Taming Chaos (Darkstar Mercenaries Book 1)

by Anna Carven

  I can be far, far worse.

  Now she understood… a little.

  How could this be the same Torin who just moments ago had curled his big, warm body so protectively around her, who had spoken to her in such deep, reassuring tones?

  Who had been so fucking nice to her?

  He emerged as quickly as he’d disappeared, a black specter wielding vicious Callidum. Sprays of Bartharran blood—colored deep, dark red, just like a human’s—stained the grey metal floor.

  Instead of chasing after Torin, the Bartharrans hesitated, naked fear creeping across their weathered faces.

  Suddenly, the collective attention of a hundred or so Bartharrans turned toward Seph as Torin sped in her direction.

  Adrenaline pushed her heartbeat into overdrive. Fear sharpened her senses. Logic warred with deeply buried primal instincts, and she had to remind herself that Torin wasn’t her enemy.

  As he reached the entrance of the crate, he turned to face the Bartharrans. “I am claiming this human,” Torin snarled, using a crude, highly accented form of Universal. Really, how many languages and variants did he speak? “If the buyer has a problem with this, he is welcome to come and discuss it with me personally. I am claiming my right to safe passage. Anybody who takes issue with my presence onboard this vessel is also welcome to come and discuss with me.” He inclined his head, elegantly sheathing his twin swords in a single swift motion. “Unless you wish to meet the same fate as your brethren,” he nodded toward the pile of bodies on the floor, “you will leave us be. You challenge me, you die. You threaten my property, you die. I will go where I please. I will take what I want. I expect to be left alone.”

  I am claiming this human. Why did his fierce declaration of ownership stir such strange warmth in Seph’s chest?

  Torin retracted his helm, revealing his face to the Bartharrans for the first time. The aliens responded with low growls and hisses, but none of them dared make a move.

  “As long as you do not upset me, I will keep my blades sheathed. Do we have an agreement?”

  One of the Bartharrans—a scarred male with dreadlocks, a long beard, and a body made from slabs of muscle—stepped forward. The captain of this shit-heap, perhaps? He unsheathed a long dagger and sliced down the inside of his forearm, spilling blood onto the floor. “Malhak,” he said, his gravelly voice laced with a strange combination of fear, loathing, and reverence, “we accept you and your charge as passengers onboard the Skalreg Va. You will not be disturbed for the duration of the journey.”

  “What type of transport is this, Clannath?” Perhaps that was the Bartharran word for captain.

  “Pirate.”

  “Plunder, or passage?”

  “Both. Bond-prisoners are securely held in the lowermost levels. Paying passengers are on the top.”

  Seph’s confusion grew. Pirates? Bond-prisoners? Passengers? Was this some sort of prisoner-transport ship run by pirates?

  Torin didn’t show any reaction to the information. “Where is the Skalreg Va headed?”

  “Bartharra. The Rakthari Coast.”

  Abruptly, Torin turned. “I will need a cabin on the upper level,” he snapped. “The one who wanted to buy her… is he up there?”

  “Yes, Malhak.”

  “I will pay him a visit. Do not get in my way. Anyone who dares touch my property will lose a hand… perhaps more.”

  With blood still dripping down his forearm, the Bartharran Clannath—whatever the hell that meant—nodded. “Understood.”

  When Torin turned and started walking back toward the crate, a dark fire burned in his eyes

  He looked angry.

  Somehow, he’d subdued the Bartharran horde, secured them passage aboard this pirate ship, and fucking claimed her.

  Seph was stunned. Bartharrans were supposed to be loud, fierce, and violent; tremendous fighters who gave no quarter. Their temperament made them good bounty hunters, mercenaries, and pirates, and their entire planet was practically a war zone.

  And yet they were all afraid of Torin, who had slaughtered a handful of Bartharrans in the blink of an eye.

  A single Kordolian.

  As his eyes met hers, they lost none of their intensity. Instead, his crimson irises deepened in color as shadow fell across them, appearing almost black. He took a deep breath, his nostrils flaring.

