Fragile Bond (4 page)

The male, who’d been content to dangle limply until now, tensed. Hamm felt as though he had a tree trunk balanced on his shoulder. He rumbled a soft sound and chafed his cheek against the harsh rasp of cloth. Communicating through the language barrier wasn’t as difficult as he’d expected. At least not when the male listened. Hamm’s efforts to reassure him that he wasn’t being thrown into the center of a free-for-all made the male relax a fraction, although he held his head up and looked around.

Hamm couldn’t guarantee the alien wouldn’t come to harm. In fact, if the warrior became uncooperative during his attempts to extract information, it would deteriorate into a bloody mess. And though Hamm would feel a twinge of regret, he’d do it. The awareness that he would experience regret brought him up short. The alien fascinated him, sure. This went beyond that, though. He didn’t understand the shift in his emotional response enough to identify what had changed.

It wouldn’t stop him from doing his duty, though. He wouldn’t let it.

While the edge of rage and anger, of loss and pain, still lingered, it didn’t feel as unbearably sharp or vicious as it had earlier. More like something he could survive with his sanity, his self-respect, intact.

“It’s Commander Hamm. Stand down.” Though he didn’t continue his approach, he called out in a matching register so the young greenhorn scout wouldn’t feel at liberty to challenge further.

A few moments of silence. A faint chuffing sound. The guard emerged from behind the generous girth of a tree with an easy, open smile, an expression of relief, until the rest of the squad’s absence registered. “Commander? What happened?”

“I will
not
debrief in the middle of the woods, private. As you were.”

She ducked her chin in salute and gave a precisely measured bow, then retreated out of sight. Hopefully back to watching the surrounding woodlands, and not staring at the burden on Hamm’s shoulder. There was no hiding the nature of his prisoner.

Private Ardena was only one of many who thought nothing could be gained from communication unless it involved lethal strokes at one’s adversary. She wasn’t the only one to attempt a confrontation with him, either, just the first of many.

The fear for his prisoner’s safety was a very real one, the subliminal threats no less dangerous, so he didn’t hesitate to head straight for where they’d have the most privacy. Only the deep respect of his subordinates got him—and his prisoner—through to the more secure area where his office and quarters were, with only a bit of pheromone molestation and a couple scathing glances. His fellow furrs trusted him to keep their best interests at heart, and he wouldn’t betray that. Some of them had seen too much in the past months. He couldn’t trust they would react rationally to the scent and sight of the enemy.

Halfway across the room to the corner where he intended to stash his prisoner, a flash of honey amber mane on an intruding furr caught him unprepared. He flinched so hard into a crouch, every muscle tensing as he braced for attack, that the male draped over his shoulder grunted. The sound wasn’t a happy one. Reccin, his second-in-command, immediately backed up and lowered his gaze. He rumbled an apology as he rolled his shoulders and turned away just enough that he wasn’t presenting head-on.

“Hamm, where in the—”

He cut him off with a sharp, deep-register bark that didn’t nearly resemble anything civilized. “Find me Dehna. Bring her. It’s urgent.”

Reccin blanked his face and nodded before darting off down the hall.

Hamm eased the male off his shoulder onto the packed soil floor. He used the same gentle caution he would with an injured peer, struck with a twinge of concern that he might inadvertently inflict some kind of harm.

Utter nonsense. The alien hadn’t been harmed to begin with, and they had yet to find anything that could penetrate their armor-plating. Except pheromones.

The male pushed up onto his elbows. He spared a longing glance at his weapon in Hamm’s grip, then stared at him, but made no effort to move. Hamm crouched beside him and studied the soldier’s form, not sure if he was trying to ascertain if there were any wounds, or if, as he inhaled again deeply, his curiosity was more physical. He wondered what the long limbs and fragile, lean body would look like stripped of the bulky protection. He’d gotten an idea, a vague impression, when the male had stopped fighting and pushed against him instead. Quite an experience, watching him writhe in pleasure.

