Alien, Mine (23 page)

“Corporal, your medical scanner,” Mhartak demanded.

The ‘Magran’ cringed back. “No, please,” he cried. “I
can’t
.”

Surprise strafed across T’Hargen’s features and he stared down at his operative.

“Can’t what?” Mhartak demanded.

Fear widened the intruder’s eyes.

Anger flooded Mhartak and he strode forward.

“Eugen, don’t.”

Sandrea’s use of his first name stopped him in his tracks. Tension curled his fingers into stiff hooks as he battled to control the emotions storming through him.

“Please, we know you’re not a Magran,” she coaxed. “There’s no point in furthering this charade. Who are you? Why are you here?”

The ‘Magran’ bent his abused, blooded head. “They said they’d kill everyone if I didn’t comply.”

“Comply with what?” Mhartak snarled.

“Eugen. Shut. Up.”

More than one rasp of shocked breath echoed in the quiet.

T’Hargen chuckled and murmured, “Fiery as all hells.”

“This is my jurisdiction, Sandrea.”

“Yes, but you scaring the hell out of him isn’t going to help.”

She stood and faced up to him.

g’Nel’s Blessed Pathways, I want to shake her and kiss her in equal measure.

“We call ourselves Gaillings,” the intruder spoke. “Our appearance is similar to Magrans. My features and build are close to the man they—” His glance flew to T’Hargen.

“The man they murdered,” T’Hargen finished. “And they wagered if your face was disfigured enough it would fool whoever you met. Is that why you refused medical treatment?”

“Yes.”

“What is it you bargained in exchange for the lives of your people?” Sandrea asked.

The Gailling turned haunted eyes toward her, his hand moving inside his shirt.

Mhartak grabbed Sandrea and thrust her behind him.

She hissed, then murmured, “Sshhh.”

He levelled his handgun on the Gailling. The intruder’s eyes widened and he froze.

“T’Hargen,” Mhartak growled.

His brother knelt and ran gentle hands over the Gailling in a thorough search. His fingers delved into folds of clothing and withdrew a coin-sized, circular, flat, black tab.

“Well?” Mhartak demanded.

“Just this tracer tag,” T’Hargen murmured and inspected the device. “Not activated.”

Mhartak lowered his gun. “What were you to use it for?”

“I was to tag the human. They want her back.”

Sandrea leaned against the outer wall of the shed and watched the dawn stars fade from the sky. Tormented by the nearness of an unreachable Eugen, she’d grabbed a thermal blanket and escaped the confines of the cabin. Sleep deprivation and distress over her lack of communication with the man she loved had mounted a spirited attack on her temperament. Not to mention confirmation it was she the Bluthen pursued. A shiver ran through her body.

And there wasn’t even any damn coffee to alleviate the situation.

Eugen had confiscated the tag from Behdahn, the Gailling, and asked for a volunteer. All four soldiers stepped forward. Ragnon drew the short straw, and took off in the night with the device.

Boots crunched toward her over frost-covered grass.

“Good morning, Miss Sandrea.” Kulluk’s breath puffed in a mystical vapour before his face.

“What’s good about it?” she grumbled.

Wariness flashed through his eyes. “Is something wrong?”

“Nothing an AK47 and a rooftop wouldn’t fix.”

His gaze went blank. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

She shook her head. “I’ll enlighten you some other time.”

She filled her lungs with the chill morning air. Its crisp clarity went some way to refreshing her spirit and mollifying her poor humour. The cabin, backed by a green wood, stood in a field of yellow grass and in the immaculate, clear morning light everything looked Eden-like.

Just watch some bastard come along and rain on that parade.

“Is it safe to go into the woods?” she asked. “No teddy bears having a picnic?”

Kulluk ran a cautious gaze over her. “Are you alright, Miss Sandrea?”

She huffed out a breath and watched it mist before her.

“Yeah, I need to use the facilities . . .”

He looked blank.

“The woods?” she prompted.

