugar-coated lips, to savor the mingling of sweetness, chocolate, and her own unique flavor. Her breath caught in her throat, and their eyes locked. Velvety brown, her eyes shone with intellect and goodness.

He could think of no other word to describe that particular light or the way he felt at peace when she looked at him, like he was every good thing rolled into, well, a birthday present, he assumed. She looked at him like he was a gift, and Lorran could not recall a single moment where that had ever happened.

“Wyn,” he said, his voice thick, and leaned in.

Wyn:

Oh, snap. This guy had nerve.

Those blue eyes darkened and Wyn suddenly understood the meaning of bedroom eyes. Was he going to kiss her?

Wyn swallowed her mouthful of serendipitous birthday cookie, barely tasting the treat.

Yes. Yes, he was. Her stomach flipped, excited and nervous and still queasy from the teleportation. They just met, then he yelled at her, made a dick joke, and gave her a cookie. What the fuck? That was some serious bull right there.

Wyn pulled back, holding up a hand. Her hand pushed against a wall of solid muscle. No doubt he could pin her to the back of the seat with ease, but he stopped immediately.

“Was that disagreeable?” he asked.

“You’re moving too fast for me,” she said.

He pulled back, sitting on his heels but still crouched before her. Fabric stretched over his thighs, and she appreciated the solid bulk of him and the way his pants fit, especially the way it left little to the imagination.

Noteworthy indeed.

He tilted his head, a smirk on his face.

Wyn rolled her eyes and gave him a solid shove, rocking him back on his heels. “Looking is not the same as kissing.”

“Would you trade a kiss for another cookie?”

She was very treat-motivated and had the junk in the trunk to prove it…but his proposition felt wrong. Gross, even. Lorran turned on his greasy charm like a faucet, and Wyn had seen that before. Oscar had an oily way about him, playing the serious artiste who only produced a handful of paintings while Wyn went to the day job for those mundane things like eggs, bread, and milk.

Wyn hated being manipulated then by a charming, shallow man, and she didn’t appreciate it now.

“No,” she said, “but how about we play Truth or Dare? Just keep the dares PG.”

“I do not know this game. Explain.”

“We take turns. You can answer a question or do a dare. Your choice.” She explained the rules as succinctly as possible. “And PG means no touching and no skin. Keep it clean.”

“That is disappointing, but I am intrigued. Give me a dare.” His eyes sparkled.

Wyn looked around the cockpit for a dare. Helm? She wasn’t sure of the technical word. The front of the shuttle was a massive screen. Outside was black and more black space, interrupted by a scattering of starlight. The scenery was peaceful, almost serene in its coldness.

“Okay, I dare you to sing a song,” Wyn said.

“Sing? Any request?”

“Anything.”

Lorran bounced to his feet. With a hand on his chest, he gave an enthusiastic if toneless rendition of a jingle for coffee. It was ridiculous.

“How do you even know that?” Wyn said, trying her best not to laugh.

“It is my turn. You will have to live with the mystery,” he answered. “Truth or dare?”

“Truth,” she said.

“Why are you no longer with your former mate?”

Well, that went right to the stuff she didn’t want to talk about. “Is it too late for a dare?”

“Yes. Give me your truth.”

He sounded like Sonia in that moment, but Wyn had to wonder why Lorran was so curious about Oscar. Was he looking for a reason to send her home? Trying to find a defect?

She took a breath. “I don’t really know. Shit, that’s not true. I was engaged, not married, for five years. We met at school. I don’t think Oscar loved me, but he loved that I had a job and he got to be a stay-at-home house fiancé. He’s a painter, and I was happy to support his art.” Her words came out in a tumble. Now that she had lanced the hurt, she felt relieved as the poison drained away. “At least one of us got to be a full-time artist. I guess that wasn’t enough. He just got bored and left to follow his muse. I wanted to hate him, but we weren’t happy. It was for the best. And yes, he was using me. Yes, I see that now, but I didn’t at the time. Satisfied?”

Lorran nodded, the motion sending his hair forward in a tumble across his brow. “Thank you.”

“Truth or dare?”

“Dare,” he said, eyes sparkling.

Maybe this wasn’t the best idea to get to know each other if he kept picking dare. Fine, he wanted to be a smartass about it—

“I dare you to let me sit in the forbidden chair.” Wyn pointed to the navigator’s seat.

“I cannot. Access to the controls is restricted.”

