Page 6 of Honor Bound (Project Gliese 581g #4)

CHAPTER FIVE

R oan didn’t know when he had crossed the line between curiosity and vulnerability, but the moment his lips touched Julia’s, he felt it. A storm of unfamiliar emotions surged through him, threatening to unravel the tight grip he kept on his control.

Her lips were soft yet unyielding. She demanded as much as she gave. There was no pretense; no deception unlike other women when he kissed them. They had always wanted something from him… power, credits, or favors, so they had yielded.

Her warmth drew him closer even as a voice in the back of his mind screamed at him to stop. This wasn’t supposed to happen. He wasn’t supposed to feel anything, let alone this—this intensity, this connection that defied logic.

Except, he did feel something. And it wasn’t just desire—it was something more dangerous. Something he didn’t have a name for.

Control had always been his weapon, his armor, his lifeline. And yet, the moment he kissed her, it had unraveled, slipping through his fingers like sand.

He wasn’t a man who second-guessed himself. He didn’t doubt . And yet, as he stared into Julia’s unguarded expression, he felt completely—utterly—off balance.

That terrified him.

His hands tightened briefly around her waist, the urge to mold her closer against his suddenly starving body warred with the need to retreat. He felt her lean into him, and that simple gesture nearly undid him. She smelled faintly of his grandfather’s garden and tasted as potent as the wine; a scent and taste as grounding as it was disarming.

The surge of vulnerability filling him terrified him, bringing back memories he had thought long forgotten. Memories of his first week under his father’s tyrannical fists.

Roan pulled back abruptly, his breath unsteady. He studied her face, illuminated by the soft glow of the moonlight. Her lips were slightly parted, her expression unguarded, a mixture of passion and confusion. She didn’t speak, and neither did he. Words would have been meaningless against the chaos roaring inside him.

He released her and stepped back, the space between them feeling both like a reprieve and a chasm as wide as the gaps between the stars in her Orion’s belt. Turning sharply, he retreated without a word, his boots crunching against the gravel path as he headed for his ship.

By the time he reached the cockpit, his chest was heaving, not from exertion but from the sheer force of emotion battering him. He slammed his palm against the console, cursing under his breath when he noticed his hands weren’t quite steady.

“Damn it. How did I let this happen?”

Roan paced the compact interior of his spacecraft. His mind was racing—warring between frustration, disbelief, and appreciation for Julia’s guileless attack on his senses. He had learned nothing— nothing— except that he wanted her .

Julia remained a complete mystery. Her guarded answers and evasions had left him with more questions than he’d started with. Where had she come from? Who were the others from her ship and how many were there? Why were they here? And why, of all things, had he let himself lose control? That burned him the wrong way the most.

His jaw tightened as he stared out the viewport at the garden bathed in the silver light cast by the moons. The only thing he had discovered was that he was not immune to Julia. Her humor, her compassion, her sharp intellect—all of it had crept under his defenses with infuriating ease.

Grinding his teeth, he sank into the pilot’s chair. He drew in a dozen, calming breaths, composing himself before he opened a secure channel. The signal pulsed faintly before the familiar face of Dorane LeGaugh appeared on the screen. Dorane’s darkly handsome face held his ever-present smirk. Roan forced his jaw to relax as the wealthy leader of the largest transport company in the galaxy leaned back lazily in his seat.

“Well, well, well. The prodigal general finally returns,” Dorane drawled, lounging back as though he had all the time in the galaxy. “Didn’t peg you for the dramatic exit type, Roan. If you’re looking for work, I might be hiring.”

Roan’s expression darkened. “This isn’t the time, Dorane.”

Dorane’s smirk widened. “Touchy. What’s the matter, old friend? Getting tired of babysitting the Legion’s dirty laundry?”

“Dorane.” Roan’s tone carried a sharp warning, and Dorane finally straightened, his smirk fading.

“Fine, fine. But you might want to watch your back,” Dorane said, his voice turning serious. “Word’s spread fast—your father and uncle are furious about your little disappearing act. They’ve put some of their best trackers on your trail. I’ve heard there might even be a Turbinta or two. You know how much of a pain in the ass they can be. It won’t be long before they start sniffing around Plateau. If I know you are there, I guarantee others will have as well.”

Roan’s stomach tightened at the mention of Plateau. He had known his visit here wouldn’t go unnoticed, but hearing it confirmed sent a ripple of urgency through him.