  Seph’s breath caught in her throat. Torin stepped across the threshold, entering the crate. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move.

  Her arms trembled, and she realized she was holding the plasma gun in both hands, her finger on the trigger, just like Torin had shown her.

  And she had no idea what the fuck was going on.

  Chapter Seven

  Torin didn’t like himself very much right now. Anger burned through his veins, but he couldn’t exactly pinpoint who or what he was angry at.

  Perhaps he was angry at a combination of things. He felt anger at the humans for being naive enough to think they could do a straight deal in cesspit like Zarhab Groht, and for trying to obtain plasma weapons, which they had no fucking business owning.

  He was angry at the Ephrenians for putting his Persephone in danger. Irresponsible bastards. Did they not understand that humans needed to be kept warm?

  He was furious at the mysterious Kordolian who presumed to think he could purchase a human on the black market, in direct contravention of the new Intergalactic Anti-Slavery Edict.

  But he was even more angry at the fates that had put him in this situation, forcing him to become the old Imperial terror yet again. Hadn’t he and his people already caused enough suffering to the Bartharran race?

  Especially him.

  And the fear on Persephone’s face was like a knife in his chest, twisting, twisting, twisting…

  Goddess, that look in her eyes. He could try and explain to her that he didn’t really have any choice—that his actions were essential for their survival—but what good would that do? She’d seen what he was capable of.

  Still, he had to try something. Her ability to trust him was critical to her survival. Of all possible destinations, they just had to land on a fucking Bartharran pirate ship, didn’t they? He could almost smell the testosterone in the air as it mingled with the stench of unwashed male bodies.

  No communication, no backup, no escape. He’d tried his comm again and again, but the signal was beyond dead. Nobody was coming for them. He was the only thing standing between Seph and a terrible fate.

  “Let’s go,” he said, trying his best to keep his anger from invading his voice. The anger wasn’t directed at her. No, it could never directed at her. It was just there, and he didn’t know what to do with it. “Hide the gun, hide your face, and follow me.”

  “What’s happening, Torin? Why did you kill those Bartharrans?” For a moment, she seemed a shadow of her former self, confused and afraid. Torin couldn’t imagine what was going on inside her head. Most humans had very little exposure to violence. Compared to some of the wild, savage planets of the Nine Galaxies, Earth was a relatively peaceful place.

  And Seph was definitely a creature of Earth.

  “Persephone,” he said slowly, carefully, showing her his empty palms. He intentionally spoke in English, just in case some idle Bartharran was listening in—however unlikely that was. “I am on your side.”

  She blinked, reminding him of a wild animal caught in the bright glare of a spotlight. “I know that, Torin.”

  Why wasn’t he convinced? “I don’t have any ulterior motives,” he said quietly. “I don’t have any secret plans. I’m just a common soldier who has seen too much…” Who has caused too much injustice. “Back there on Zarhab Groht, when I saw you getting screwed over by your very own, I just couldn’t let it go. It isn’t any more complicated than that.”

  Slowly, her tension began to seep away, and she started to look more and more like that other Seph, the version of her he’d glimpsed ever-so briefly when he’d wrapped his arms around her… when he’d finally gotte
n her to relax.

  That moment, however brief, had been glorious.

  He secretly hoped to have more moments like that; exquisite snatches of time where they were just two people trying to get to know one another.

  Simple things were always the best.

  Control yourself, fool!

  Now was not the time to yearn for intimacy.

  “We have to go.”

  “Go where?” Uncertainty danced in Seph’s eyes. “What is this place?”

  Torin sighed. “A Bartharran pirate-trader ship. Not the most sophisticated of vessels, I know, but if you do exactly as I say, there’s a chance we might get out of here alive.” He edged closer, a bittersweet smile tugging at his lips. “Seph, I don’t know how to explain what you just saw. If you understand anything about Bartharran culture, then you’ll understand what I just did.”