“Fine, then you have to answer a question.” She knew nothing about him other than what he shared about his family. She wanted to ask something as uncomfortable as why her only long-term relationship failed. “What nicknames do your brothers call you?”

“I must answer truthfully?”

“The game is called Truth or Dare, not Lies and Chickening Out of Dares.”

Now she really wanted to know what names his brothers teased him with. Her own family was a big, chaotic mess, but a happy mess. Still, Wyn got into some heated shouting matches with her brothers. They pulled no punches and pulled out some vile names for each other.

He huffed, tossing his horns back. “I do not know why you bring poultry into this, but you may sit in the navigator’s chair. Do not touch anything.”

This pleased her beyond measure.

“Oh, this chair. It’s so comfy. Is this leather?” She ran a hand over the clearly vinyl covering, which had an industrial feel, as if it were designed to be hosed down to rinse away gore. She wiggled, trying to get comfortable. The chair was remarkably unfriendly.

Lorran watched her with a stern expression on his face, like he wanted to eat her or scold her. That expression felt real and so much better than when he was trying to be charming.

She hovered her hand over the control panel. “So many buttons. What happens if I push…this one?”

“Do. Not.”

Wyn pulled back and sighed dramatically. “So serious. I’m sure it has a biometric lock.”

“Correct, but the console will smudge. Now it is your turn for the truth or dare,” he said.

“Dare,” she said, waiting to avoid more questions about Oscar. She did not want to be that person who went on and on about their ex. She hadn’t even thought much about him since he left, just the situation he left her in.

“Show me what you drew in your notebook,” Lorran said.

Wyn instinctively pulled the sketchbook to her chest. “I’m not great at sketching.”

“Then you may tell me who that person you last licked was.”

“What? I don’t randomly go around licking people.”

He ran a hand through his hair again and hit her with that dazzling smile. “How am I to know? You are a random female I found as a stowaway. Perhaps you are a serial licker. That sounds like an unhygienic habit.”

“I don’t,” she sputtered, then shoved the sketchbook at him. “Fine. Here. Don’t laugh. I concentrated on painting, not drawing, and yes, a brush is different from a pencil.”

He flipped through the pages, taking his time as if he considered the merit of each scribble.

“They’re mostly doodles,” she said. She drew random shapes when she needed to think, mostly swirls and repeating angles. Stick figures also crowded the pages. She blocked out poses for her polymer clay figurines.

“I like the expression on this one,” Lorran said, pointing to a stick figure with an oval head and a terrible underbite.

“Yeah, that one turned out cute.” The stick figure morphed into a three-inch-tall orange goblin with an underbite and bulging eyes, giving it a look of perpetual surprise.

“What is this pattern? It is here and here and—” He flipped back several pages and pointed to a spiraling pattern filled with tiny triangles between the loops. “Here again.”

“Nothing. Just a doodle.” She’d been making that pattern for years.

Lorran handed the sketchbook back to her. “Thank you. Would you like to see my tattoos?”

“Um…” Her mouth dried up. Black ink poked out from the cuffs of his long sleeves and at the collar of his shirt. She heard a rumor that the tattoos glowed, and she imagined all that glowing ink covering hard muscles and…

Yes. Obviously, she wanted to see the gorgeous alien without his shirt on. She wasn’t blind or dead.

Lorran wiggled his eyebrows.

And that killed the moment.

Did those cheesy moves—the humble brag about his dick, the cocky grin, the waggling eyebrows—actually work? He trotted out tired moves worn smooth from use. The worst part was she knew what he was doing, and she didn’t feel compelled to make him stop with his tacky flirtation. It was sort of fun.

This was flirting, right? She hadn’t done it in so long she barely recognized it. Still fun, though.

“How many tattoos do you have?” she asked.

“Several. You?”

“Two,” she said, swept up in the moment and forgetting the format of the game.

“Show me.”

“Nuh-uh. No skin, remember?” She wagged a finger. Heaven help her, she was flirting back.

“Tell me the design.”

“Magpies, both of them. A magpie is a type of bird,” she added for clarity.

“Two magpies,” he said.

“Two for joy. It’s a nursery rhyme.” He gave her a blank stare, so she recited the entire rhyme. “One for sorrow, two for joy, three for a girl, four for a boy, five for silver, six for gold, and seven for a secret never to be told.”

“Why the need to count magpie birds?”

