Born of Legend (4 page)

Heat scalded her cheeks as she realized that there was a sudden large bulge under the sheet
very
close to her hand and in the exact location he'd described. Gasping, she looked up to meet a pair of suspicious yet eerie hazel brownish-green eyes, rimmed with red.

Those weren't Andarion eyes.

They were human in appearance. No wonder he'd worn dark red sunglasses to conceal them. But what stunned her most was how much unexpected and unwanted heat those eyes sent through her body.…

Dagger started to smile at the beautiful blonde angel until he realized how many weapons were strapped to her black
battle
suit.

Shit. Dressed like that, she was either an assassin or bounty hunter.

Out of habit, he reached for his own blaster, only to find bare skin under the sheet. He started off the bed, but she grabbed him and gently pushed him back.

“It's all right. You don't need to move with that wound.”

Yeah, uh-huh. Yet if she was taking him in, why was he still alive? Why bother? They would pay just as much for his dead body as they would for his living one.

More, in fact.

Calming down a degree to a milder paranoia, he narrowed his eyes on her. “I'm not in custody?”

She shook her head. “Do you remember what happened?”

Vaguely. There was only one thing he could recall with any clarity …

“The kid. Did he make it out?”

“My son. Yes. Is that all you remember?”

Dagger scowled as he tried to think of other details. But all he could recall was the pain. Same pain he felt right now. Looking down, he saw the blood that was quickly saturating his bandage.

The female Andarion glanced down and cursed. “You've pulled your sutures open. Lie back.”

“I need to go. Where are my clothes?”

“There's nowhere for you to go. We've already launched.”

“Launched?”

She pointed to the metal walls. “You're on board our ship.”

Fury burned through him as he gathered the sheet around his waist and sprang from the bed. “I won't let you hand me over to The League,” he growled.

Ushara stepped back as she saw the feral, determined fury in his eyes that reminded her of a beast about to attack. She'd dealt with enough desperate beings in her life to recognize how dangerous the tiziran was in this state. Holding her hands up, she tried to reassure him. “That's not my intent. If it was, I'd have surrendered you to the authorities before we left when they demanded I do so.”

Confusion furrowed his brow. “Pardon?”

She moved slowly toward the wall monitor. “Here. I'll show you.” She called up the feed to replay what he'd missed while he'd been unconscious.

As he watched it, his jaw went slack. By the look on his face, it was obvious he wasn't used to anyone standing up for him. He turned to stare at her in disbelief. “Why would you risk your crew for me?”

“Why did you save my son?”

“I didn't think anyone else would. I just wanted to make sure he got home safely.”

The honesty of his unexpected answer floored her. “Well, you have yourself to thank for not being in custody or dead. That decision is the only reason you're here. You saved him and we saved you. We'll drop you off at the nearest station, then—”

“If you don't mind, I'd rather you just jettison me somewhere unpopulated. I only ask that it has a breathable atmosphere.”

“Seriously?”

He nodded and wiped at the perspiration on his brow. His tanned skin had a sudden grayish tint to it.

Concern furrowed her brow. “You need to get back in bed and rest.”

He shook it off. “I'll be fine. I just need my clothes.”

Like her husband, he was a stubborn Andarion male. Knowing she couldn't win against him, Ushara went to the cabinet to retrieve his gear. She hesitated as she saw the poor, threadbare condition it was in. His boots were worn so thin, the left one had a hole in the toe of it that was packed with taped-in plastic to keep it watertight. Though he kept his clothes meticulously clean, his pants were patched and faded. The once black, now dark grayish shirt was stretched out from overuse and age.

Feeling bad for him, she held them out so that he could take them from her. “Can I get you anything else?”

He gathered his clothes and glanced about sheepishly. “Might I ask a favor, Ger Tarra?”

“It's mu tara,” she corrected the Andarion term, letting him know that she wasn't married. Though why she did so, she wasn't exactly sure. “What?”

“Is there a shower on board that I may use?”

