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  Because he wanted to shrug, Stark stood stiff at attention. Major military units still adhered to the same narrow mindset of the past hundred years, disregarding the recently pronounced lack of experienced personnel across the board.

  “In case of failure, salvage what you can and then destroy the station.” The general's voice went quiet, as if the exchange had tired him. He didn't bother with good-byes.

  When the holo-output faded, Stark finally allowed himself to pace. “Poll. Techeon.” A pause. “And Scott. Report for debrief.”

  Waiting for them, he focused on the replicas of the katanas, searching for some semblance of serenity in the symbols of war, honor, and death.

  Less than ten minutes later, the squad leads filed into his quarters, more than likely expecting praise.

  “We're here until further notice.” He forced himself to look Scott in the eye, noted the carefully hidden weariness. Maybe it was a fluke; maybe that strange stab of arousal wouldn't repeat itself, although he'd wouldn't take the risk and touch her to find out. “Defense of the supply ship is our primary objective. You'll divide the squads in shifts. I want them ready at first sighting.”

  With his hands clasped behind his back, Techeon, a middle-aged man who had been shuttling supplies before being called to war, nodded in agreement. Beside him, Poll puffed up his scrawny chest and waited to be told that he'd done good.

  “Officer Scott, you're not in uniform.” The black slim jumpsuit outlined her body, finely tuned muscles, and long, supple thighs. He found himself wondering how the dark red of her hair would fall down to her hips once he unbound it.

  “No, sir.”

  “You'll find one before you start leading rotations.”

  That gold, exotic gaze locked with his, unfurling more sparks of arousal inside him. “Excuse me, sir?” Calm voice, slight tint of color on her cheeks. Stark fought the urge to use his ocular to see if this strange heat affected her as much as it did him.

  “Your background gives you the advantage in the field. You'll share that advantage with your team.”

  For a swift moment, she dropped the cool shield of nonchalance, gifting Stark with a breathless glimpse of the woman behind it. Unwarranted, his body went diamond hard. Heat speared him, coiling every muscle, tightening around his cock with a vicious mix of pleasure laced with pain. He gritted his teeth against the barrage of sensations.

  “We don't need a thief's tricks.” If possible, Poll's back straightened even further, his short, blond hair crisp over the egg-shaped head.

  This snapped Stark's focus back. “Those thief's tricks kept your ass alive.” He needed a good drink and a good workout. A good fuck, a small voice whispered inside his head and was immediately shoved away. “Your virtual Triple Ace status means nothing in the field. You'll learn what she's got, and you'll keep your team alive.”

  He watched her mouth tremble open, as if she had something to say. Soft, luscious lips he pictured stretched over his cock or flushed pink when she orgasmed. He pushed away the image of long, silky red hair covering them both as she moved above him, her lips parting in a silent moan.

  “Dismissed.” Stark nearly allowed himself to breathe when she paused at the hatch.

  “Commander.”

  The hatch closed, sealing Zoya inside with him, trapping him with an arousal he did not want. Pushing his hands behind his back, he forced himself to look her in the eye and hoped she wouldn't see the heat licking his skin.

  “Thief's tricks or not, they aren't going to survive a full-fledged battle. This was just foreplay.”

  He watched her mouth shape the word, felt his cock pulse under his uniform. Gritting his teeth, Stark forced himself to take a good step back. “Do you have something to recommend?” She was his pilot, a subordinate officer. And all he could think about was laying her on his comm and fucking her till both their eyes crossed.

  “We need experienced pilots.” She seemed oblivious to his discomfort. “Another battle cruiser. Maybe two.”

  “So noted.” Through the unwanted heat of rising frustration, Stark contemplated beating a fist against the gray dull plaster of a bulkhead, hoping that the pain would bring his focus back. “You're dismissed.”

  “Excuse me, Commander.” Those gold eyes flared. “Perhaps you were misled about their skill level. Most of them never had field experience. Their battle skills were taught in hologames.”