“There’s more,” Dorane continued, his tone low. “There are traitors among your ranks, Roan. People feeding information back to your father and uncle. You probably know most who would sell you out for a promotion, but some you might not. Trust no one, not even those closest to you.”

The words hit Roan like a blow, though he managed to keep his expression neutral. “Do you have names?”

“Not yet,” Dorane admitted, his eyes shifting slightly. “But know I’m working on it. In the meantime, I’ve sent you an encrypted file. It came at great cost—don’t let it fall into the wrong hands.”

Roan leaned forward, his fingers hovering over the console. “What’s in the file?”

Dorane hesitated, his usual bravado dimming. “Plans,” he said vaguely. “And information you’ll need if you want to stay ahead of them. And Roan…” He trailed off, his expression sharpening. “Be careful. This isn’t just about you anymore.”

Roan’s eyes narrowed. “What aren’t you telling me?”

Dorane’s smirk returned, though it was thinner now, more forced. “Only what you already know—that you’re walking a razor’s edge, and one misstep could send you and whoever you’ve found straight to hell. Don’t make me regret helping you. I’m not eager to jump into a war… but, I will if I have to. You know me. I never back away from a fight if it comes knocking on my door.”

With that, the transmission ended, leaving Roan staring at the blank screen, his thoughts racing. The urgency of Dorane’s words pressed against him, mingling with the frustration still simmering from his interaction with Julia. He clenched his fists, his mind churning with possibilities.

He didn’t have time for distractions. Not now, not with the stakes this high. And yet, as he sat in the dim light of the cockpit, the memory of Julia’s lips and the fire in her eyes refused to fade.

“Damn it,” he muttered again, the curse laced with equal parts anger and something far more dangerous—desire.

* * *

Legion Battle Cruiser: Deep Space Between Plateau and Tesla Terra

The sterile light of the command console reflected off the cold steel bulkheads of General Coleridge Landais’ office. The room was stark, utilitarian—devoid of anything sentimental or unnecessary. The only adornment was a massive star chart spanning one side of the wall, detailing Legion-controlled territories and active conflict zones. A dark bottle of brandy from Tesla Terra sat untouched on his desk, a relic of a time when he had once sought solace in vices instead of war.

At sixty, Coleridge was as battle-hardened as the ships under his command. Deep scars marred his face—souvenirs from decades on the front lines. His silver hair, cropped short, gave him a look of cold precision, while his pale gray eyes—merciless and calculating—held the weight of too many battles, too many bodies left in his wake. The Legion had forged him into an iron fist, and he had embraced it.

He had once thought himself a man of discipline, of unyielding order. But his marriage to Nia had been the first and only time in his life he had felt truly out of control.

His hands curled into fists at the thought of her name.

Nia had been everything he was not—gentle, nurturing, full of ideals that had no place in the universe he was trying to shape. Their marriage had been doomed from the start, an inevitable collision of fire and steel. She had dared to defy him, to believe that she could shape Roan into something other than a weapon.

And in the end, it had led to her death.

His lip curled. Not that it had done me any good. Roan still turned out soft. Too much of his mother in him.

He had tried to beat it out of him, to harden him, to carve away the fragile ideals he had inherited from her people. Except, he had never been able to fully break his son. Roan had resisted in ways both small and significant—questioning orders, hesitating at the wrong moments, pushing back just enough to remind Coleridge that his son was not an empty vessel waiting to be filled.

And now, Roan was gone, slipping through his fingers like the red Torrian sand. Just as had his mother.

He activated his command console, his fingers tapping a sequence into the encrypted line.

A moment later, Dorane LeGaugh’s face flickered onto the screen. The space pirate was exactly as he expected—leaned back, smirking, a glass of something dark and expensive in hand.

“Well, if it isn’t General Landais,” Dorane drawled, his voice rich with amusement. “I was wondering when you’d come knocking.”

Coleridge’s expression remained impassive. “I’m in need of information, and you’re a man who tends to find himself in the middle of it.”

Dorane swirled the contents of his glass, looking entirely unbothered. “I hear a lot of things. But information comes at a price.”

Coleridge leaned forward slightly, his fingers steepling as he studied the pirate’s lazy demeanor. “I’m prepared to offer a significant reward for intelligence regarding the recent pods—who was inside them, where they landed, and who may have made contact with them.”

Dorane raised an eyebrow, his smirk deepening. “Ah, yes, the pods. Quite the hot topic these days. You wouldn’t believe the number of whispers circulating through the black markets about them. People seem… interested. ”

Coleridge’s jaw tightened. “Are you interested?”