She gestured toward the door on her right. “Through there. You'll find soaps, razor, and towels as well.”

He gave her a very regal bow. “Thank you.” The sincere gratitude in those words was startling as he headed for the bathroom. He left his boots, weapons, and coat on the bed.

Ushara took a moment to reexamine them, especially the numerous bloodstains on the worn dark brown coat that Jullien had attempted to clean off and yet the stains stubbornly remained as bitter reminders of how many had tried to kill him.

Repeatedly. Their grim determination was a testament to his own resolute will to stay alive in spite of their best efforts.

The leather showed remnants of dozens of burn marks left behind from blaster wounds, as well as slashes from knives and other weapons where he'd repaired the leather with patches and jagged stitches as best he could.

“Damn,” she breathed. Did he not have anyone in the universe who cared about him?

For that matter, who'd issued the death warrant? His mother was the tadara of the Andarion empire. His father ruled the Triosans, which meant Jullien would have cousins in power, ruling other empires and governments throughout the universe, as well. He would have to be related to most emperors, and have ties to the rest. His twin brother, Nykyrian Quiakides, was one of the leaders of The Sentella, a military organization that rivaled The League for power. Not to mention, he was married to the only child of the Gourish president.

Tahrs Nykyrian's political ties were terrifying. Princess Kiara's even more so.

Surely one of
them
could rescind a kill warrant for Jullien. After all, Emperor Aros had forced The League to pull the one they'd had issued for years against Nykyrian, and Nykyrian had gone Rogue on The League—a cardinal sin in their eyes. If that could be done, why could they not repeal the one for Jullien?

Unless his parents had condoned it. Or gods forbid, they were the ones who'd actually issued the warrant against his life.

Was it possible?

They had disinherited him for some reason …

Extremely curious, she pulled up the warrant on her link to see. Many Thrill-Kill contracts were done anonymously—which was honestly what she'd expected to find. But when the file loaded and she saw the name of the issuer, she gasped audibly.

Eriadne eton Anatole
.

His own grandmother?

For real?

And both his parents and brother had allowed it to stand?
Dear gods … why?

The answer was at the bottom of the warrant, written in plain Universal.

Jullien eton Anatole.

Wanted dead, violated, desecrated, and in pieces. Thrill-Kill warrant.

Acts: Murder. Kidnapping. Conspiracy. Attempted murder. Theft. High treason against the Andarion empire and race.

Bounty to be paid by former tadara upon delivery of his head to Her Former Majesty. Bonus to be paid for delivery of his heart and Andarion signet ring.

Suddenly, a shadow fell over her. Looking up, she saw the dark, deadly glower on Jullien's face as he caught a glimpse of what she'd been reading.

He pulled the link from her hand and clicked it off before he casually returned it to her. His expression was completely stoic and unreadable. “To answer your unspoken question, mu tara. Yes, I deserve it. And yes, I'm that big an asshole.”

 

C
HAPTER
2

The fresh clean scent of Jullien's skin hit her hard as Ushara met those tormented hazel eyes that were rimmed by a thin outline of red. A mixture of human and Andarion. His thick, jet black hair was slicked back from his incredibly handsome face, and he'd taken a moment to trim his unruly beard to a sexy masculine shadow that now barely dusted his sculpted jawbone.

He was simply devastating. Lethal. Raw and masculine. And yet at the same time there was an air of regal refinement as ingrained and natural to his state of being as breathing. She'd never been around anyone so compelling.

And at the same time, anyone deadlier.

Like a savage lorina in the wild. A majestic creature of ultimate grace and beauty you couldn't stop watching in breathless appreciation. One you wanted desperately to reach out and pet, and yet you knew if you tried, it would tear your arm off and rip out your throat. That was exactly what it felt like to be near him.

Without a word, Jullien stepped away to buckle the holster around his lean hips and tie the blaster to his left thigh. He secured the rest of his weapons to his body and positioned the reserve blaster at the small of his back. Then he shrugged his coat on.

“Who did you kill?”