Comprehension dawned across his face.

“Ahh. Right.” He spoke into a communicator fastened high on his vest then glanced back at her. “Go ahead.”

She shoved off the wall and walked toward the copse.

“Choose your leaves carefully,” Kulluk advised after her.

Tart amusement kicked up a corner of her mouth.

Thanks, Sergeant.

She performed the requirements her body demanded, favoured a biodegradable wipe over available leaves, and waited while Dexter carried out his necessary tasks. He begged a scratch and a cuddle before slipping beneath her shirt and nestling under her breasts. His tiny, suctioning feet gripped her through the stretch shirt moulding her ribs. A cool, gentle breeze rustled through the wood and drifted the perfume of nature to her.

This is such a lovely place. Damn the Bluthen to hell and gone.

She checked her clothing and Dexter’s inconspicuousness, then headed back to the shed. Over the mountains, the leading rays of sunrise streaked the sky in pink and gold.

“Miss Sandrea?”

“Yes, Sergeant?”

“They won’t reacquire you.”

She met his direct gaze with appreciation, and a spark of comradeship lightened her mood. “Thank you, Sergeant. I appreciate that.”

Movement behind him dragged her eyes from his face. She blinked. Ragnon loped toward them, dirt and . . .
hmmm
. . . muck streaked his clothes and face. Then she got a whiff of him.

“What the devil have you been up to?”

He grinned. “Planting that tracer tag on something small, fast, and”—he wiped at a scratch on his neck—“of a rather mean temperament. Getting it on the furry little bugger wasn’t so hard, activating the damn thing afterward was the challenge.”

“Thank you. It means a lot, what everybody has done for me.” She paused and tried not to breathe too deeply. “Don’t take this the wrong way, Rag’, but do you mind keeping downwind?”

“Aw, does this mean I don’t get a hug?”

She grinned at him. “You’re damn right you don’t.”

Dexter wriggled from her torso into a baggy sleeve.

From behind her, Eugen’s suspicious voice stabbed.
“What was that?”

Oh shit.

She turned. His gaze narrowed on her sleeve. T’Hargen stood by his side.

“What was what?” she asked with a valiant attempt to project innocence.

“Your arm moved.”

“It quite often does,” she admitted earnestly.

A muscle twitched in Eugen’s clamped jaw. He stepped toward her, a hand lifted.

She took a hasty step back. “Don’t even think about it, Eugen,” she warned.

He halted, blinked.

God, she wanted so much to rush into his arms.

Dexter’s feet shuffled around toward the front of her torso. She grabbed the edges of her over-shirt and scrunched them together. He scurried up between her breast and arm then nosed out from under the shirt at her neck.

T’Hargen gasped.

“What is it?” Eugen demanded.

“Dangerous.
Extremely
dangerous.”

She speared T’Hargen a malevolent glare.

“Did you know about this?” Eugen threatened Kulluk.

“No, sir.”

“Nobody was aware of it when I met Dexter,” she informed Eugen with iron-plated calm.

Controlled wrath stormed across his features and he eyed Dexter with extreme antagonism.

“And after?” he demanded.

She clamped her lips together.

“I was aware afterwards.”

Her heart sank and she turned to Kendril walking in from the field. The glower Eugen bent on her friend lit up every one of Sandrea’s defence senses.

Looks like the shit just well and truly hit the fan.

“And when,
precisely
, did you become aware Miss Fairbairn harboured dangerous wildlife, Corporal?”

The skin on Sandrea’s neck shivered to the cold foreboding of his tone.

“When the creature attacked a Bluthen that was attempting to waylay us, Sir,” Kendril replied with steady composure.

Admiration for her friend’s courage in the face of grave danger flashed through her.

“And when”—Eugen continued to rumble—“were you planning on advising me of this?”

“My apologies, General—”

“I asked the corporal to keep her silence,” she interrupted.

