Chapter 4

 

TRENT tried to catch Vince alone before they made the jump through hyperspace but failed miserably. Vince thwarted his every attempt by excusing himself to check on something or pretending he hadn’t heard Trent. It was ridiculous. Something had happened in Trent’s own cabin, and he had no idea what. How long had Vince been watching him? Why hadn’t he joined him? Trent wanted to know. He didn’t think he could stand going through this song-and-dance routine for another couple of weeks, and he had a feeling pulling off this job wasn’t going to clear the air between them like the last one.

He busied himself with helping to prepare the ship for the jump. Everything had to be secured. Systems and coordinates had to be checked.

Trent was thinking about that moment. He’d nearly jumped out of his skin when he’d first noticed someone standing there while he was completely vulnerable. Then fear gave way to confusion and a strong desire to finish what Vince had started, but Vince had run off before Trent could tell him he hadn’t minded Vince being there.

“Winston informed me everything looks ready for the jump,” Reyla announced in Trent’s head, disturbing his muddled thoughts. It was a good thing, or else he was going to convince himself it was his own fault Vince kept taking one step toward him and ten back.

Trent headed for the bridge and did his best to put his mind on the job ahead of them. The information he had on the Volantis was limited but better than what he usually had. Typically they were lucky to get a flight trajectory and a ship name, which could result in them chasing down a ship that didn’t have any loot for them to sell or, worse, could be an undercover military vessel or another pirate operation.

Vince strode out of the corridor leading from the engine room ahead of Trent but didn’t spot his captain. This was as good a time as any, Trent wagered. He’d talk to Vince for a couple minutes, smooth everything out, and they could both buckle down and go over their plan of attack for the Volantis.

“Vince! Can we talk?” Trent said, sure to be loud enough to avoid being ignored.

“Uh, sure.” Vince stopped and turned slowly, hands shoved in his pockets. He didn’t look Trent in the eyes.

“About earlier,” Trent said, and held up his hand as soon as Vince opened his mouth. “It’s no big deal. You just scared the shit out of me.”

“Sorry. I don’t know what I was thinking.” Vince leaned back against the wall and looked off toward the bridge.

“You could’ve stayed,” Trent said as he took a step closer, reaching out to put his hand on Vince’s arm, but Vince walked a short distance away. Trent forced himself to run his hand through his hair instead of leaving it hanging in the air.

“No, I had to go,” Vince insisted. He shook his head and gestured toward the door at the end of the corridor. “We should get going. You’re holding up the show, Captain.”

“You know it’s all right to like guys, right?” Trent scratched his sideburn and frowned. Maybe it was another cultural gap. Fenrites were uptight about everything else, why not homosexuality?

“Yeah, Mom. Glad I got your okay,” Vince said with an awkward laugh and exaggerated salute. He walked off to the bridge and disappeared through the doors.

Trent wondered why he was bothering. Mixed signals were a bitch, but he was a grown man. He could take a hint.

 

 

THE jump went smoothly thanks to Winston’s expertise, but Vince felt compelled to duck off to the engine room and check the jump drive. They’d had overheating problems the year before, right before he discovered a slow leak in the jump drive itself. The replacement job had been a pain in the ass, and he wasn’t keen on doing it again anytime soon. Not to mention they’d had to steal the new drive in the first place. Class Seven replacement parts didn’t come cheap or easily.

Luckily, everything looked great. The drive was within the normal post-jump temperature range, and there were no suspicious puddles anywhere—which meant their target ship would get to keep its jump drive.

Vince heard the door to the engine room slide open and then boots on the metal catwalk one level above him. He glanced up, hoping it was anyone but Trent, and was disappointed.

“Were you ready to go over our battle plan? I was thinking we might play sitting duck. Put out a distress beacon,” Trent said once he’d spotted Vince. He headed down the stairs and met Vince in front of the jump drive’s systems display.

“Worked for us four times I can think of,” Vince said with a nod. He tried to walk away as casually as possible. If he could get Trent to think he was busy, maybe he’d go away. Already the other man’s scent was making unwelcome thoughts come to mind. Vince knew he had to get away from him, even if it was going to strain their friendship further.

Trent followed him, keeping up but maintaining his distance, and started talking about further details of their plan. Vince couldn’t stay focused on Trent’s words. He needed to tune him out. The more he listened to Trent talk, the more he wanted to shut him up. And the easiest way to shut him up involved kissing him senseless.

Vince shook his head.

“So you’d rather go with something else after all?”

