Page 2 of Zayrik (The Protectorate Warriors Alien Fated Mates #6)

Zayrik

I LEANED BACK IN MY chair, fingers tapping idly against my stack of credits. The air in the gambling den was thick with heat, spice and the acrid tang of too many bodies packed into a space designed to drown men in debt.

Another backroom game. Another outpost. Another night where luck was a weapon, and desperation stank worse than bad ale.

The dealer slid the next round of cards across the table, and I picked mine up slowly. No need to rush. The others were already sweating, shifting in their seats, counting how much they could afford to lose.

I wasn’t worried.

Daskir was a game of risk, but it was also a game of reading people.

The human across from me, a broad-shouldered brute with a scar cutting down his temple, drummed his fingers too fast. Nervous.

The Etraxian beside him flicked a glance at his dwindling stack, mandibles twitching. Desperate.

Across from me, a Setran woman swirled the drink in her glass, gaze steady. Unreadable.

That one had my attention.

Not just because she was the only one who wasn’t sweating. More like she’d already figured out how this would end, and she wasn’t here to stop it.

The next round of bets went in. I matched without hesitation. Let them think I was just another gambler, looking for a thrill. Let them think I wasn’t paying attention.

The truth? I’d already picked out who would fold, who would bluff, and who was about to lose more than they could afford.

The pot climbed. Bigger than any normal backroom deal.

The human with the scar shifted in his seat, jaw tightening. Out of options.

Then he did something stupid.

“I’m raising.” His voice was rough, strained. He shoved his remaining credits forward, then reached into his jacket and pulled out a data chip.

“This too.”

The table went still.

The dealer barely reacted. Maybe this kind of desperation wasn’t uncommon.

“What’s on the chip?” I asked, voice even.

The human’s fingers curled into a fist; knuckles pale. “Ship registry,” he muttered. “Clean papers. Good condition.”

I doubted that. No one threw a perfectly good ship into a Daskir pot unless they were running from something worse.

The Setran woman finally showed interest, tilting her head. She was just as curious as I was. Not a surprise, Setran traders dealt in information. She already knows something .

No one objected. The bet stood.

The final card hit the table. I glanced at my hand. Then at his.

Game over.

The human’s face went pale. He knew.

“Looks like you’re out,” I said.

His fingers twitched toward the data chip, like he wanted to take it back. The dealer gave him a scolding look.

No second chances.

Slowly, the man exhaled, then pushed back from the table.

The pot was mine.

And just like that, I won a ship I probably shouldn’t have.

The room didn’t react. No muttered curses from the losers, no spectators complaining about their luck. Just silence.

I leaned back, fingers drumming against the armrest. “Something wrong?”

The dealer didn’t meet my eyes as he slid the data chip toward me. The human who lost it looked like he was going to be sick.

The Setran woman across from me took a slow sip of her drink, watching me now with something that felt a lot like pity.

Yeah. I’d just won something I wasn’t supposed to.

I palmed the data chip, turning it between my fingers. “Must be my lucky night.”

No one responded.

The human shoved away from the table, movements jerky, eyes flicking toward the back exit. Running. Not from me.

From whatever came next.

MY TOP-SECRET PROTECTORATE mission was done. No orders waiting. No mission to report back on. Just a few days away from the Velean , away from everything, to clear my head.

The classified mission hadn’t exactly been a winning success. I failed in locating the crucial data on Vask. A threat that had emerged too suddenly in Alaran space for comfort.

Every dead end was another reminder that I wasn’t my father. I wouldn’t abandon my duty when things got difficult.

I shook my head in frustration. The Protectorate had just resolved the Krilex conflict only to face this new enemy.

That was the job though, right? We stood as the shield for all Alliance planets and their citizens within Alaran space. The very oath my father refused to take.

I’d been lucky they’d accepted me at all, considering my father’s decisions and that I hadn’t grown up on Alara.

Every successful mission was another step away from his dishonorable shadow.

I ran a hand through my hair and sighed. Gambling helped. It was one of the few things that let me focus on the moment. Not the past, not the future, just the game. No stakes outside of the ones I chose. No surprises.

At least, that was the idea.

I stepped out of the gambling den, rolling my shoulders, letting the station noise settle around me. The usual background hum of announcements over the intercom, traders haggling, distant laughter from a bar I’d already won too much at.

Then—raised voices.

Security moving fast. A docking officer swearing into his comm about an unauthorized launch attempt.

I kept walking. Not my problem. Other people’s disasters were refreshingly not part of my job description today.

Then I hit Docking Bay Seven. A pulse of awareness hit me. So subtle I almost ignored it. Like a whisper in a crowded room. I spotted the open door of my newly acquired ship. The ramp was lowered.

But something wasn’t right.

My senses heightened as I went for my weapon, my hand pausing just above it. I quickened my pace as I stepped onto my ship and was hit by a strong smell of blood, sweat, and a subtle, sweet scent.

