Mylomon: Warlord Brides (Warriors of Sangrin Book 3)

by Nancey Cummings

  Mylomon: Warlord Brides

  Warriors of Sangrin 3

  Starr Huntress

  Nancey Cummings

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Epilogue

  Additional Titles

  About the Author

  Copyright

  The Story So Far

  When aliens arrived on Earth, it happened with an invasion—just like the sci-fi movies taught us to expect.

  The vicious Suhlik meant to enslave Earth and rob her of her resources. Only the Mahdfel warriors were able to stand against them.

  Once the slaves of the Suhlik, the Mahdfel won their freedom. But as a lingering reminder of their oppression at the hands of the Suhlik they are unable to have female children.

  Now, in exchange for the protection of Earth, the hunky alien warriors demand

  only one price: Every childless, single and otherwise healthy woman on Earth is tested for genetic compatibility for marriage with a Mahdfel warrior. If the match is 98.5% or better, the bride is instantly teleported away to her new mate.

  No exceptions.

  Mylomon is not a standalone story. It immediately follows the events from Kalen. You could read it on its own but you might enjoy the story more having first read Kalen.

  Chapter One

  Shackleton Crater Lunar Base, Earth’s Moon—the night of the Harvest Festival Ball

  Mylomon

  Mylomon had two objectives: find the traitor and eliminate him.

  As missions went, it was not the worst assignment his warlord ever gave him. Far from it. Mylomon understood that he made his clan uncomfortable. Mahdfel preferred to confront their enemies directly, challenge them in an honorable manner. Such constricting notions of honor never hindered Mylomon. He followed his warlord’s orders. He did his duty. He did the dirty, necessary work that benefited the entire clan. Was it honorable to poison the enemy? Wait for them in the dark and pull them back into the shadows so fast they never felt the knife that sliced their throats? No, but he got shit done. If chest thumping theatrics could corner the traitor, then the warlord would have sent another warrior. But he didn’t.

  He sent Mylomon.

  The Judgment had tracked the traitor’s signal to the edge of the Terran’s system. The battle cruiser monitored the situation but deployed Mylomon for a more nuanced mission on the Terran’s lunar base.

  Mylomon slipped into the Shackleton Lunar Base unseen. He tracked the traitor’s signal to the recreation dome where he discovered some sort of event taking place, a Harvest Festival Ball.

  Constructed of a super-dense, transparent material, the top level of the dome was encased in glass. It gave the impression of the room opening directly to space. Terrans and Mahdfel in formal wear filled the room. Music, the constant babble of conversation, colorful decorations, and the aroma of familiar and exotic cuisine threatened to overwhelm his senses.

  It also overwhelmed the computer. The program was able to trace the traitor to the recreation dome but it was unable to pinpoint his exact location or distinguish his signal from the thousand other communication units on the arms of every person at the Harvest Festival Ball.

  Begrudgingly he admired the traitor’s cunning. This mission proved to be more challenging that he anticipated. Good. He hadn’t had a real challenge since he moved all the pieces into position to take down the last warlord.

  Warlord Omas Nawk had been insane. No one doubted that he had to go. Twisted by an experimental therapy that saved his life, he gained immense strength and stamina. No warrior was able to challenge the warlord in a fair fight.

  So Mylomon made it an unfair fight.

  He selected who would be the correct warlord to reshape the damaged clan, Omas’s brother, Paax. Setting brother against brother was impossible. Paax had left the clan to avoid confronting his deranged brother but Mylomon set in motion the events to motivate Paax to challenge Omas.

  Devious? Yes.

  Dishonorable? He saved the clan, didn’t he? Everything he had done was for the good of the clan.

  Like hunting this traitor who leaked security codes to the Suhlik. Betraying his clan to those alien lizards for what? Mylomon’s stomach churned with disgust. What could the Suhlik give a Mahdfel? Nothing. The Suhlik could only take away.

  Mylomon’s instinct was to hang back in the shadows and observe. The traitor would appear nervous, glancing at the comm unit too often or appear otherwise distracted. The large room was filled with light and sound. There were no shadows. He needed to move about the crowd and blend in as a festival reveler.

  He didn’t revel. Wasn’t in his nature.

  He moved through the crowd, trying refrain from stalking, scowling or appearing as a threat. Fortunately, in a crowd of Mahdfel warriors, his size and predatory grace did not set him apart. Unfortunately, he did not have the capacity to appear relaxed, as if he enjoyed the festivities. When someone in the crowd bumped into him, they looked up and their face went pale and they muttered apologies before scurrying away.

  Mylomon knew he wasn’t conventionally handsome, attractive or even easy to look at, but he wasn’t that monstrous, was he?

  The festival turned out to be the best place for the traitor to hide from Mylomon.

  Unable to move through the crowd without drawing attention to himself, he took up a position on a balcony. With a drink in hand, he slouched against the railing and surveyed the crowd.

