Page 18 of Honor Bound

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 generalfinallyreturns,” Dorane drawled, lounging back as though he had all the time in the galaxy. “Didn’t peg you for thedramatic exittype, Roan. If you’re looking for work, Imightbe 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.

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