Free Intimidator by Cari Silverwood Page B

careful not to get jam on the weapons.
    Being armed at the breakfast table caused a few rude stares. He concentrated on the tablet.
    “The Feya’s got PMT,” was all he heard Brask say. PMT? Whatever that was. The language app glitched at times. What did they all know about being a Hunter? Not that he was one. Or should be. Why was he doing this when he needed to leave this planet? The whole idea of chasing this alien female was anathema and the very opposite of what he should be doing.
    He hadn’t even said goodbye to Nasskia or seen her grave, or the graves of his children, and he never would. This was complete stupidity.
    The last bite of toast a dry lump in his throat, he walked out to the surveillance room and flicked the switch. Screens flashed to life.
    He sat to watch.
    While cinching in the holster straps, he observed Willow sneak past the reservoir and through the trees for her meeting with the gun merchant. The little mellow green light on the life monitor on his chest strap flashed. His pulse was steady, blipping away. Good.
    He was calm until the weapon, a Glock, was placed in her hand. Seeing her loading it and checking out the slider and the magazine, made something rumble to life inside him. When she tucked the gun into a bag, he hit some unexpected limit.
    For a few moments, he pressed the center of his forehead with two fingers, circling, massaging away the tension. Instead of Nasskia when he woke up, his first thought had been of her, Willow. Was it just that she needed him?
    That weapon in her hand had looked as out of place as a flower would in his. Killing was his occupation.
    He stopped and stared at nothing, forearms leaning on his thighs. She did need him. So what if she was alien and there were a trillion more here also dying of one thing or another? This one, he could help.
    This one had a sweet body that seemed to have been made to tempt him. His tongue remembered her taste, the feel of her nipple springing up as he sucked on her. The wetness between her legs, her groans and sighs…
    “Dreaming, Feya?” Brask lightly punched his arm.
    He grimaced. “Yes.”
    “Her?”
    He dropped his head, clasped his hands. Why not say? “Yes.”
    “Look, if it’s hurting you this much, just give her to me, I can get permission to take her off your hands. She can be my pet.”
    “What?” The idea of Brask touching her, running his hands over her. “Don’t you dare –” He glared at Brask and found him smiling, with his hand out, and a red harness bunched up in his fist.
    “You might need this with a spirited one like her. Collar, leash, gag. I can’t take her from you, Stom. She’s yours.”
    He eyed the thing – straps, dark red leather, bronzed buckles. Was this what Brask thought a pet should wear?
    “I’m going down there now.” He stood and stalked away, aware that between his eyes was ridged by anger, that he was glowering as he whipped his coat off the armor rack and over his shoulders. It settled in place, covering the machine pistol.
    Brask was standing nearby, already in his coat, already armed.
    “You’re doing the second stage properly? Or is it a pretend one as you discussed with me days ago?” When Stom didn’t reply, he added, “We need to know. We have to protect you, be ready to cover up for mistakes if humans become aware.”
    Pretend, or real? They wanted a blatant verbal declaration. He stood and his hand clenched on the width of the holster strap, squeezing it in. His pulse was blipping along a little faster, a little heavier. Determined to stay focused he opened his mouth to say the word, pretend . And baulked.
    “Real. For now.”
    Bemused and appalled at himself, he shook his head. This had to be a betrayal of Nasskia. You couldn’t squeeze out of vows with debates, tricky arguments, and special situations, could you?
    The red harness had been left abandoned over a seat. The possibilities… He frowned. Other owners used such things on their pets.
    “I