Page 6 of Alien Mercenary’s Wife (Lathar Mercenaries: Warborne #7)

T 'Raal settled into his reading chair with a satisfied grunt, the familiar weight of a dataflex in his hands.

The crew meeting had gone well—no blood spilled, everyone relatively happy with the decision, and forty-eight hours to prepare for a job that would pay the bills.

Finally, he could steal a few hours of peace before the inevitable chaos of mission prep consumed his attention.

He pulled up his current book, a human romance novel called Hearts Across the Galaxy.

The cover featured a bare-chested human male with impossibly perfect features embracing a female in a torn dress against a backdrop of nebulae and starships.

Ridiculous, but human romance novels were fascinating glimpses into their psychology—their concepts of love, attraction, and relationships were endlessly complex compared to the straightforward mating practices of most species.

This particular story involved a star-crossed love affair between a cargo pilot and a station administrator, complete with corporate conspiracies, family drama, and enough misunderstandings to fuel a small war.

The humans seemed to thrive on emotional complications that would drive most Latharians to violence or madness.

He was halfway through a particularly dramatic scene where the female protagonist had discovered her lover's secret identity when his door chimed softly.

"Enter," he called, not looking up from the dataflex.

The door slid open to reveal Nat cradling her infant daughter against her chest. The baby was fussing, tiny fists waving as she made distressed noises that seemed impossibly loud in the small space.

Nat looked exhausted, with dark circles under her eyes and a weariness on her face that suggested she'd been fighting this battle for hours.

"I'm sorry to bother you," she began, her voice tight with frustration and embarrassment. "I know you're busy, but she won't settle and Beauty's not here. I've tried everything I can think of, but nothing works. I know you're Red's father, and I thought maybe you could help?"

He set the dataflex aside. The truth was.

.. his experience with infants was far more limited than Nat assumed.

When Red's mother had joined them, he'd been barely eighteen himself, and Red's mother had handled most of the baby care before her death.

Nat didn't need to hear about that right now, though.

She needed help and probably a week's unbroken sleep.

He couldn't help with a week, but he could give her a few hours at least.

"Of course. May I?"

Nat's shoulders dropped, tension melting from her features as she nodded, carefully transferring the baby into his arms. The infant continued fussing for a moment, then paused, eyes focusing on his face with intense concentration.

"Go get some sleep," he told Nat quietly. "I'll bring her back if she fusses or when she falls asleep."

"You're a lifesaver," she said tiredly and headed off.

He settled back into his chair, adjusting his hold until the baby was comfortable against his chest. He began to rock gently, finding a rhythm that seemed to soothe her.

"Hello there, little warrior," he murmured as the infant's cries gradually subsided. "Having a difficult day?"

The baby made a soft sound that might have been agreement or gas. Her tiny fist had somehow found its way to his shirt, gripping the fabric with surprising strength.

"Your mother's exhausted," he said. "And your father's off playing arena games on a planet full of criminals and killers. When you're older, you should have words with him about his decision-making skills."

The baby's breathing began to even out as sleep approached, her tiny face relaxing against his chest. He settled deeper into his chair, unwilling to shift even slightly, not even to reach for his dataflex.

When was the last time he'd held something so innocent?

His life was all weapons and contracts, violence and strategy.

This small weight against his chest reminded him that somewhere beyond the eternal cycle of mercenary work, life continued in its most basic forms.

He'd wait until she was deeply asleep before returning her to Nat—or so he told himself.

The truth was much simpler… he liked holding her.

Years of mercenary life had a way of hardening a man's perspective until everything became about the next job, the next threat, and the next tactical decision.

Moments like this were rare reminders that not everything in the galaxy was about killing.

A little while later, just as he was starting to think about returning the sleeping baby, his comm unit chimed softly with an encrypted communication. He accepted the call with a gesture, keeping his voice low.

"Unexpected timing," he said without preamble.

"Unexpected circumstances," came the reply.

The voice was running through a modulator, but T'Raal would have recognized the speaker anywhere.

