Hero
About the Author
Copyright
Copyright (c) 2010 by Cheryl Brooks
Cover and internal design (c) 2010 by Sourcebooks, Inc.
Cover illustration by Anne Cain
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The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously.
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For that spark of heroism in all of us
Prologue
Trag knew it was a mistake to attend the wedding. Not that he begrudged Manx
and Drusilla their new state of wedded bliss or that he didn't enjoy seeing his old friend again, but because he knew he'd be sitting just exactly where he was right now; on Kyra's left while his brother, Tychar, sat on her right. She was as warm and lovely as she had been on the day Trag left Darconia, but just as firmly fixed as his brother's mate as she had been on the day they met. There was no getting past fate, destiny, or Zetithian visions, particularly when they involved a future mate. Tychar had known Kyra would be his long before he ever saw her; he just hadn't bothered to mention it to Trag.
Trag was thankful that he was wearing clothing, which he hadn't done when he
and Ty had been slaves to the Darconian queen, because his reaction to her scent was the same as always; his cock was so hard he couldn't think about anything else.
He stared at Jack in a desperate attempt to divert his thoughts as she performed
the wedding ceremony. It gave Jack great pleasure to be able to have all of the remaining Zetithians aboard her ship, and gave her even greater satisfaction to be tying the knot between the last known Zetithian and his Terran mate.
Finding Manx had been nothing short of a miracle, and though Trag had prayed to
the Great Mother of the Desert for one more, so far she hadn't been attending to him. He tried turning away from Kyra, but her scent lingered in his head until the shallow breaths he'd been taking finally caught up with him and, inhaling deeply, he succumbed to the memory...
He and Tychar had converged on Kyra immediately. She had said yes, so there
had been no point in waiting any longer. He fed her fruit while Tychar wiped the sweat from her body, and Trag tasted her sweetness in every way he could. He licked her lips after each bite until she kissed him, sucking his tongue into her mouth and driving him insane with desire. Her intoxicating kisses soon had him purring like mad as his hands caressed her body. She tasted like hot, wet love and her aroma was like nothing he'd ever imagined, igniting flames of passion that threatened to consume him. When Tychar
pulled her thighs apart and urged him to taste the source of her scent, Trag licked her soft, wet lips, thrusting his tongue deep inside her, devouring her until, with a gush of creamy wetness, she came in his face. A triumphant snarl erupted from the depths of his throat, and when Ty pushed her beneath him, Trag didn't hesitate; he buried his stiff shaft in her soft warmth and felt love for the very first time.
Trag lost control after that, fucking her harder than he'd ever fucked anyone in his life. It took a while to regain that control, and when he did, he used every move on her he could think of, purring with delight and enjoying the vision of her lovely eyes and gentle smile.
And then, at his suggestion, she'd sucked Tychar. Trag's balls tightened at the
memory of it... He'd never seen a more erotic vision before--or since--and it was a wonder he hadn't lost it right then, but Ty got there ahead of him, spraying her face and tongue with his sweet snard. It was one race Trag didn't mind losing though, for her orgasm seized his cock and sent him over the edge. Trag had felt that ejaculation clear
down to his toenails and the double dose of Zetithian semen had Kyra babbling on about something--just what, he couldn't recall--but his satisfaction had been complete. He had given joy to a beautiful woman--a woman he now loved, but knew he could never call his own.
It was Trag's first, last, and only time with Kyra. After that, it became clear that she loved Tychar, not him, and when Queen Scalia's death freed the two men from
slavery, Trag had tried to make the best of it. He might have withdrawn from Kyra and never tasted her love again, but he certainly hadn't forgotten it.
He tried to imagine what it would be like to love another woman but it was
difficult. Any Terran woman would remind him too much of Kyra, if for no other reason than her scent. Telling those who urged him to find a mate that he was holding out for a Zetithian woman made it easier, first, because it gave him breathing space, and second, because he knew in his heart he'd never find one. He was certain they had all perished when Zetith exploded, and if any had been living offworld, the Nedwut bounty hunters had surely killed them all by now. He and his brother had only survived because of Queen Scalia's protection. What chance would a lone Zetithian female have against such determined killers?
