Chapter One
Harper Barrett, Sector 437, MedRec Transport Station: Zenith, Latiri Star Cluster
Dark hair. Intense green eyes. The man who’d been watching me from the other side of the bar for the last few minutes looked like every woman’s wet dream.
Except he wasn’t a man. He was an alien.
And this wasn’t a bar in downtown Los Angeles, where I grew up. This was Transport Station: Zenith, and every alien warrior in the room was at least six-six, battle hardened and freakishly strong. And those were the small ones.
At five-ten I’d always felt tall. Too tall. Too blonde. Too pretty. Too female to be taken seriously. Men saw me, my blonde hair and D-cups, and assumed I was an idiot. But this alien? He looked mesmerized as he made his way over to me. He didn’t stop at the usual “polite” distance. No, he moved in close. Too close.
“I have never seen hair this color,” he said, his hand coming up to brush a wayward lock behind my ear. “It is very beautiful.”
I couldn’t help but laugh, glancing up at him through my lashes like the proverbial flirt. His teasing almost touch hadn’t even made contact with my skin, but my heart leapt into my throat anyway.
This was insane. This guy was insane. Insanely hot. He was covered head to toe in some kind of black armor I had never seen before. Definitely not Coalition issue. And the silver band on his arm wasn’t familiar either. No officer or ranking insignia. No marker indicating he was part of the Coalition in any way. I knew every race in the Coalition Fleet, had dragged their injured off the battlefield to transport pads, healed them with ReGen wands, held their hands if they were dying. But this guy? He was different, and every cell in my body went on high alert.
But the way the other warriors in the room avoided him? The way they watched him almost warily? Like he was a caged tiger? No, not a tiger. A snake. Dangerous. Venomous. I’d seen most of these warriors edgy, ready for battle. And that’s how they were acting around him.
Fascinating. But I tried not to show my reaction, or the way my pussy was already hot and aching, my breasts heavy, my pulse pounding. Sheesh. You’d think I hadn’t had sex in…forever. Wait. No. I hadn’t had sex in forever, and this guy with his massive shoulders and intense stare was making my body demand I fix that.
Like now.
The bartender was a large Atlan female, about six feet tall with breasts the size of melons and stunning dark auburn hair. She was gorgeous. And looking at this guy like she wanted to lick him all over.
Unfortunately, that was a desire I shared.
He smiled at her as she handed him a drink. Her hand lingered on the glass, her fingertips brushing over his in blatant invitation.
I wanted to claw her eyes out.
Shit. I shook my head and turned back to my drink, determined to behave myself. If he wanted the bartender, I didn’t blame him. If I were into females, I’d do her, too.
This guy had trouble written across his forehead in capital letters. And probably a few more words as well. Bad boy. Sexy. Eye candy. Rebel. Man whore. Yeah. Probably a total man whore. He’d probably already slept with half the women on the station.
Been there. Done that. My ex back on Earth had been the cheating kind. Once was enough, thank you very much.
“Why do you frown at me?” he asked, the dark timbre of his voice settling into my bones. A shiver raced over my skin, his voice like a physical caress. My nipples pebbled into hard points, and I had to struggle to breathe normally. Dangerous? Hah! I needed to work on my risk assessment skills. Expand my vocabulary. Dangerous wasn’t even close.
“I thought only guys from Earth had horrible pick-up lines,” I replied.
“Pick-up lines?”
“Never seen blonde hair? Really? That’s the best you can do?”
“I speak the truth.” He slowly lowered his head, his dark hair falling rakishly over his forehead.
Did I mention he reminded me of Joe Manganiello? The hottie hunk from True Blood? While I assumed this guy wasn’t a vampire and had zero intention of biting me, he was working the dark, brooding hero bit. I lifted my glass of what passed for a lager out here in space and indicated a couple of warriors from Prillon Prime who were on the other side of the room. One was brown with amber eyes and dark, rust colored hair. But the other? Golden like a lion. Definitely blond. They were hot, but they didn’t make me forget to breathe. Not like this guy was doing. “What do you call that?” I pointed to the fairer warrior.
He crowded closer, dismissing the Prillons with a flicker of movement in his eyes. “They look burned, scorched by the sun. Their skin is thick and ugly.” He lifted his hand to the end of my hair where my now ragged ponytail had let loose several rebellious strands. “You are pure light. Soft. Fragile.”
I scoffed at that. If he only knew. I was twenty-seven, not seventeen. And I’d been an ER nurse for three years in a busy city hospital before spending almost two years stationed on Transport Station: Zenith being sent off to do battlefield triage and emergency medical service for the Coalition. I was a paramedic in space—which still blew my mind if I really stopped to think about it for too long. But pure? Fragile? Hardly. I tried not to roll my eyes as I turned away from him.
I wasn’t pure, but I still had a heart. And after dragging my friend, Henry, out from under a pile of Hive Scouts, looking into what had once been warm brown eyes filled with humor—now dead and cold—that organ was hurting. I really needed more than a beer. Henry Swanson had been born in London. British. From the 22nd SAS. Badass military veteran. Funny accent. Hell of a poker player. Two days ago he’d been smoking cigars, kicking my commander’s ass in a game.