  He had to get away from her before his damned glands forced him into doing something stupid. Like kissing her. Fucking her breathless. Feeling her shuddering around him as she came. “So noted.”

  “Right.” A bitter smirk. Those eyes went dull again, as if he were responsible for leeching out the light inside them. “Your job is to give orders and coordinate attacks. You don't know who is out there dying.”

  He couldn't breathe without taking in her heat, couldn't think beyond the words she hurled at him. “You're right, I don't. I don't know their names or anything about them. They're just soldiers. They're trained to follow orders.”

  Before he knew what he was doing, he roughly pulled at the sleeve of his undershirt, exposing neat rows of tattoos. “I don't know them.” He shook his head, battling arousal, emotion, and frustration. “I just count their deaths.”

  Silence. He was an idiot to lose control like this, to share the part of himself which he'd always kept hidden. He was an idiot to need her to understand the only way he could grieve. He was an idiot to feel this raw, sexual pull toward her.

  “I'm-I'm sorry.” Her voice thick, her eyes shattered, Zoya lightly touched the dots on his upper arm.

  Shock rippled on his skin, pinpricks of heat and vicious, coiled lust. He nearly staggered, fighting the dark urge to cover her lush mouth while his body primed to take, to feast. Her eyes flared wide, yet she didn't pull her arm away when his fingers closed around her wrist.

  “You shouldn't touch me.” Her pulse beat hard under his fingertips, her skin like warm, smooth silk. He gave her time to back away, to rip her arm away, say something cutting. Yet she did nothing, simply looked up at him with hot, unguarded eyes, her mouth vulnerable and soft, seconds from his.

  Flashes of skin, hot gripping palms, moist hungry lips. Stark didn't know when he pressed her against a bulkhead, when her hands clutched his shoulders, when her ragged breaths became his own. He couldn't get enough, couldn't take a breath, couldn't tear himself away from ravaging her lips, plunging into the sweet depth of her mouth.

  Her scent was like a potent drug pumping into his veins. Lips fused, tongues mated, he kissed her like a starving man, as if both their lives depended on it. Cupping her head, he held her steady for his onslaught, fighting himself, fighting against the soft, hitched breaths she made against his mouth. Even as someone screamed inside his head about duty and protocol, the beast inside him wouldn't let him stop.

  Over the thunder of need, Stark lifted her up so she could wrap limbs around him, her arms gripping his neck, her thighs clamping over his hips. He pressed himself into the softness of her core, relief and dark arousal searing his insides. The little moans she made somewhere in her throat only inflamed him more.

  He left her mouth to scrape teeth over the sweet curve of her jaw, nibbling at the fragrant skin under her ear. She moved against him in urgent, rhythmic beats, grinding herself into him with each harsh, ragged breath.

  His fingers trembled lightly when he tore at the collar of her jumpsuit just as his comm beeped a priority. Sanity returned with a sharp snap.

  His breathing harsh, every muscle demanding to finally sink inside her, Stark forced himself to move away, watching as she staggered along the wall, then righted herself. With shaking hands, she reached for something in her pocket.

  He didn't need an ocular implant to tell that she was trembling, her pulse pounding fast, her lips parted and shiny from his kisses.

  “If, ah…” She loudly exhaled, as if cleansing her mind.

  His pulse tripped and then doubled as he began to realize the
possibility of what had almost happened. Control and protocol aside, the only explanation was impossible. Improbable. Completely crazy.

  “If I may be dismissed.”

  She fled before Stark could find the breath to scrape out a word.

  Chapter Three

  Nothing had gone as she'd expected.

  Zoya wasn't supposed to lead the rooks, train with them, become friendly with them during drills and exercises. She sure as hell didn't intend to break down her old maneuvers so that they could understand and use them.

  She certainly hadn't anticipated being pressed against a wall by Galen Stark and kissed into a mindless ecstasy.

  “I understand you took more than one oral stabilizer.” In the holodisplay of Secondary Communications Backup, Pazlov watched her with shrewd, pale eyes.