He couldn’t recall having seen something so erotic before.

The problem was, he shouldn’t. Shouldn’t have enjoyed it quite as much as he did, the sensation of the male shuddering with orgasm, the wet heat and intoxicating musk-scent of his cum. Shouldn’t have enjoyed feeling it running down the male’s leg, only the impenetrable material of the strange pelt keeping it from marking his skin as well.

This alien was the enemy. More importantly, this enemy was an alien. This was just wrong, wasn’t it? The male didn’t behave in a fashion resembling anything familiar. Mannerisms, language, and the distinct lack of visible hair short-circuited whatever objections Hamm might’ve employed under any other circumstances. As leader, he couldn’t engage in an intimate relationship with another furr or acknowledge a potential mate; to do so would compromise his lack of bias in the eyes of the clans. The soldier, though, was quite definitely not a furr. Not even if he squinted.

“No.” He growled it in hopes that hearing it would help drive the point home. “He killed your squad. His clan dropped in without so much as a by-your-leave and systematically obliterated an entire village. There is no way to justify being aroused by a hostile alien.”

He watched the male watching him. Despite the edge of wariness in the tense lines of his body, his eyes were steady, his expression open. Just thinking about it caused his pheromones to swamp the air again. His skin tingled, fine hairs hackling up, as blood flushed back toward his groin.

Hamm growled in frustration and carded fingers into his mane, unsheathing claws to rake against his scalp. Sensory distraction, stimulating his own erogenous zone.

“Soma save us all, Commander. As you lead us, turn that off.”

Sergeant Dehna’s request sent his mane into full bristle. He twisted, leaning to shield his prisoner as he bared fangs and rumbled a deep-chested growl of warning. None of which had any place here. Not that he’d given it even a moment’s thought. The linguist was likely just objecting to the scent in the room in general, but she wasn’t so obtuse as to not know what she smelled. She’d likely known halfway down the hall.

“Interesting.” Chief Reccin leaned in to peer over the sergeant’s shoulder. His voice lacked inflection, unlike his expression. He didn’t snuffle—he was too discreet for that—but his nostrils flared. Reccin jutted his jaw toward Hamm as he addressed Dehna. “Though I doubt it’s your concern, linguist.”

“Never smelled anything quite like it. Very potent.” The linguist coughed, clearing her lungs and nose, and Hamm knew she was struggling to be polite. In her own sarcastic way.

Hamm cleared his throat but didn’t bother shifting his position or lowering his guard. Too proud, on the one hand, to risk it seeming as though he were in any way ashamed of his instinctive response. And on the other . . . it appeared more and more a wise move with each passing moment. “The chief has a point, Sergeant. It isn’t why I asked you here. And as it isn’t affecting you, you can deal with the
stench
or borrow a plug for your nose. In the meantime, I need you to program a translator subroutine.”

“With what? For whom?”

“For him.” He shifted back a fraction, enough to let her see it wasn’t a furr on the ground behind him. “I imagine it won’t take more than a few recording samples to refine the subroutine for a bio-processor?”

“The question isn’t a matter of my ability, Commander, but this alien’s compatibility. I have the subroutines all but complete.” When he just stared at her, she hurriedly continued. “I’ve no idea whether a bio-processor will interface successfully.”

The various furr clans interfaced with the devices just fine. Even some of the far-flung feather clans used them successfully. But this male hailed from another planet. Soma only knew how the bio-processor would respond to such unfamiliar genetic makeup and chemistry.

The soldier inhaled, swaying toward him as though unaware of his reaction to Hamm’s pheromones. He moaned softly, hummed, and the next breath Hamm took was thick with the scent of its arousal. Again.

It made him light-headed, made his skin tingle and his blood rush south.