Jullien sighed wearily as he picked up his boots and moved to a chair so that he could pull them on. “What does it matter? You want me to tell you he deserved it to assuage us both. Whether he did or not, the ones who loved him grieve his passing regardless of his sins. And it changes nothing. I still made a harsh decision to take a life that I have to live with, and one day die for.”

Bracing his elbows on his knees, he paused to look up at her. “You think I don't know your thoughts,
mu tara
 … Tahrs Jullien eton Anatole. Royal prick. Arrogant asshole. I was born without feelings or compassion, and despised from the moment I stupidly drew my first breath and didn't have the good sense to immediately expel it and die. Unlovable and disgusting. Spoiled, rich, and blessed beyond the wildest imaginings of the most creative novelist. Believe me, that ball-shriveling hatred from your eyes doesn't faze me at all. There was a time when such condemnation from strangers and family seared me to the core of my pitiless soul and sent me sniveling into corners, but I've long grown past it.”

She glared at him. “Do you know what your family did to mine?”

“Slaughtered them.”

His nonchalant, unrepentant tone infuriated her.

Unperturbed by her anger, he returned her glower with a cold, blank stare. “You think they spared each other?” He pushed himself back and lifted his shirt to point to the scar by his heart that she'd touched earlier. “Present from my grandmother. She moves incredibly fast for an old bitch.” He dropped his hand to the horizontal scar bisecting his eight pack, next to his navel. “Age eleven. Cousin Chrisen tried to gut me. Said it was an accident, but I saw the look in his eyes when we went for it. Only accidental part about it was that he didn't leave me sterile or dead.”

Then he dropped the hem of his shirt, leaned his head to the side to indicate the scar along his collarbone. “Cousin Merrell did this one four years ago. He tried to cut my throat, but I cold cocked him and got away.” He lifted his hair to show another on his forehead. “My mother gave me this precious memento when I was six and made the mistake of trying to soothe her while she was crying. And I would show you the one Cousin Nyran left me with, but it's in a place that you'd have me arrested for exposing. So given everything my family has done to each other for centuries, I can only imagine what they've done to those they're not related to.”

Ushara had no idea what to say to that. “Why would your mother scar you?”

With a regal grace that was at odds with his shabby clothes, he pulled a pair of ragged fingerless gloves out of his pockets and put them on. “My grandmother had brutally murdered my twin brother. So on the day of his funeral when I went to comfort my mother and to seek some comfort myself that I wasn't about to join him in that grave—that my mother might actually protect
me
, my mother decided it was somehow all my fault he was dead and threw a gift I'd made for her on her birthday earlier that year. Taught me to never make another gift out of pottery or baked clay. After that, I stuck to paper and lightweight jewelry.”

Leaning back in the chair, he hitched his thumbs in his holster, crossed his ankles and gave her a tired, emotionless stare. “Look,
mu tara
, I don't want your sympathy or pity, and I damn sure don't want your anger and hatred. I'm not going to defend my family—they've never protected me, as that lovely death warrant clearly demonstrates. And I'm not into making excuses for the actions I was forced to take while trying to stay alive in an extremely hostile environment, where every breath I drew was likely to be my last, and everyone around me was plotting my death, dismemberment, and betrayal. If you want to kill me, do it. You're in luck. I'm in too much pain today to fight for a life I never really wanted, anyway.”

And with that, he folded his arms over his chest and closed his eyes.

A part of her was extremely ticked at his curt, arrogant dismissal. So much so that she was tempted to kick him.

But another part realized it for what it was. His own defense mechanism. If he was telling her the truth, his family hadn't spared him their brutality.

At all.

And given what she'd seen on that warrant and what it detailed for how they wanted him killed, and the scars on his body, there was no need to doubt him.

His own family had issued a brutal death warrant not just to kill him, but to have him brutalized, tortured, and dismembered.

Thrill-Kill. It was the most horrific warrant anyone could have issued against their life.

By his own grandmother.
And his parents had stood by and allowed her to do it to him. Neither one had bothered to protect or shelter their own child.