Fragile Bond (8 page)

The scent remained potent as though clinging to him in a cloud. Orsonna followed an obscure path up the rock-strewn hillside, hardly more than a narrow trail of trampled underbrush.

In need of distraction, Marc tried focusing on the landscape. He could taste the fresher air, not laced with pheromones like a narcotic. Ah, his inhaler. Would that work? Except he’d risk oversaturation . . .

Focus on something else.
That soldier mindset had worked earlier.

The scattered trees were large, branches tangling into a canopy high overhead. Their girth alone suggested the age of this place. Even given their greater height and longer reach, it still would’ve taken ten or twelve furrs to encircle most of them. No geographic distinctions stood out. Nothing differentiated this particular hill from the dozens of others in line of sight between the trees. Nothing indicated that the furrs used the subterranean space as a headquarters.

What else had he missed in the two weeks he’d been planetside?

The path opened onto a stretch of meadow on the hilltop. It was little more than a clearing between the boulders and trees with grass and wildflowers and some patches of vicious-looking thistle finding foothold in the soil. Marc gauged distances with a critical eye and nodded. It would fit a fleet of shuttles easily enough. It would do.

The chief remained within the wood line, stationing himself just out of sight behind a tree. Orsonna continued walking, and since Marc preferred his arm attached to his body, he followed him out into the meadow.

Was Reccin really comfortable letting his commander out of sight? With a member of a known enemy faction? How much an enemy was he, though? He couldn’t answer that question. He grimaced. He’d done his best to transform himself from adversary to ally. It wasn’t as though their express intent was to engage in hostile activities.

But the spirit of the military’s presence on the planet and the letter of that same presence might be highly divergent when push came to shove.

He crossed his fingers, wishing for Mat’s reassuring weight. Like a ghost limb, there were moments when he thought he could feel the rifle. He tried to ignore it and whispered a short prayer to this world’s deities—whoever or whatever might hold spiritual sway on this strange planet—that his communication would find Mother’s commanding officer in a benevolent mood.

Something was very wrong here. The pieces of the puzzle that this planet presented were falling into place slowly. More slowly than he’d like, thanks to the furrs—especially this one that caused constant distraction. It wasn’t just that Marc admired Hamm’s musculature at odd moments when a flexion created definition or natural lighting highlighted a particularly fascinating stretch of flesh-scape.

Alien technology, organic, interactive. Not particularly subtle, but not anything like what Marc had trained to assess or counter. From a programmer who was a linguist—he suspected that wasn’t just a translational error—to architecture formed seamlessly from the environment in which they existed.

Why not the same for their weaponry as well?

He had no way to counter a weapon that attacked on a chemical level, short-circuiting his mental capacity to evade, resist, escape. At least it didn’t inhibit survival. Yet.

Orsonna crowded close without warning. Hard muscle and dark-soil aroma pushing against him. He couldn’t manage more than a flinch of tension. A glider round jamming in Mat’s chamber would garner more response. The furr’s purr vibrated Marc’s thick-soled boots and rattled his brains in his skull. Orsonna leaned in to sniff at Marc’s neck just above the sweat-stained collar of his battle dress.

“Make contact with your people.” Every syllable was a tactile sensation against his skin. The site of the bio-processor’s interface felt strange. The blood in his veins rushed south so fast his vision tunneled. It took a few moments of fumbling with the radio to make his fingers understand what they were doing by touch alone.

That he managed to get an almost immediate response to the E-freq startled him. A bored female voice said, “Go ahead for Paris-One.”

Marc scrubbed his sleeve over his bare forehead as he keyed the mike again. What had happened to his skull-jug?

“Paris-One, this is Foxtrot-Sierra-Red One. Foxtrot-Five group and Sierra-Red squad no longer active. Be advised, have made first contact with sapient indigene, repeat, contact with sapient indigene. Request stand-down of all aggressive forwards. Do you copy?”

Silence dragged out for too long. Static, then, “Stand by, Red One.”

Why? The urge to scream made him grind his teeth. Orsonna encircled his torso with one arm and nudged closer, still purring. Burying his nose in Marc’s neck. Something creaked inside Marc’s chest, something on the verge of snapping. And it wasn’t from the force of the furr’s embrace.