  On the floor, he spotted Medic Kalen dancing with a dark haired Terran female. This is what the medic did when their warlord sent him away for additional training in Terran biology? Well, he certainly did seem interested in that particular Terran’s biology. Mylomon filed away his observation for later use. He never particularly liked or trusted the medic.

  A woman brushed by him in a deep purple gown that faded to a bright pink at the hem, arm in arm with a dusky complexion Mahdfel warrior. He paid them no mind, thinking her laugh was too loud.

  Then the scent of sunshine and green, growing things hit him.

  His head swiveled, tracking the scent back to the woman. She sashayed away with her warrior, continuing to laugh too loud. The movement of the full skirt of her gown was mesmerizing. He could stare at the fabric, and perhaps what was under the fabric, all evening.

  His hand rubbed at his chest. Then he paused. He had no tattoos to tingle at the sight of a mate. He had no markings of clan, family or rank but his skin felt like it was on fire.

  For her.

  Her blonde hair was pulled on top of her head in a bun. He wanted to free her locks and run his fingers through the blonde waves, gaze into her animated face, open and sweet. This Terran was his mate?

  Mylomon shook his head to clear his thoughts. Such sentimentality was beyond him. He never believed he would have a match. The Suhlik had manipulated his genetic material as a child, leaving him an abomination. What were the odds of finding a female genetically compatible with his abnormal genes?

  Slim to nonexist
ent. He gave up the dream of having a mate and a family long ago.

  But there she was, the only female in the universe for him, hanging on the arm of another.

  Mylomon frowned at his rival, disapproving of the way his formal uniform was unbuttoned at the collar. His hair was a wild, untamed mess. Sloppy. He had a scar on his forehead just below the hairline. Sloppy in battle, too.

  He should go over there, press his claim and challenge the male. He was confident in his skills, both the legitimate skills and the disreputable skills. His prowess would be sure to impress the female.

  The itching, burning sensation returned to his chest. Did Terran females enjoy such displays? He only knew one Terran, his warlord’s mate, Mercy. She was kind and calm and grew upset at most shows of violence. Her eyes filled with tears and her voice shook in distress when she witnessed her mate being injured in the sparring ring. She said it was hor-moans but he did not believe her. Mercy was kind hearted.

  Perhaps such a display of his prowess would do more damage than good when it came to impressing his female.

  And the blonde female was his, he had no doubt.

  He needed to speak to her. Logic told him to walk over to her and say something, anything, but his feet remained rooted in place. She had him as nervous as an untested youth. Foolishness. He should go over there, pull her away from the sloppy warrior and… what, exactly? Throw her over his shoulder and storm away, kidnapping her and abandoning his mission? He didn’t know much about Terran females but he was positive they did not enjoy being abducted.

  He could ask her name.

  Yes, her name. This thought pleased him.

  He moved toward her.

  She grabbed a slender glass off a tray and downed it quickly, her fair skin blushing with alcohol fueled warmth. With a smile, she playfully jabbed the male on the shoulder.

  Mylomon froze. After he asked her name, what then? What if he said the wrong thing? A dozen scenarios played out in his mind, each one ending poorly. No, there was too much at stake for him to casually approach his mate. He needed a plan.

  He glanced over the edge of the balcony. In a partially hidden corner, the medic was becoming very familiar with a certain Terran’s physiology. Perhaps he discounted the medic too soon. Kalen obviously knew something about females that Mylomon didn’t. He would ask for guidance but his relationship with the medic was antagonistic at best. They may be brothers in the same clan but they were not friends.

  He should return to the object of his mission. The traitor remained hidden in the crowd. The Judgment had intercepted several transmissions, including one with the lunar base’s security code. The warlord had decided to remain quiet, to not tip off the traitor that he had been discovered. Now Suhlik forces crowded at the edge of Earth’s system, waiting for a signal. Mylomon needed to eliminate the traitor before that signal could be sent.

  The female could wait. She was his match. She did not have the scent of a child or another male on her. Eventually she would submit to the screening process and the match would be formalized. This pleased him. Every eligible female was subjected to the screenings. According to the protection treaty his people signed with Earth, childless, single and otherwise healthy females must comply. No exceptions.

  Yes, he would wait and she would come to him. Then he would not have to worry about such details as introductions and conversation. This was a good plan and pleased his assassin instincts. He’d wait for his quarry and prepare all his considerable skill to talk to a girl.

  Satisfied, he rubbed at the burning sensation just under the skin of his chest. With preparation, there was no problem he could not overcome.

  Alarm klaxons pierced through the music and noise of the crowd, ending the revelry of the festival.

  Daisy

  Calm, cool and coping. That was Daisy’s moto. So there was absolutely no reason to be fighting back tears. She was giving her friend the send off he deserved. It was far from the end of the world, no matter how much she’d miss Vox.

  Pilots cycled in and out of the lunar base often. He’d be back.

  “Too bad your Terran blood is too weak for weskig,” he said. He quickly downed a glass of something pale and green. He gritted his teeth and hissed in satisfaction.