  She should've figured he had a way to track them from Beijing. “We underestimated the effect of real-time combat.” During the testing phase, she undertook various combat scenarios without major spikes in her adrenaline. Cold, calm, ready to die if need be.

  She wasn't about to tell him that a strange hormonal burst of lust blew her calm all to hell.

  “Make sure you aren't noticed.” He always kept his wheelchair in range of the holo-output, as if making sure everyone knew he was of Primus. Even in their private communications, he made sure Zoya saw his weakened state. “I don't want questions if a med tech runs a standard test.”

  “I doubt it will be a problem.” And she'd made sure not to cross paths with the commander. Judging by that kiss three days ago, she knew the heat suffocating her affected him as well, not that the knowledge made things any easier. She had no business feeling this way, especially for a regulation-loving military man who'd kissed her brainless.

  “This delay is threatening our schedule.” Pazlov steepled his fingers together, his posture military straight, three rows of bars and stars gleaming against the dark gray of his uniform. “We don't know how long our time window will last.”

  Her heart beat slow and thick inside her throat. “You've verified those ships to be of value?”

  “It makes good sense.” His pale gaze went razor-sharp. “Biggest hull design we've seen so far, that odd formation.” He looked up as if picturing them. “Diplomacy, of course, won't share their data”—he rolled his eyes—“but they believe that trio protects something extremely vital. Something that could be crippling to their command structure if we destroy it.”

  “We're protecting the supply station.” Zoya let the familiar cold numbness sweep over her skin. For the last three days, she'd pushed away the thoughts about her purpose here, flying and training with the rooks she was supposed to kill.

  “I'm moving through all possible channels to reassign Victory to the blockade. If Tactical allowed us battle cruisers of our own…” He didn't finish the sentence, but simply rolled his eyes and frowned.

  For once, Zoya found herself grateful to the military. The sticky tape of interdepartmental bickering could keep Victory away from the blockade for a good while. She could convince Pazlov to reassign her somewhere else. Another ship she could destroy, without the confusion and the mess of sudden unwarranted attraction to its commander.

  “You're having doubts.”

  She thought back to the silent, starving kids and the military that did nothing to protect them. The cold resolve that used to harden her soul no longer seemed to be enough. “I am committed to this project.”

  “You were when I found you.” He leaned forward in his chair, as if to convey some sort of understanding. “You've been promoted to squad lead, and while it's not conducive to this mission, I'm not surprised given your natural ability. You train with these men. Fight with them.”

  Obviously Pazlov counted on her past to keep her from forming attachments to the crew. Zoya wondered what he would say about the suddenly intense biological reaction to Victory's commander. The possibility of what that reaction could mean was not something she was prepared to discuss with Pazlov.

  Those shrewd, old eyes missed nothing. “It's harder now to know what you may have to do.”

  She hadn't slept in days because of it. Because of him. “I don't think of the mission.”

  Pazlov nodded. “When you do, you should think of your family. Your sister.”

  She thought about her locker where she'd stashed Zorina's necklace in plain view. To remind but not to be touched.

  “Your family. My family.” Pazlov rubbed his palm over his broad forehead, as if to push away the memories of the dead. “They were collateral. A sacrifice.” A subtle way of saying that the military had fucked them both, and they had divine right of retribution. Up until recently, she'd been in nonchalant agreement. “Yes, Admiral.”

  He coughed, the sound harsh and wheezing. “Perhaps in time, we'll be condemned by history. A philosophical dilemma—sacrifice a few lives for the survival of the human race.” His gaze was hard on hers. “We have a chance to end the war. Philosophy aside, we're going to take it.”

  He'd said those words plenty of times as she was prepped for the invasion of technology into her body. She had believed him then, considered it some sort of morbid destiny. Avenge her family and end the war. Sacrifice few to save many.

  Instead of thinking of it, Zoya focused on the memories of torn fields and dead bodies on the riverbanks. Primus was on the edge of human space, a colony of people determined to break through the punishment of evolution. They'd lived an average of one hundred years because they didn't enhance their bodies with technology, convinced that they could overcome evolution's wrath.