“Well, it’s a superstition, and however many magpies will determine if you have good luck or bad luck.”

“Sorrow.”

“Or joy,” she said with a nod. “It’s nonsense, but I like the lyrics and I think magpies are pretty.”

“May I see them?”

She almost said yes. Heaven needed to send a lot more help her way because she nearly reached for the hem of her shirt and whipped it off. The humble brag, cocky grin, and eyebrow waggling almost worked.

“I dare you to show me your joyous magpies,” Lorran said, hitting her with the full force of his grin. White fang flashed against his lavender complexion.

Well, Wyn had her answer. Her alien’s cheesy moves almost worked, but that just couldn’t go the distance.

“Huh,” she said.

“What?” he asked, still grinning.

She leaned forward and poked his cheek. “Huh, nothing. I mean, I don’t know how much success you’ve had with that smarmy grin and asking girls to take off their shirt, but I don’t see it.”

Confusion replaced his grin. She put two fingers at the corner of his mouth and forced his lips back into a mockery of a smile. “How much do you practice smiling? You should definitely practice,” she said.

“I don’t need to practice. My smile is naturally radiant.” He pushed away her hands, and Wyn chuckled.

He was handsome, and she suspected that she’d like the real person under the layer of bullshit if he ever let her get to know the real him.

“I’m not hearing a no. I want to see your Earth magpies,” he said.

“No skin. We agreed to rules.”

“You also said no touching, and you broke that rule.”

“True. How about I draw you a magpie?” She flipped the sketchbook open to a blank page at the back. Her pencil flew across the page. Lorran watched her with interest. She twisted in the chair, blocking his view with her back.

If she ever got to know the real Lorran, the person under the easy charm and cocky grin, they’d definitely show each other their tattoos. She felt a little self-conscious about her figure, being taller and thicker than average, but Lorran did not seem concerned about the pudge at her waist. He did, however, act overly concerned about her butt. She could feel his gaze practically burning a hole in her jeans.

“Stop staring at my ass,” she said.

“It is noteworthy,” he replied.

“Ugh. Have you tried not being so gross?”

“I object. I am not gross. I am delightful.”

“There’s nothing wrong with your ego, that’s for sure,” she muttered.

Putting the finishing touches on the quick sketch, she turned back around and thrust the sketchbook at him.

A simple outline of a generic bird shape wore sunglasses. The words “Mind your own business” surrounded the bird in thick balloon lettering.

A slow smile spread across his face, this one reaching his eyes and lighting up his entire person. Now she could see how empty that charming smile had been, a false front. This was the real man—er, alien.

“I will treasure this always,” he said. And for no reason whatsoever, Wyn believed him.

The computer chirped. Wyn jumped. This day was all sorts of a disaster, and it would be just her luck for it to end in an actual disaster. “I didn’t touch anything.”

“We are approaching the gate.”

Wyn groaned, having forgotten about that.

“Remain seated. Do not touch the console,” Lorran said, before slipping through the partition.

He returned with a red kit that she recognized as a first aid kit.

“Eat this. It will help,” he said, unwrapping a silver foil packet to reveal a squishy pink cube.

“That’s safe for humans, right? You’re not poisoning me?” She tried to get her voice light, like a joke, but some of her unease must have crept through.

His eyes softened. “I have many failings, Bronwyn Named-for-her-mother’s-mother Davies, but I would not intentionally poison my mate.”

His mate.

Talk like that could turn a gal’s head.

“Okay.” It might be the lingering remnants of hero worship from the warrior who saved all those years ago, but she trusted Lorran to keep her safe.

The pink cube had a bland, chalky taste. Not unpleasant, but not something she’d recommend. Warmth spread in her gut.

“Now this one.” A second packet produced a white pill. Wyn took it without question, washing it down with a water cube.

Lorran moved her from the navigator’s chair and helped with the safety harness. It felt like what she imagined being strapped into a race car would feel like with belts crisscrossing her torso and lap.

“How are you feeling?”

“Snug as a bug,” she said, slurring her words. “Why do I s-s-sound drug? Drunk? I can’t be schnookered again.” Oh sure, she managed to say schnookered without slurring.

“That would be the sedative. It is better if you slept for the gate.”

“You trifling alien. You think you’re—” She struggled to get the words out. Inebriated twice in one day. How embarrassing.

“I apologize, Wyn. This is for the best.”

The computer chimed another warning. Wyn drifted into oblivion.