Page 1 of Rogue Starfighter

Prologue

Lieutenant Vesh, Velerion Deep Reconnaissance, Moon Base Arturri

The Elite Starfighter notification hit my encrypted comm unit on day three of a five-day scouting mission. I was deep inside enemy territory, my ship tucked into a rocky cave close enough to monitor the enemy base and far enough away to run if one of their patrols picked up my signal.

Probably not far enough to escape, but I liked to pretend. My ship was built for speed and stealth, not battle. If the enemy found me, I was dead. Which was why no communication should have reached me out here. Not from Arturri. Not from anyone. The message flashed across my screen.

Pair bond confirmed. Elite Starfighter candidate matched. Reconnaissance designation: Scout. Return to base ASAP. I read it twice. Then a third time because, apparently I had forgotten how to fucking read.

“No.” This couldn't be happening. Wasn't real. I neither wanted nor needed a partner.

The orange notification light continued to blink. The message was on eternal repeat, taunting me.

“No. What if I refuse?” Rhetorical question. I'd be ridiculed for stupidity—we needed every single skilled fighter we could get our hands on, especially Elite Starfighters. After that, I'd most likely be thrown in the brig for insubordination.

Command did not care about my personal feelings on the matter. Shocking. The light flashed again, demanding acknowledgment and painting the wet stone walls of the cave an irritating shade of orange. I checked the security feed. No movement outside. No Scythe patrols. No ground troops. Nothing waiting to kill me. Yet. Then I opened the message again. Pair bond confirmed.

“Fuck.”

That did not improve the situation, either. I placed my palm against the comm panel. The sharp sting of nanotech entering my bloodstream traveled up my arm and settled at the base of my skull. Heat followed, concentrating on the back of my neck as the black Starfighter mark formed beneath my skin.

There would be no pretending the message had never arrived now. The system had marked me.

I had flown alone for six years. I liked it that way. A scout who worked alone never had to wonder if his partner was fast enough, quiet enough, or smart enough to survive. He never had to compensate for someone else’s mistakes. And he never had to watch another partner die.

The Elite Starfighter program had just assigned me a wingman. No. Not merely a wingman.

A mate.

From Earth.

Of course she was from Earth. That technologically primitive little planet had already sent Velerion three of the most reckless females in the entire war. General Aryk praised them. Half the base worshipped them. The rest had learned to get out of their way. Apparently, I was getting one of my own.

“Absolutely not.”

The mark on my neck pulsed as if laughing at me. I ignored it and opened an appeal form.

Captain Wroxxon would approve my request. Denying me anything I wanted was the man’s favorite hobby. He would probably sign the rejection of my pair bond before I finished submitting it, then call me into his office so he could enjoy the moment in person. For once, we would have agreed.

I completed the first field. Name. Rank. Current assignment. My finger hovered over the section requesting the reason for my appeal.

I could have typed that I worked alone. That a second scout would compromise my missions. That I had no interest in taking responsibility for an untested recruit from a planet that still considered interstellar travel impossible. All true. Instead, I closed the form and pulled up her file.

Due diligence. That was all. Before I rejected the match, I needed to know exactly what kind of problem the program had tried to hand me. Her profile loaded. Priya Anand. Late twenties. Phoenix, Arizona, United States. Earth. The image appeared a moment later, and every coherent thought in my head vanished.

She was beautiful.

Not the polished, manufactured beauty common in official profiles. This female looked directly into the camera as if she had something more important to do and was waiting for whoever held it to hurry the hell up. Long black hair fell over one shoulder in a glossy wave. Her skin was a warm shade of light brown. High cheekbones. Full lips. Dark eyes that looked calm, intelligent, and entirely too capable of seeing through a male’s lies.

Especially the lies he told himself. I leaned closer to the screen before I realized I had moved. That irritated me, so I sat back. My gaze returned to her mouth. I ordered myself to look away. Failed miserably.

My body reacted to her before my mind caught up. My pulse accelerated. My mouth went dry. My cock hardened beneath my uniform like it had been waiting years for this specific female to appear.

“Traitor,” I muttered.

Beautiful females were trouble. I knew that. Every male with functioning eyes and half a brain knew that. But beauty was not the real problem. Priya looked strong. Steady. She looked like the kind of female who would ask questions I did not want to answer and refuse to accept silence in return.

The mark on my neck warmed again. Mine. She was already mine.