  The colony numbered over two hundred children at last count. A handful of those children were left to starve because supplies were better rationed to the ones who fought the war.

  “We have the means to end this war.” She heard Pazlov's urgent voice inside her head, repeating the same words with quiet intensity. Sometimes Zoya wondered if he had programmed her quarters at Beijing to repeat that phrase while she was sleeping.

  She had the means to end this war. Philosophy or not, she was a tool of larger forces. She wouldn't jeopardize the human race because she couldn't keep her damned hormones in check.

  Stark did something to her, broke through the cold shield of her defenses. It wasn't the first time she'd been attracted to a man, but she had never experienced arousal of this intensity before, the kind that speared through control and will and went straight for the senses. These sudden flashes of aroused heat were potentially symptoms of a bloodmatch, a biological compatibility for the simple purpose of procreation. Nothing but instinct, raw and senseless. Ironic that her DNA reacted to the man she was ordered to destroy.

  For now, she wouldn't think of it. Just as she wouldn't think how he had kissed her as if starved, his body hard and hot against her.

  Involuntary biological reaction, Zoya told herself as she left Secondary Communications Backup and headed for deck three. She'd barely slept in the past seventy-two hours. A good workout session helped keep her mind empty while she lay awake.

  She should have left as soon as she saw Stark pummel a punching bag, sweat glistening on arms bulging with muscle. Nano-built muscle, she tried to tell herself, even as arousal pierced her soul.

  That olive-toned skin echoed the mixed heritage of his ancestry, the crisp hair of his forearms somehow an erotic sight. That wild steel-blue gaze wouldn't let her back away. Desire that refused to be controlled pulsed through her veins, heating her skin, licking at her with teasing shivers. His massive biceps clenched, and her body shuddered in response. She couldn't get away from picturing those arms around her, his strength surrounding her, pulsing inside her.

  Nano-built strength, she tried to tell herself.

  Her body simply didn't care.

  “Officer Scott.” Another punch sent the bag swinging.

  His gaze was like a physical caress. He'd upped the grav stabilizers. Zoya could feel the shift in weight sneaking up through the already-clenching muscles of her thighs. />
  “Commander.”

  “I'll get out of your way.”

  Desire, reckless and hot and unwanted, swam through her system, quickening her pulse, her blood, her breath. She had to pound on something. “You box, Commander?”

  The sudden weariness in that hot gaze told her he was infused by the same heat that kept tormenting her. Involuntary biological reaction, she told herself again, and licked her lips.

  He seemed to focus on her mouth. “I'm more of a kickboxer.” A heavy hook kick into the bag demonstrated his point.

  “Impressive.”

  He raised an eyebrow but didn't say a word. Zoya had the distinct feeling that he was forcing himself to stay away from her.

  She kept her voice cool as another spike of arousal stabbed through her. “I need to work off some aggression. I figure you can understand.”

  He simply nodded.

  “Care to point spar?”

  The look from those wild eyes nearly sent her temperature to melting. “I don't think it would be a good idea.”

  She lifted up her fists. Came closer. “No rank. No insignia. I need to kick somebody's ass, Commander. I'm sure you'd understand why I want it to be yours.”

  She needed a good sweaty workout to wipe away the thoughts of death and ravenous lust. “No contact.” Like an Earth predator, Zoya circled him, tucking her chin low.

  “Hit anywhere you like.” His low, challenging voice sent shivers rhythmically tapping down her spine.

  He circled with her, his muscled forearms protecting his torso, his hands open and loose. She'd always liked wide palms and long, blunt fingers on a man. Picturing those hands stroking her skin, she led with a right cross.

  It should have sent him stumbling. Instead he moved out of her reach, didn't roundhouse her abs when she deliberately left them open. She wanted pain. Something brutal and mind-numbing and hard to overshadow this dark, conflicting arousal.

  A step, a weave, Zoya swung out again, stopping seconds from cracking into his jaw.

  A narrowed gaze, those blue eyes blazing hot. “Feel free to hit.”