  Torin walked forward until the point of Seph’s plasma gun was pressed against his chest. It was only then that her arm stopped shaking. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “I think I understand… a little. It’s something about dominance, isn’t it?”

  “Bartharrans only respect strength. I had to make sure there were no lingering doubts about my status.”

  “Top of the food chain, or something like that?”

  Torin felt a little awkward wearing his Kordolian mantle of supremacy. “Something like that.”

  “This place… it makes Earth look so tame.”

  “I know.”

  His eyes dropped to his plasma gun as she gripped it tightly. It looked so wrong in her hands. Torin hated the fact that he had to arm her, but he had no choice. He couldn’t leave her toothless, not here.

  Thankfully, the inside of the crate was shrouded in shadow, and with their poor vision, the Bartharrans wouldn’t be able to see the gun from here; they wouldn’t be left to wonder why Torin’s supposed property had been given her own weapon.

  In an attempt to reassure her, he tried to make his expression gentle; tried to lighten his tone. He suspected he failed miserably. “So are you going to shoot me with that thing, or are you going to put it away? It’s yours, you know. I’m not going to take it away from you.” He sensed the plasma gun gave her a sense of security, just like her cloak.

  As Seph stared at him, Torin held his breath. She looked him up and down, her expression betraying nothing. The woman who had looked so vulnerable just a heartbeat ago had become inscrutable, complex.

  Slowly, slowly, she lowered the plasma gun. “Even if I shot you at point-blank range, I wouldn’t kill you, would I?”

  Torin shook his head. He’d sustained much, much worse damage during his brutal career as a First Division soldier. In ordinary circumstances his body could regenerate from brutal injuries within the span of a few sivs.

  That didn’t mean it didn’t fucking hurt, though. As part of his training, he’d been conditioned to withstand episodes of excruciating agony, but he’d rather avoid being shot in the chest if he could help it. “If it makes you feel any better, you would cause me a lot of pain.”

  A sharp intake of breath. “Why do I get the feeling you’re not an ordinary Kordolian?”

  “Because I’m nice?” It was true. The others often gave him shit for being too nice to humans, but Torin couldn’t help it. In another life, he probably would have been a friendly sort of guy.

  A pacifist.

  Now why was that notion so amusing?

  “You’re nice, huh? I guess I’ll take your word for it.” Seph’s expression was completely deadpan, but… was there a hint of humor in her voice? It would be truly remarkable if she could find something funny in all of this.

  “Only to you.” Torin had to admire the way she kept her composure when she could have let her fear control her. “Please don’t hurt me.”

  An exasperated puff of air left her lips. “You’re ridiculous. This is ridiculous.”

  Was it just his imagination, or was that the shadow of a smile? The notion that he could invoke her amusement here of all places—somehow, it was powerful. “I know. It’s about to become even more ridiculous.”

  “How so?”

  “We have to sort-of stay in character.”

  “I didn’t realize you’d created an alter-ego for me, Kordolian.”

  “I haven’t done anything of the sort,” He injected a shred of mock-indignation into his voice, trying to keep his tone light. “All you have to do is act the way a Bartharran would expect a human to act in these circumstances. As is often the case with species that don’t know very much about others, they have some pre-formed ideas about your kind.”

  “And those would be?”

  “They see humans as being weak, cowardly, stupid, and subservient. Easy to control.”

  She frowned. “Bartharrans think we’re stupid? Bartharrans? They can’t even achieve peace on their own planet, and… Oh god, the irony. The double irony.”

  Torin inclined his head. “Most of the known Universe buys into certain stereotypes. Believe me, you’re not the only ones who have been painted with a single brush.”

  “This is true.” A brief eye-roll told him she knew a lot about generalizations. “So what, I’m officially your property now?” Although she tried to conceal it, a sliver of outrage crept into her expression, mingling with… anticipation? Torin decided he liked that look very, very much.

  He preferred her fierce, not cowed.