He was a high-ranking Imperial warrior T'Raal had saved years ago when they were both younger men.

They'd been in sporadic contact ever since.

.. he was the warrior who'd told T'Raal where the emperor would be during that trial.

"How are things in your sector?" his contact asked, the question delivered carefully and neutrally.

"Quiet. Routine cargo runs, nothing noteworthy." He kept his response equally vague. They both knew the dance—information shared in generalities, never anything that could be traced back to either of them.

"Good to hear. Trade routes have been... disrupted in some areas."

"Pirates?"

"Among other things. There's been some unusual activity near the outer rim territories. Someone's been hitting the Izaean situation."

T'Raal said, "Yeah, I heard that someone was hitting the collection transports."

It was something he'd never agreed with in the Empire.

They were so far into their genetic purity obsession that they'd haul kids off to Izaea just because they had the blood rage mutation.

Izaea was well known to be a death planet, with brutal weather systems and more than its fair share of apex predators.

It was also home to the Izaean Berserkers—a proud and formidable fighting force.

The Lathar had been exiling those with the blood rage mutation there for centuries.

"No, not the transports," his contact said. "They attacked the planet itself."

T'Raal blinked in surprise. It was a running joke that only Skinny's mate had ever dared stow away aboard the Sprite because she'd fallen for Skinny—love at first sight—because there were few things more suicidal than stowing away aboard a mercenary ship full of highly trained killers, like leaping out of an airlock without a suit.

.. or attacking a planet full of trained killers with extreme anger management issues.

They didn't call it Blood Rage for nothing.

"Well, draanth me," he said. "That problem should resolve itself then."

"One would think so," his contact agreed. "I should go. Duty calls."

"Until next time."

"Stay safe out there."

The connection ended, and T'Raal stood to take the baby back to her mother.

The little one was deeply asleep now, completely relaxed in his arms. He made his way quietly through the corridors, thinking about the conversation.

Someone had been foolish enough to attack Izaea directly.

Whatever their reasons, they'd picked a fight with some of the most dangerous warriors in the galaxy.

The baby stirred slightly as he walked but didn't wake. By the time he reached Nat's quarters, she was already fast asleep on her bunk. He laid the baby carefully in her crib, making sure she was settled before backing away quietly.

Returning to his quarters, he reflected on the strange contrasts of his life: one moment holding an innocent child, the next receiving intelligence about attacks on warrior planets. The galaxy was full of contradictions, beauty, and violence existing side by side.

He picked up his dataflex again but found his attention wandering from the romance novel.

Somewhere out there, people were making decisions that would ripple across the galaxy in ways they probably couldn't imagine.

The attack on Izaea was one more piece in a puzzle he couldn't quite see the shape of yet.

But for now, his ship was quiet, his crew was safe, and they had a job that would keep them fed and armed. In his experience, that was about as much stability as anyone could hope for in this universe.

He stared at the romance novel's cover, but his mind wasn't on fictional conflicts anymore. Someone had just kicked a hornet's nest full of trained killers… Who knew how far those ripples would spread?

The message arrived at 04:00, rousing Reese from the kind of fitful sleep that came with chronic pain and constant worry.

A veteran she didn't know, claiming to have served with Dubois—Janet Dubois, who'd supposedly committed suicide three days ago.

The message was brief, panicked, and insistent: They're watching me.

Need to meet. Have information about the implants. Café Luna, Sector 7, 1100 hours.

Now, sitting on the transit car as it hummed through the underground tunnels toward Sector 7, Reese wondered if this was a trap.

Her left leg had been tightening up since she'd gotten out of bed, muscles cramping in irregular spasms that reminded her how little time she might have left.

But her hands were steady, and her mind was sharp. That would have to be enough.

She'd dressed carefully—civilian clothes that wouldn't mark her as military, but sturdy enough for quick movement if necessary. Her service weapon was concealed beneath her jacket, though she hoped she wouldn't need it. The last thing she wanted was a firefight in a crowded public space.