“If my pheromones can interface with this male, I see no reason why the bio-processor wouldn’t be able to.” He put a hand on the smaller male’s shoulder to steady his swaying before the soldier fell sideways into him. When he looked up at Sergeant Dehna, she furrowed her brow and bared a fang with a twisted curl of her lip.

“You call that interfacing? It smells like you floundered through a patch of stinkweed. How do you stand it?”

“More importantly, how did you even manage a successful interface?” Reccin gave her a concerned glance before focusing on Hamm. “It must’ve taken a great deal of effort.”

Hamm took another deep lungful of the soldier’s persistent musk. To him, it resembled ’nip. That Dehna said otherwise gave him pause. He wasn’t about to tell them the truth, that it had happened subconsciously the moment he’d tracked close enough to catch a whiff. Just . . . no. He was in no way ready for the shitstorm of issues that would fling everywhere.

“I think that’s intel I’ll keep to myself for the time being.” A nonanswer would suffice. For now. Until he’d had a chance to drill the male and get some answers of his own. “You claimed they fought dishonorably when they killed your mate.” Dehna’s hackles rose, and he raised his free hand to stay her. “I witnessed nothing dishonorable in his method or technique.”

“Didn’t you.” She still hackled, eyes narrowed, not entirely in control.

“No.”

“How many did he kill?” Reccin’s curiosity was thick.

“Or was he the one in back, with all the squawk boxes? The scouting party said there was an entire battalion headed this way. Are they still coming?” Dehna glanced toward the corridor as she asked her final question, and every inch of her looked ready to wield fang and claw against the invading force.

“You think I would return unsuccessful?” Doubt from one who’d accused him of doubting presented an interesting play of forces, but more than that, Dehna’s tone led Hamm to suspect she wasn’t coping with her losses in the healthiest manner. He’d have to mention it to Reccin later—though as her littermate, he was most likely already aware. “The team and I took out half the battalion before they turned back.”

“Where are the others?” Reccin posed the question in a soft voice, crouching down to his level near the captive soldier’s heavily shod feet.

“With Soma.” His voice felt rough and sounded lower than usual. The squad had known that patrol was likely a suicide mission. They’d discussed it in detail. He still felt his chest constrict, painfully tight with grief. He’d almost managed to bring them all back alive and hale. He was their commander, they were his responsibility. They should have come back. He growled and pushed the emotions away until he had the privacy to engage them fully.

“This soldier took out the entire team, one at a time.” Hamm shifted his gaze to the sergeant. “There is nothing dishonorable in using stealth and knowledge of surroundings, terrain, and adversary to your advantage. We use the same techniques as often as we can.”

Though Reccin’s grunt of surprise disturbed him, nothing could have prepared him for Dehna’s reaction as her gaze slipped toward the prisoner, her stance shifting from passive tension into hostile intent. Her hands flexed, claws dropping down, balance shifted, weight on the balls of her feet.

Any moment now she’d launch herself, and his pristine office, this bastion of solitude and peace—albeit a very tiny one—would be bathed in blood. Unless he did something.

Right now.

He was so screwed. He desperately wanted the reassurance of Mat in his hands, the weight of the rifle dragging at his arms and shoulders, the solid steel indifferent to his grip. The luring pliant sensation of the trigger begging for a squeeze. The lack made his hands twitch; his muscles felt strange. He felt incomplete, amputated.

It would’ve been humane, more civilized, for this large male to kill him instead of taking him captive. Was that what had happened to the rest of Sierra-Red? Marc pushed away thoughts of his squad mates, all fellow sniper scouts. He couldn’t afford the distraction; they were alive out there, retreating back to the battalion. He glanced between the three tawnies, aware of his very poor strategic spot.

One resembled his captor, sporting a shaggier, slightly darker mane, a shade of rich caramel. In comparison, the other had little mane to speak of, almost black, shorter and thinner. Closer to a human, in fact, in terms of build and height. Svelte, but no less intimidating or less dangerous.

Different subspecies, or different gender? He had no idea.