Dorane’s grin widened. “I’d be a fool not to be. A lost ship, mysterious survivors, the possibility of something ancient and powerful? Sounds like a legend in the making.”

Coleridge’s patience was thinning. “Legends don’t concern me. Facts do.” He leaned forward, his voice sharp. “I’m offering a substantial amount of credits. Enough to make sure your ships stay fueled and your ports remain open for quite some time.”

Dorane hummed in mock consideration. “Tempting. But information is tricky, General. Sell it too soon, and it loses its value. Hold onto it too long, and someone else gets there first. Then, there is the trust factor of making sure your sources aren’t compromised. My informants tend to purse their lips when they find out the Legion is involved.” He took a slow sip of his drink before setting the glass aside. “So, tell me, what exactly do you want to know?”

Coleridge kept his focus locked on the pirate. “I want names. Locations. The identities of the rebel factions who may have taken an interest in the pods. And I want to know where my son is.”

Dorane’s smirk remained, but something in his eyes shifted. “Your son,” he mused. “Now that is interesting. I take it he’s… gone rogue?”

Coleridge’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Roan has made a series of questionable decisions. If you happen to hear where he’s gone, I expect to be informed.”

Dorane tilted his head. “And if I choose to keep my knowledge to myself?”

Coleridge’s tone turned icy. “Then you’ll be gambling against the Legion’s reach, and I assure you, that’s not a bet you want to take. You may be powerful, Dorane, but even you cannot stand against the might of the Legion.”

Dorane chuckled, but there was an edge to it. “Oh, General. You always did know how to make an offer sound like a threat.”

Coleridge didn’t flinch. “You’ll contact me when you have something?”

“I’ll be in touch,” Dorane said easily, giving a lazy salute before the transmission cut out.

Coleridge exhaled, his fingers tightening on the armrests of his chair. He didn’t trust Dorane, but the pirate had his uses. Andri might be a brute, but Coleridge preferred subtlety. Information was power, and he intended to have it before the next move was made.

The soft chime of an incoming report interrupted his thoughts. He tapped the screen, scanning the message. His blood ran cold.

Intel suggests Roan has traveled to Plateau. Source unknown.

Coleridge’s hands curled into clenched fists. So, it’s true. Roan had returned to his mother’s people.

He rose from his chair, his mind already racing with implications. If Roan had gone to Plateau, he was no longer just a rogue son—he was a threat to the Legion’s control. And if he had found the survivors from the pods…

He exhaled slowly, his decision already made.

“Prepare my fleet. We leave within the hour for Plateau,” he ordered coldly.

The hunt had begun.

* * *

Jeslean: Legion Command

Director Andri Andronikos sat in his office, the glow of the holo-screen casting stark lines across his refined features. His fingers drummed lightly on the polished obsidian desk as he scrolled through the latest intelligence reports. The destruction of Jeslean had been complete—just as planned. A brutal yet necessary demonstration of the Legion’s power.

The reports detailed the aftermath: smoldering ruins, scattered resistance, and most importantly, no confirmed sightings of any surviving council members. It should have been satisfying, yet Andri felt a slow, creeping sense of unease. No confirmed survivors meant uncertainty , and uncertainty was something he despised.

The council had been a relic of the past, a gathering of weak-willed idealists clinging to foolish notions of diplomacy. But, even cowards had their uses. Dead, they were nothing more than martyrs who would soon be forgotten. If any of them had survived, hidden away by sympathizers or the Gallant Order, they could still be dangerous.

Andri exhaled, leaning back in his chair. His office was a contrast to the cold brutality of the Legion’s warships—elegant, calculated, and precise. The walls were lined with dark wood panels, a rare luxury in the vastness of deep space. A crystal decanter sat on a side table, filled with Ma’cronian brandy, untouched. Every item in the room had been selected with care, a testament to his meticulous nature. There was power in refinement.

Let Coleridge revel in war and scars—true dominance was built with precision and patience.

The sharp ping of his commlink interrupted his thoughts. He frowned, activating the connection with a flick of his fingers. The holo-image of Zoak flickered to life, the Turbinta’s slit-pupiled eyes gleamed with familiar malice.

Andri’s expression turned to ice. “You were expected to report sooner.”

Zoak tilted his head slightly, unbothered by the reprimand. “I bring you news worth the wait, Director.”