“Huh? No. Whatever you want to do is fine. Tell me where to be, what to do, and I’ll get the job done,” Vince said.

Then he made the mistake of turning around to face Trent. There was something about him, more than a rugged handsomeness, suddenly driving Vince to the edge of rationality. Vince didn’t know what it was. His scent. His confident posture. The way he looked at him, as if Trent was utterly lost inside and only needed Vince to reach out and take his hand, show him the way. It was ridiculous to feel this way about a human, no matter how long they’d known each other, lived and worked together.

“Vince, are you all right?” Trent’s expression became a mask of concern. “Reyla said you’d been acting kind of weird, like you were coming down with something. I need you in good health for this job. I don’t want you or any of the rest of the crew getting hurt.”

“I’m fine. It’s….” Vince sighed and shoved his hair out of his face. He closed his eyes for a moment, just to take in Trent’s smooth, spicy scent. It was unique. Completely unlike the deep muskiness that marked a Fenrite. It wasn’t close to the way Rok had smelled. Vince blinked, frowned, and shook his head again. “Sorry, Captain. Just distracted. I’ll work on it.”

He slipped by Trent and fought back the urge to grab his arm and pull him close as he passed.

 

 

TRENT wasn’t convinced his mechanic was feeling well. Vince was acting unusually erratic and aloof. How did the guy go from gregarious jokester to true introvert over the course of a few days? Again, Trent wondered if it had been something he’d said or done to accidentally push Vince away. He’d never been one to appreciate strict rules about rank-related protocol on his own ship. They were all friends. They’d all broken laws together and saved one another’s asses plenty of times. It didn’t bother Trent to mix business with pleasure, but maybe it bothered Vince. He wondered if urging Vince to talk about his past had done it.

He could still hear the strained calm in Vince’s voice as he told Trent about his scar. The symbol of his exile. Trent felt like an ass for pushing him about it. He had no right to feel entitled to know intimate details of Vince’s past just because they were friends and crewmates.

Regardless of what the problem was or what was to blame for it, Trent had to be sure Vince wasn’t feeling ill. He’d call off the job if any one of them weren’t feeling right. There were too few of them and too many chances to screw up, not to mention the Volantis likely had a full crew, staff, and passengers. Sickness would only add to the danger for everyone involved.

Trent stopped by the bridge long enough to check in with the rest of the crew and get them up to speed on the plan of attack. Winston would stay behind for this one in case they needed to make a hasty getaway and to make sure he wasn’t putting undue strain on his recently healed wounds. Reyla was overjoyed they wouldn’t be attacking the other ship with the big guns, while Lindi was pleased with the prospect of a good haul. They had several hours before the Volantis would exit hyperspace.

Since Vince wasn’t on the bridge, Trent headed to his mechanic’s cabin and knocked lightly on the door panel.

“I’m busy,” Vince’s voice boomed from inside the cabin.

“You okay in there?” Trent asked. He leaned against the cream and gold patterned wall next to the door, arms crossed over his chest.

“I told you I’m fine. Quit worrying,” Vince called back.

“C’mon, Vince. I want to run some scans on you in the sick bay. You might’ve picked something up from one of those idiot pirates.”

“You’re being ridiculous!”

Trent knocked again. “Vince, I’m serious. Don’t make me make that an order.”

“I’m not sick. I promise.”

“You can’t know that for sure.”

The door slid open and Vince stood there, hands braced on either side of the doorway. “I know what’s wrong with me, and it’s not any sickness. Can we drop it, Trent? I won’t screw up this job.”

“Why can’t you tell me what’s going on with you? Even Reyla’s worried, in her own way.” Trent moved and stood in front of Vince. He didn’t get what all the secrecy was for. Not anymore. Not after all these years. Did Fenrites not have friends they confided in? Did they all keep everything locked away inside? Or was that just Vince’s way? Regardless, Trent wanted to know. A one-sided attraction was one thing, but a one-sided friendship he couldn’t accept, no matter how much of an ass that made him.

Vince watched Trent, his hair partially obscuring one eye. He tilted his head and took a deep breath. Then his hand fisted in Trent’s shirt and pulled him into the cabin. Trent half opened his mouth to say something to calm Vince down, because the look in Vince’s eyes was feral and Trent didn’t want to fight. But then Vince shoved him against the closed door and Vince’s lips crashed down on Trent’s own. Trent’s questions were shoved aside by confused relief as Vince’s tongue probed between his lips and fought for control of his mouth.