  Daisy grabbed a glass. “I will drink your purple butt under the table.” She tilted her head back and swallowed the liquor in one gulp, coughing as it burned its way down her throat.

  The purple jerk in question gave her an appreciative slap on the back. Dressed in his formal black uniform, Vox hardly looked like the unkempt alien with a dusky heather complexion and wild lavender hair. He looked grown-up.

  “Tomorrow is your extraction day,” the warrior said.

  “We call it a birthday. I was not extracted from my mother.” As far as she knew.

  “Your mate could be here tonight.”

  Perched on the balcony, Daisy scanned the crowd. She recognized some of the faces. “Maybe. Maybe not.” It didn’t matter. Tomorrow she could be matched and her mate would love her and keep her safe, always. She’d never be alone or scared. It did not matter where he was now because tomorrow he would be with her.

  Daisy had wanted to be matched to a Mahdfel warrior for as long as she could remember. When she was young, hostile aliens, the Suhlik, had invaded Earth. Outgunned and outclassed in every confrontation, Earth needed an ally. The Mahdfel arrived, offering such an alliance. The price? The Mahdfel were once subjugated by the Suhlik and genetically altered. They were altered so they were unable to have female children. The Mahdfel constantly sought out new planets, new alliances, for brides.

  And Daisy would to be one of those brides. She knew it in her bones. She just had to wait.

  The Mahdfel didn’t date or court their women like human men. Potential brides—single, childless and otherwise healthy women—were selected through a genetic matching process. Matches of 98.5 percent compatibility or better were enforced.

  An attack during the invasion had left Daisy’s sister, Meridan, infertile and exempt from the match. Daisy, however, was hale and hearty.

  Daisy could trace the moment her obsession of being matched began back to the attack on Meridan. During the dark days of the invasion, Meridan had been a teen and Daisy maybe eleven, a Suhlik soldier attacked Meridan and their mother. At the refugee camp, an aid worker gave Daisy a cup of salty chicken noodle soup and a package of saltine crackers. She remembered the overwhelming helplessness of the situation as she and her father waited for the medical staff to save her sister. During the long wait, she studied the nurses and doctors. They were not paralyzed by fear. Casualties kept arriving and mortar attacks shook the ground but their work mobilized them. Blood stained the white coats of the doctors and the nurses were just as gory but they were not helpless. They were in control. Daisy wanted to be like them: confident and calm in the face of absolute desperation. That’s the moment she decided to be a nurse.

  That was also the moment she decided that marrying an alien warrior was the best way to always be safe. So what if it was hero worship? Having her own personal superhero sounded awesome. Daisy remembered clear as day the tall, athletic leaf green alien that defended her sister from the Suhlik soldier and carried her unconscious body to medical care.

  Hero worship, justified. Jarron saved Meridan’s life. He was unable to save their mother but she was thankful for the gift he gave her that day. A real life superhero. Superman was an alien, too, after all. Just not green.

  She worked her way through nursing school and now she worked at the Shackleton Crater Lunar Base, side by side with Earth’s alien allies. The alien males weren’t interested in dating. Sex, yes, and the odd one-night stand but Daisy wasn’t a one-night stand kind of girl. The Mahdfel saw no point in dating if they were going to be matched to a genetically compatible female. Without that compatibility, pregnancy was dangerous for the mother and child, and the Mahdfel wanted a new generation of warriors to carry on the fight against the Suhlik.

 
; Daisy wanted her mate. No one else would do. She wanted fireworks and the earth to move. Every birthday she submitted to the test and waited with desperate longing to be matched to her mate. This could be the year, after all.

  She spotted her sister’s dark hair in the crowd with Kalen. As displeased as Meridan was when Daisy set up their blind-date, they seemed to be getting pretty cozy. Making out, actually.

  Vox followed her gaze. He snorted in amusement. “The medic has game.”

  “Gross,” Daisy said, landing an affectionate hit on his shoulder. “That’s my sister.”

  “I see a poker game. I have a powerful need to part fools from their credits.”

  “I want to dance. Come on, let’s dance.” She shimmied her hips for emphasis.

  “But poker…” The beseeching look was pathetic and effective.

  “Fine,” Daisy said. “Poker now but when the music is up tempo, we’re dancing.”

  Vox would be gone in the morning. She couldn’t wrap her head around not having his ridiculous presence around. At least she would always have Meridan.

  “Sounds like a plan to me.”

  Just as they sat at a table, the alarm klaxons sounded.

  Chapter Two

  Daisy

  Klaxons sounded, filling the rec dome with a shrill, reverberating alarm. Immediately the alarm on her comm unit sounded. Suhlik forces incoming, the message read. All civilian staff report to designated shelters. Emergency personnel report to their assignments.

  Daisy’s assignment was the emergency medical bay. Civilians went to underground shelters, to let the Madhfel and human soldiers do their job of repelling the attack. She would wait in medical, ready to patch them up.

  Vox pulled her into a crushing embrace. “I wanted more time,” he said. “But I have to go shoot lizards.”