In fact, the large male was strangely gentle, in sharp contrast to his earlier behavior.

“What the fuck are you doing?” He tried to twist away, escape the thick scent swamping the air. Resisting the urge to saturate himself with that smell took every last shred of willpower he possessed.

Which only confused him. Whatever mental faculties remained to him went offline under the onslaught of arousal and the tingling of his skin. This didn’t make any sense. They had him under control. He was doing what they wanted—it even coincided with what needed to be done, according to SFI protocol. Everyone would be happy. Marc would survive this in one piece. And take a very, very long and much-needed vacation. So why did the furr commander keep up the pretense of arousal and attraction?

“I don’t understand this.” Hamm said more, Marc was certain of it. The translator didn’t engage though, so it was just a series of pleasantly vibrating rumbles. That really annoyed him, the not-quite-random hiccups. Hamm’s arm tightened, pulled Marc flush up against him. He slid fingers down Marc’s neck, honey-brown eyes following as he traced Marc’s shoulder.

Hamm’s intensity held his attention. That point of focus seemed to help him keep his thoughts halfway untangled as well. Marc swallowed and found his voice. “I understand less than you. Especially with the translation device being selective.”

“Selective?” Hamm leaned in and stroked his cheek against Marc’s. It gave him just cause to indulge himself—too much temptation to resist. He buried his face in that mane, finally. Warm, soft, and thick with musk. The surging adrenaline and endorphins were a heady combination. The tremors ran down his arms and legs. Heat coiled low in his gut as his cock went fully hard. It made him light-headed, it happened so fast.

Had Hamm asked a question? Yeah, he had. And it had been something important. Fuck, he didn’t care about anything. Except that those hands sliding over him weren’t touching his skin. Exploring through Kevlar-gel cloth. When the male palmed his buzzed scalp, Marc leaned into the caress with a moan and closed his eyes.

No conscious thought as he rotated his hips forward. Breath already ragged, desperate for stimulation. He sank his fingers deep into the thick mane of hair. Didn’t care how rough his grip was. He didn’t worry about hurting Hamm. He could take it. More than that—wanted it, if that growl was anything to go by. Hamm met his force ounce for ounce. Large hands bracketing Marc’s hips, sliding around to grab his ass. Lifting him off the ground, bearing his weight with ease. Just enough height to bring them face-to-face.

The radio crackled, spewed a baritone male voice. “Foxtrot-Sierra-Red One, this is Mother. Confirm your last.”

The voice was a knife through his arousal. Oh shit. Paris-One was forward base communications. They had patched him through to ship command on board Mother Diaspora.

Hamm held his gaze, his grip not weakening.

Grateful, Marc borrowed some of that strength as he gave his call sign again. “Mother, be advised. Contact with sapient indigenes.” Contact, indeed. He had to pause and cough away the tickle of laughter in the back of his throat. “Request all aggressive forwards stand down. Advise deployment of Charlie-Charlie.”

Contact and Communications. Standard operating procedure, straight from the manual for handling sapient encounters. Technically, Marc should shut the hell up, back the fuck off, hole up and wait for the team.

That wasn’t about to happen. He wouldn’t, couldn’t. He didn’t know if it was just the endorphin high feeding into it. Or if it had anything to do with the alien’s eyes, the steady expression. Either way, the reality of the situation was that Hamm shouldn’t trust him. Because though the furr was no enemy to Marc, they were preparing for war.

And yet Hamm trusted him. Trusted that he’d spoken truthfully in explaining the circumstances earlier. Didn’t seem to hold him accountable for the deaths of those other furrs, which didn’t sit well with him at all. In fact, it made the pleasant effects of the pheromones fade fast. The commander didn’t strike him as the type to take deaths lightly.

Ignorance of the law wasn’t protection from it. Why should this be any different? What else could furrs detect and interpret besides pheromones?

Fuck, anything was possible. The male gave another growl, a rhythmic cadence that the translation device once again ignored.