Though he visited brothels from time to time, he never recaptured that feeling,
and Trag's secret devotion to Kyra never wavered--at least in his waking moments--but his dreams were confused. Whenever he tried to recall them, the image seemed blurred, as though his own mind was uncertain of whom he should love. Was it Kyra, or was it someone else?
Trag didn't know for sure, but with the marriage of Manx to Drusilla, he was now
the last Zetithian without a mate, and he was no closer to finding love than he had been as a slave living among the reptilian Darconians. It shouldn't have been that hard for the pilot of a starship to find the woman he was destined to meet, but, then again, it was a very big galaxy...
***
mother's terror as she fled through the crowded spaceport, but wrapped in the folds of Jenall's cloak, she was unable to see the source of it. Nevertheless, she could feel Jenall's sweat and hear her pounding heart and gasping breaths as her mother pushed herself to the limits of her endurance and beyond. Later, Micayla would understand what it meant to be running for one's life, but at the age of two, the concept of fear meant very little.
There were loud noises and the sound of people screaming, but her mother ran on,
bumping, jostling, her feet slapping against the smooth floor. Suddenly, Jenall halted and opened her cloak, and Micayla found herself looking up into the face of an odd being--
smooth-skinned and dark, with almond-shaped eyes and softly curling ringlets framing her face.
"Take her," Jenall rasped. "Hide her and keep her safe."
The response might have been unintelligible, but the intent was clear: the woman
opened her own cloak and Micayla was thrust into her waiting arms. As they watched, Jenall turned and ran on, but though her brief pause might have saved her daughter's life, it didn't save her own.
Micayla heard her father's roar as Jenall fell into a nerveless heap and saw him
whirl around, his long dark hair flowing out behind him as he set his two sons on their feet and ran to his mate's aid. Micayla didn't see any more, for her rescuer turned and hurried away with her precious bundle--leaving the scene as quickly as any prudent bystander would do. Micayla heard three more shots and then silence.
Chapter 1
His swirling cloak was what caught her eye, but even from across the crowded
park, his aura of sadness and regret went straight to her heart. A little girl ran after him as he walked away, and when he stopped and knelt beside her, she held out her hand,
offering him something. His long curling hair fell forward as he accepted it, revealing a streak of orange in the otherwise black locks. There was a brief exchange that Micayla couldn't hear, but whatever the girl had given him must have been quite a treat, for his smile after tasting it was a mixture of wistfulness and delight.
Micayla had never seen him before, but, being a newcomer to Orleon Station, this
wasn't surprising. So far, Windura was the only one she saw on other than a co-worker basis, and that was mainly because their quarters were next door to one another.
"Hey, Micayla," Windura called out from the corridor behind her. "Let's meet for lunch, okay?"
"Yeah, sure," Micayla replied. Tearing her eyes away from the man, she turned to greet her Vessonian friend. "Lunch would be great."
"The main dining hall at eleven hundred?"
"Fine," Micayla replied, forcing herself to smile. Glancing over her shoulder, to her dismay she saw that the man had already gone. She strained her eyes to find him among the huge potted plants and benches of the space station's "park." "Did you see that guy--the one in the cloak with the long black hair?"
"A cloak?" Windura echoed. "Why would anyone be wearing a cloak? It's hot as hell in here!"
It wasn't the first time she'd heard Windura complain about the heat, but then
catering to the preferences of a variety of different beings made the choice of ambient temperature difficult. "Maybe so," she said doubtfully. "But some people are just cold-natured..." She stared off in the direction he must have taken. "What's back that way?"
"Some of the more disreputable parts of the station," Windura replied, flipping her long blond hair over her shoulder. "You're better off not going down there."
Micayla nodded absently. "I'm sure you're right," she said, but something about him was so compelling that if Windura hadn't intervened, she'd have gone running after him in a heartbeat.
"We've got to get you better oriented to this place," Windura went on. "A girl like you needs to know the ropes."