Vince’s fingers tugged Trent’s shirt up, then fumbled to get the buttons down the front open. He slid the shirt down off Trent’s shoulders and blindly unfastened Trent’s holster belt and pants. Everything dropped to the floor.

A groan manifested in Trent’s throat as Vince’s hand stroked him over his underwear. He reached out and tugged at Vince’s clothes until Vince broke away long enough to ditch them as well. Trent stumbled out of his boots while Vince tugged him by the wrist toward the bed.

There was no time for Trent to savor the moment, no time for him to take in Vince’s naked form with his eyes or his hands. There was only time enough to enjoy the way Vince felt pressed against him, the way Vince’s hands felt as they explored and prepared him, the way Vince eased into him before pounding away with reckless abandon. It didn’t take long before Vince collapsed against him, both of them panting and sweating. Vince nuzzled the nape of Trent’s neck and held him tightly.

A moment of comfortable silence settled over the cabin, and Vince shifted slightly on the bed. Trent ran his hand along Vince’s arm, then guided Vince’s hand down over his stomach. He gasped as Vince gripped his cock and started stroking without a word. This was how it should’ve been when Vince had spied on him: Vince’s hot breath on his neck and ear, Vince’s hand firmly gripping Trent’s cock as he came. Trent relaxed back against his friend and turned his head enough to kiss Vince’s jaw.

 

 

BELKOR was wrenched out of a deep, comfortable sleep by a sharp pain in his side. He sat up and was knocked back by a punch to the face. Belkor’s hands cradled his muzzle and side. Warmth seeped out of the stinging wounds on his flank, wetting his fur and fingers. They had to be claw marks, the warning of Hunters.

“What’s going on?” he whimpered into the darkness. He distinguished the looming shapes of other Fenrites in his den chamber, but he didn’t recognize any of the new scents. “Get out!”

Cruel laughter filled the room, and Belkor scrambled backwards until he pressed against the wall. He hadn’t done anything to incur the wrath of Hunters or anyone who would hire them!

“You have some information we’d like to hear, runt. Spill.”

The Hunter had the superior tone of an Alpha, but Belkor didn’t recognize his voice any more than he recognized his scent. If they were masking their scents, then they had to be enemies.

Belkor spat at the nearest silhouette. “Fuck you, Hresk dog! Get out of my—!”

The figure lunged and growled in Belkor’s ear. Both sets of claws dug into the flesh of Belkor’s shoulders. “Better watch what you’re saying, Grahlrech runt, or as soon as we’ve milked you for all you’re worth, we’ll send your fat little head to Elref on a platter.”

“You’ve got no right to speak the High Alpha’s name!” Belkor snarled. He was pinned to the wall, legs folded under him, but he felt his claws rake against the enemy’s skin as he lashed out.

The Hresk grunted and cuffed Belkor’s head with something hard.

When Belkor came around, he found himself tied up in a den he didn’t recognize by sight or smell. It smelled of filthy Hresks. His lips curled in disgust, then he flinched. The throbbing pain at his temple was the least of his worries. He felt like he’d been beaten between being knocked out and landing in the enemy’s territory. He wondered if any of his kin had noticed the Hunters stealing him away from safety.

“Good, you’re awake,” a deep voice said from somewhere behind Belkor. Soon enough the Hresk, covered in clacking beads and colorful feathers, entered his line of sight. “Tell me about the traitor, and I will let you live.”

“Get away from me,” Belkor growled. He did his best to hide his pain.

The Hresk was a shaman, and no matter how much his High Alpha insisted that Hresk mysticism was a complete farce, Belkor was worried the shaman would curse him. He watched the shaman take a leather pouch and dried herbs from their hanging places on the wall.

“Are you going to poison me?” Belkor’s voice was a desperate whine.

“You need a poultice for your wounds.”

The shaman sat at a low table and worked with the ingredients he’d gathered. There were more things on the table, but Belkor could barely keep his eyes open to try to see what they were. His body wanted to rest, to shut itself off from the aches and pain. Half of him didn’t think what was happening mattered. So what if the shaman poisoned him? Belkor was probably going to die before this was over anyway.

“Tell me about the traitor. We heard rumors his own tribe will bring him to justice soon,” the shaman said. He paused to work a liquid into his mixing bowl.

“He has no tribe! He is exiled!” Belkor snapped. He struggled against his bonds, but there was no give.

“Then tell me where you discovered him. There is no reason for you to protect a traitor, is there?”

The shaman had a point. A very good point.