Andri steepled his fingers, his patience thinning. “Then share it.”

Zoak’s thin lips pursed. “Your nephew, Roan Landais, is on Plateau.”

Andri’s fingers tightened slightly, the only outward sign of his irritation. Of course, he is. Roan had always been drawn to his mother’s people, no matter how hard Coleridge had tried to break him of it.

Zoak wasn’t finished. “He isn’t alone. Word is, he may have found a survivor from one of the pods you’ve been searching for.”

Andri’s breath slowed. A survivor.

“You’re certain?”

Zoak shrugged. “Nothing is ever certain, Director. But my sources are reliable.”

Andri’s mind raced through the implications. If the survivor was an Ancient Knight, then Roan had already become a problem.

A larger problem than my half-brother will admit.

Andri’s voice remained measured. “And what of Dorane LeGaugh?”

Zoak’s expression darkened slightly. “That’s where things get interesting. There are whispers that Dorane has been supplying the rebels with weapons and ships.” He paused, his slit-pupiled eyes watching for a reaction. “If that’s true, Director, then your hold over this sector is not as strong as you might believe.”

Andri inhaled slowly, pressing his fingers together in thought. Dorane LeGaugh had been a thorn in his side for too long. A war profiteer who claimed to be neutral, always on the highest bidder’s side. But if Zoak’s intel was correct, then Dorane had picked a side—and it was not the Legion’s.

That cannot be allowed.

“Dorane is a liability,” Andri said coldly. “Eliminate him.”

Zoak’s brows lifted slightly. “A direct order for execution? You’re finally making this interesting, Director.”

Andri’s gaze was cold and sharp as a blade. “He has influence. He controls supply chains, fuel stations, trade routes, not to mention a sizable army of mercenaries of his own. If he sides with the rebels, they will not just fight back. They will rise. That cannot be allowed.”

Zoak’s lips curled into a slow, predatory grin. “You know me, Director. I don’t consider things.” He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “I finish them.”

Andri exhaled slowly. One more threat neutralized before it could grow into something larger. Now, to take care of his nephew and the Ancients.

Zoak hesitated for a moment before adding, “And what of General Landais?”

Andri’s eyes flickered with something unreadable. “I will take care of Roan.”

Zoak’s image flickered, and the transmission cut out, leaving Andri alone with his thoughts.

For the first time in hours, he allowed his fingers to unclench, exhaling a breath that was slow and deliberate.

Roan.

His nephew had been an enigma since childhood, balancing between the brutality of his father’s teachings and the quiet resilience of his mother’s people. Coleridge had tried to crush his spirit, to burn away whatever weakness Nia had left in him. And for a time, Andri had believed it had worked. Now, his hope of training Roan as his predecessor was as dead as his nephew would soon be if the information he was receiving was true.

Andri drummed his fingers against the desk, considering his options. Coleridge had failed to bring Roan in line. His hesitation —his sentimentality —had left cracks in his control, and those cracks had widened. If Roan truly stood against them, he would be a dangerous adversary.

If he aligned himself with the Ancient Knights…

Andri’s jaw tightened. He had spent a lifetime eradicating hope, crushing it before it could take root. He would not allow the whisper of the Ancients’ return to become something greater.

He glanced toward the star map on the wall, his pale fingers tapping against the desk.

It was time.

Coleridge had been given every chance to mold Roan into something useful. But Andri was beginning to doubt his brother’s abilities. The Legion did not tolerate loose ends.

If Roan couldn’t be reprogrammed back into the Legion’s grip, he would need to be eliminated. Roan knew too well the intricate workings of the Legion. That knowledge would be devastating if his nephew shared it with the rebels of the Gallant.

He pushed away from his desk and rose. Walking over to the window, he stared out into deep space. He acknowledged the tiny thread of fear churning inside him. For the first time, he sensed that the thread of hope the Ancients had brought—the one thing he had spent his life destroying —was slipping beyond his reach and control.

Andri’s fingers pressed together, steady, controlled. Though inside, he could feel the edges fraying.

Roan had always been a wildcard, but a contained one. A trained hound, one his father had beaten into obedience. Yet now, he had slipped his leash, running toward a past that Andri had worked too hard to bury.

And if the rumors were true—if Roan had found the survivors—then hope had already begun to fester.

And if that hope took root…

The galaxy would change forever.

Andri would not let that happen.

He activated another transmission, his voice cold and final.

“Prepare the fleet. We are going to Plateau.”