I came to a halt at the sight of a wounded human female pointing a blaster at my head.

“Turn around and walk away.”

I arched a brow. Seriously?

The universe had a terrible sense of timing and an even worse sense of humor.

“You do realize you’re on my ship?” I kept my voice casual, like finding armed, bleeding women aboard my vessel was a minor inconvenience rather than a security breach.

Her stance was solid, her navy-blue eyes defiant despite the pain. But her grip was unsteady.

Her brown hair was messy around her face, high cheekbones and tiny nose, making her seem less lethal than her tone suggested. Like finding a knife with a decorative handle. Pretty until it cuts you.

Thief.

Her gaze locked onto mine. Wild with pain. But also, something else. Determination. The kind I recognized from looking in mirrors before impossible missions.

“Last warning.”

My attention flicked to the blaster. Then her bloodied side. Then back to her face. A smile tugged at the corner of my mouth.

“You planning to pass out before or after you steal the ship?” Not my most diplomatic approach, but honesty seemed the practical course when dealing with someone about to collapse.

She fought to hold steady. Fought to keep control. The stubborn set of her jaw reminded me of another lost cause. Myself, convincing the Protectorate I belonged.

But her fingers trembled, then slipped. The blaster clattered onto the metal floor.

And her body followed. An AI voice, seemingly from her wrist device, exclaimed, “Oh, wonderful! This should go well.”

I took a step toward her, reaching to help. My instincts betraying my better judgment.

Something small and pissed off launched at my face. I jerked back, barely avoiding getting my eyes clawed out.

A tiny creature, snarling, snapping, full of pure rage, latched onto my shoulder instead.

“What the—?”

I grabbed the little Laupin mid-air, holding it at arm’s length. It wriggled and hissed like I’d personally insulted its ancestors.

“I get it, little guy,” I said, shifting my gaze to the unconscious female. “You’re protecting her. But she’s bleeding out, and unless you want her dead, I need to help her.”

The creature let out a sharp trill.

The female’s wrist device AI chimed in again. Tone dry. “Zephyr, Nyla will die if he does not help her.”

The little bodyguard hesitated, then reluctantly dropped to the floor. I waited for another lunge. Instead, he just glared. Tail twitching, protective as hell.

Still watching me like it might rip my throat out if I moved wrong. Smart creature. I wasn’t entirely sure it was wrong to be suspicious.

I crouched beside the female, taking in the pale cast to her skin, the slow but steady rise and fall of her chest. She was small. And for a second, something in my chest twisted. Hard and unwelcome.

Something primal and unexpected shifted inside me.

“Focus,” I muttered to myself. This was a security breach, not a rescue mission.

She needed medical attention. Fast. I scooped her up, surprised by how right she felt in my arms.

Too right.

I carried her to the nearest bench and laid her down, already scanning for visible trauma. Blood soaked through her shirt at the side. Clean entry, no exit. A burn along the edge of the wound. Blaster shot. Low setting, but still enough to take her down.

I turned to the wall cabinet, ripped it open, and yanked the med kit free.

When I dropped back down beside her, I didn’t touch her right away.

Because the second I got close—

It started.

A low, persistent tingling crawled up my arms.

My biceps.

Right over the place my mating marks had slept untouched for years.

I froze.

No.

No flutzing way.

My gaze snapped to her face.

Still unconscious. Still bleeding.

Still not the kind of female I was supposed to feel anything for.

“Not now,” I muttered.

But the itching sensation spread, anyway. Subtle, warm, deep . Like my body had recognized her before my mind could catch up.

I clenched my jaw. Ignored it. Pushed it down. Whatever cosmic joke this was, I wasn’t laughing.

I grabbed the cleanser, cleaned the wound, then reached for the closure device.

The skin sealed clean, but her pulse was weak. Too much blood lost.

“Come on,” I muttered, eyes scanning her wrist.

Then I saw it.

A port.

Flush with the skin, faintly silver. The kind of thing you only noticed if you knew what to look for.

Old Protectorate tech. Modified. Still functional.

I pulled a stabilizer vial from the med kit —human-compatible— and pressed it to the port with a click.

It hissed. A soft pressurization. The drug began cycling through her bloodstream immediately.

Her vitals ticked up a fraction. Better. Still not good.

I exhaled hard, sitting back on my heels.

The warm itchy feeling on my arms hadn’t faded.

The marks still tingled, slow and steady, like they knew something I didn’t want to admit.

Not now. Not her.

A thief. A stranger. And exactly the kind of problem I wasn’t looking for, but might’ve just found, anyway.

I could sort through the rest of it later. Deny it. Fight it. Burn it down.

But right now?

Right now, I had bigger problems.

Like explaining to station security why I was harboring the fugitive they’d just declared a system-wide alert for. So much for a quiet night.