  “In appearance only, of course.” He spread his hands in a placating gesture, hiding the fact that once again, lust was spreading through his body, causing a most predictable reaction down below. “If the Bartharrans even suspect that we are interacting on equal terms right now, they’ll…”

  “Lose respect, or something like that? From what I’ve read, their society is hugely patriarchal. That probably explains why they’re always at war with themselves.”

  “Now who’s stereotyping? Not all male-dominated societies are warlike. In the case of the Bartharrans, it’s a little more complicated than that. They’re not necessarily as crude as you might think.” As if on cue, several of the Bartharrans chose that very moment to start grunting loudly, as if trying to disprove his theory. Grunts turned into hisses, which turned into shouts.

  Torin sighed.

  Crack. His super-acute hearing detected the sound of a fist connecting with a face, hard knuckles mashing flesh and bone.

  The Bartharrans were fighting again.

  “Let’s go,” he whispered, sensing an opening. “While they’re still at each other’s throats.” This place was too exposed. He had to get her somewhere more defensible.

  “So… what sort of character am I supposed to pretend to be, exactly? How do I play this?”

  “Uh,” Torin grimaced, suddenly feeling awkward. “Just walk behind me. Keep your head down. Don’t say anything until we’re somewhere private.”

  “You mean, keep quiet and act fearful and subservient, just like a good little human?” To Torin’s surprise—and relief—she laughed, a low, throaty sound that warmed his black heart. For some unknown reason, she seemed to find this part of the ordeal amusing.

  He nodded. “You’ll have to hide the gun, too. This charade will fall apart when they find out I’ve allowed you to have my weapon. I’d suggest somewhere that’s easy to reach, just in case.”

  “You just said when, not if.” Seph flipped the safety on and tucked the plasma gun into the folds of her cloak. As her fear melted away, so did Torin’s anger. She pulled her hood over her face so that her features were cast in shadow.

  “Oh, it’s going to happen, believe me.” As he turned on his heel, Torin caught a hint of a smile curving her delicious lips. “Come.”

  Seph followed without hesitation.

  You’re doing just fine, Persephone.

  For a human, she was adjusting remarkably well to the situation. Torin was filled with the sudden, overwhelming desire to protect her at all costs, and yet he was fearful of what he would have to do to keep her safe.


  After all, this was a Bartharran pirate ship, and Bartharrans were a proud race. It would only be a matter of time before some genius decided to challenge him.

  Malhak. The strongest rules all.

  Torin had learned of the custom during a mission to Bartharra. He and his fellow warriors had infiltrated a Bartharran stronghold and quickly deposed the only warlord who had ever come close to uniting his people.

  He’d delivered the killing blow himself; a throwing knife to the neck.

  An ignominious end for such a fierce leader.

  To his surprise, the Bartharrans had immediately surrendered, deferring to Torin with both hatred and respect. As the one who had killed their strongest, he had become their Malhak.

  That peculiar concept had probably saved their lives, because Torin had been able to convince them not to fight back.

  How ironic that the very memory he despised, he now drew upon in order to survive… in order to protect.

  By asserting his supreme dominance as a warrior, Torin had just subdued the Bartharran horde. Culturally, they had to defer to his will until someone stronger defeated him and took his place.

  But the problem with being king was that everyone wanted to be king. Sooner or later, some fool would try and challenge him, and then they would learn how much stronger Torin really was.

  As they crossed the floor, leaving the loading dock behind, Torin sighed in frustration, knowing—and hating—what he would have to do.

  But what did it matter?

  He detested some of the things he was forced to do—always had—but that wouldn’t stop him from doing them again and again, especially if his actions kept Persephone safe.

  Never in his life had Torin felt such a strong urge to protect an individual.

  Yes, it was finally happening. The moment he’d hoped for, waited for, prayed to the cursed nonexistent Goddess for…

  He was falling, and it was both terrifying and sublime.

  Chapter Eight

  Seph had heard about ships like this, but never in her wildest dreams had she imagined she would actually get to see the inside of one.