Marc lowered his gaze, disentangled his hand from Hamm’s hair to trace the lines of his face. Jaw, cheek, nose, dragging fingertips gently over his lips. He was far from a handsome creature by human standards. But he was fucking beautiful.

Maybe it was just the pheromones playing with his brain chemistry or whatever. Skewing his perceptions like a recreational drug relaxing inhibitions. Worlds better than anything he recalled paying for.

“Did you advise for Charlie-Charlie?” The man’s voice came through the radio without the slightest hint of static. As though he stood at Marc’s shoulder, sounding less than pleased. He’d been silent a good while. Probably went to pull up Marc’s GPS chip and get a full debrief on the earlier losses.

“Affirmative, Mother. Contact with Sierra-India. Team can confirm within minutes of arrival.”

“Remain on-site to guide. Deploying to your location in twenty. ETA seventeen-hundred Zulu.”

“Copy, Mother. Out.” He glanced at the chrono readout on the face of the radio. “The team should be here soon. I give it until tomorrow, and you’ll have a full-scale cease and desist order in action.”

“It stops?” Hamm canted his head, trying to catch his gaze.

Marc turned the volume down on his radio. “Yeah, ya big tawny. It stops.”
You can stop turning on the charm, now.
“They should hail for a landing zone within,” he glanced up at the sky, measured the movement of the sun that equated to an hour, “roughly.”

Hamm’s grip tightened on his ass as he ground his hips forward and curled his lips in what Marc suspected he should interpret as a smile. The attempt at something so foreign lightened the weight in his chest, hunkering like a personnel transport stuck in the mud. “Good. Got some time then.”

“Time?” The ramrod-stiff length of Hamm’s arousal jutted low against his groin and thigh. It felt suspiciously similar to how Mat’s barrel had felt trapped between them. Marc wanted to rip his uniform trousers off, just so he could feel the difference, that tingling thrill of hot flesh branding flesh. He shifted against Hamm, frustrated by the lack of friction in the right places. Taunting, close, but not quite right. He glanced around. “Yeah, time. Place?”

Hamm’s gaze narrowed. A growl vibrated through him, and then Marc’s back hit the ground. It had been much too long since he’d had a well-muscled, horny male crouched over him. The furr palmed Marc’s cock through his trousers, fingers tangling with his as Marc tried to focus on undoing the buttons. He growled his desperation and impatience. He sounded nothing like a furr, but he didn’t care. It made Hamm’s own growl shift into a purr and drop an octave, touch growing more insistent. Marc squeezed his eyes shut, tried to take a deep breath and focus, but his skin tingled everywhere. The tension building to the point of pain in his groin kept interrupting his efforts. How many thousands of years of military refinement, and nobody had devised anything better than buttons?

Hamm listened to Marc growl softly, watched him squirm and writhe as he fought with his clothing. When Hamm tried to slide his palm greedily up the searing heat of Marc’s hard shaft again, the soldier hissed and pushed his hand away.

That wouldn’t do. The ’nip scent of his pheromones wasn’t enough anymore. He wanted to taste skin and sweat and musk and cum. He growled his impatience and Marc echoed the same sound and tone, right back at him. It cut through his arousal—which felt so intense he doubted he could escape this encounter without demanding a measure of gratification.

Reccin had sensed it and stayed back in the tree line. His second was far from stupid. He’d scented what Hamm had, too, though he’d questioned the soldier longer than Hamm had needed to be certain of the truth.

This soldier wasn’t their enemy.

He wasn’t so lost or mindless that he would take what wasn’t freely offered. It wasn’t about dominance—not this. Not right here. When Marc continued his ragged breathing and fumbling, Hamm’s patience expired. He wanted to taste. It didn’t matter where he tasted him, just needed skin. He dipped his head, desperation coloring his growl as he licked along Marc’s neck, then closed his eyes against the zing of pleasure that shot through him. Marc’s scent had
nothing
on the way he tasted. It was as though the male had rubbed ’nip leaves all over his skin. Twice a day. For a year. The vibration of sound as he purred resonated through his entire body, easing the painful edge of relentless need into something softer. Offering a small measure of relief.