“I’m well aware this infraction does not settle entirely on Corporal Shrenkner’s shoulders, Sandrea,” Eugen growled between clenched teeth.

“Good,” she declared, not intimidated by the very angry, very large, very powerful man before her. A fury equal to his slammed into her constraint, and she planted her hands on her hips. “I’ll remember that next time you want me to smell something.”

She latched onto his forearm and dragged him into the yellow-grassed meadow away from the squad. T’Hargen followed.

“If you bust her I’ll, I’ll . . . You
owe
me Eugen, big time. And you owe
her
.”

Eugen bent his frame and thrust his grim face into hers.

Dexter hissed.

Eugen’s gaze didn’t so much as flicker in his direction. “I will not allow interference in military conduct—”

“You don’t have authority over me.”

Dexter’s tail wrapped around her neck and he stretched out under her chin.

“She is magnificent, Mhartak,” T’Hargen drawled with apparent admiration from the sidelines.

What?

Sandrea watched her own anger at this intrusion notch up another couple of levels in Eugen’s face. A growl rose from his rigid throat.

“No wonder you keep her,” T’Hargen continued conversationally. “But tell me, don’t you damage her? All that soft skin and those curves, mm
mmm
, makes you just want to sink your teeth in.”

Anger, frustration, fear, confusion, all crashed together and blew what control Sandrea had. In one fluid motion, she planted a hand on T’Hargen’s shoulder and, with all the angst she felt toward Eugen and their unresolved situation plus every ounce of chi she could focus,
shoved
. He stumbled back. A breeze drifted by her heated face and she snatched in a harsh breath. Alarm ripped across her nerves at the scent of Bluthen. She tore T’Hargen’s rifle from of his lax grip and shouldered it.

The muzzle pointed dead centre of Eugen’s forehead. He didn’t flinch. She bared her teeth and growled, “Duck.”

He dropped to a squat.

She aimed, fired, and eased the rifle down.

Eugen was immediately in her face. “This conversation is
not
over,” he promised. “Sergeant! How many?”

“Just the one Bluthen, Sir,” Kulluk replied from amongst the trees.

“Corporal,” he bellowed.

“Sir!”

“Bring the Gailling. Provide him with what relief you can. And Corporal?”

“Sir?”

“Watch him like a terrorhawk.”

“She
is
magnificent, Mhartak.”

Mhartak ignored his brother’s comment. With easy strength his long strides covered the steep, uphill tumble of rocks and boulders that lay between two folds of treed land.

“She’d make a great mate,” T’Hargen prodded.

“Stop trying to bait me,” he growled.

“She really gets under your skin, doesn’t she?” His brother’s tone pitched with amused wonder. “You and I had some epic barneys, but I’ve never seen you that riled.”

Though a short distance behind the remainder of the troop, Mhartak kept his voice low. “Is that the reason behind the lurid comments you made?”

“I was trying to distract the focus of your passion, er, passionate anger.” T’Hargen grinned at him. “That caped lizard was not happy with you. I’ve seen what they can do. You do
not
want to get it offside.”

“How the hell am I to get it away from her?”

T’Hargen shook his head. “I doubt you are.” He shrugged. “They seem quite fond of each other. You’ll probably just have to get used to it.”

Mhartak huffed out an enormous breath of potential capitulation, his hungry eyes locked on Sandrea’s form as Kulluk helped her scramble over a large rock.

“Is she yours?” T’Hargen asked.

He grimaced. “I had hoped so.”

“But?”

“But I have done something to upset her.”

“Such as?”

He shook his head slowly from side-to-side. “I am not entirely certain.”

For the first time in ten years Mhartak heard his brother laugh, even if it was muffled behind a hand. He allowed sheepish chagrin to filter over his features, consciously permitting his brother to witness his unguarded emotions. T’Hargen punched a fist against his shoulder and muttered, “You always were a brave bastard.”

Sandrea glanced back as the sound of T’Hargen’s laughter carried to her.

Are they
trying
to give our position away?