by Zoe York
Fall Fast - Nathan and Emme
Fall Back - Cade and Mel
Fall Dark - Vince and Larken
And if you like military romance, check out Pine Harbour: small town military romance at its best! The first book in the series, Love in a Small Town, is free at all retailers.
Six years. Two break-ups. One divorce.
They should be over each other…
CLICK HERE TO READ LOVE IN A SMALL TOWN
— ABOUT ZOE YORK —
Zoe York lives in London, Ontario with her young family. She’s currently chugging Americanos, wiping sticky fingers, and dreaming of heroes in and out of uniform.
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THE PIRATE CAPTAIN'S DAUGHTER
RUBY LIONSDRAKE
Website | Mailing List
GENRE: Science Fiction Romance
DESCRIPTION: a Mandrake Company adventure
When firefighter and mercenary Marat Azarov rescues a beautiful slave woman from a life of certain torment, he gets more than he bargained for.
Turn the page to begin reading The Pirate Captain's Daughter, or click here to return to this anthology’s Table of Contents.
— FOREWORD —
The Pirate Captain’s Daughter is one of several adventures (and romances) revolving around the Mandrake Company mercenaries, a space-faring combat unit living in a distant future in another planetary system. This story is designed so that you can read it without any familiarity with the series. I hope you enjoy it!
Before you jump in, please allow me to thank my beta readers, Cindy Wilkinson and Sarah Engelke, and also Shelley Holloway, my editor. They’re a tremendous help with the books!
— ONE —
A man with a bloodied nose and puffy lip flew out the doorway of the Broken Bucket, hit the grubby gray floor, skidded several feet, and crashed into a kiosk. A robot rolled out of the kiosk and immediately tried to interest his supine visitor in bodyguard protection services. The man’s eyes rolled back in his head, and he slumped unconscious.
Sergeant Marat Azarov paused so he would not step on the fallen figure. He tapped his comm-patch. “Striker? Deck Sub 3? Are you sure this is the right place?”
“Of course, I’m sure,” came Sergeant Striker’s drawl over the patch. “You’re almost there. Take a right at the end of the corridor, go down the stairs, and swipe your chip so they know you have money. Come on, hurry. They’re about to start.”
“Have money?” Marat mouthed.
Striker had promised that this place where they were “sure to find women” was not a brothel.
Several men were crowding the doorway of the Broken Bucket, a bar with a charming wooden plaque hanging out front, making it look like a pub from medieval times on Old Earth. The laser scorch marks that charred the bottom half of the sign somewhat ruined the effect, as did the holographic displays of caterwauling announcers covering sports events from all over the system.
Two bystanders crept out and rifled through the fallen man’s pockets, eyeing Marat as they did so. He eyed them right back. Even if they didn’t see his Mandrake Company patch and think twice about targeting a mercenary, his six feet, broad shoulders, and muscular frame usually convinced thieves to look elsewhere.
The opportunists slunk away from Marat’s frank stare, or maybe the disapproving scowl he was still wearing after talking to Striker. He stepped over the downed man, waved away the pushy sales robot, and spotted the right turn his colleague had mentioned.
A laser weapon screeched at the other end of the corridor. A woman screamed, and alarms went off. Two security androids stomped out of an alcove, their electronic eyes not quite human, their skin even pastier than that of most of the sun-deprived station goers. “Illegal use of personal protection systems. Halt and prepare to be arrested.”
Marat ducked into the alley, stepped over a drunken man marinating in his own piss, and kept his hand close to his laser pistol as he headed for the stairs.
“Hell of a place to spend shore leave,” he grumbled, already wishing he had saved his days for a more appealing port. But when one made a living fighting wars for others, appealing destinations were infrequent stops.
The stairs were busy with men pushing and jockeying, trying to get into a room at the crowded bottom. The air stank of human sweat, alcohol, and at least three kinds of hallucinogenic drugs that one smoked. What had Striker found? Some sporting event? Marat used his elbows and shoulders to push his way through, scarcely feeling the return jabs that found his ribs. He had muscles enough to armor them, and he had battled scarier things than human beings in his life; it would take more than a crowd to make him falter.
He almost faltered when he reached the bottom and saw why the crowd was there. Eight naked women stood on raised platforms, each woman—prisoner—bound with energy chains to an eyelet in the middle. Marat would have turned right around if a meaty hand hadn’t reached out of the press of bodies to latch onto his arm.
He spun toward it, a fist readied. But the broad face and spiky brown hair that appeared out of the crowd were familiar. They belonged to Marat’s putative squad leader, Sergeant Striker, self-titled Chief of Boom aboard the Albatross. That almost wasn’t enough to make Marat lower his fist.
“A slave auction?” he growled. “This is your idea of a great place to find women?”
“Just one woman.” Striker winked. “Come here. Let me tell you the plan.”
Marat didn’t move his feet, but he found himself tugged deeper into the room. He might be strong, but Striker was even bigger and brawnier than he was, and Marat had been pulled over to a support post shimmering with holographic wanted posters before he thought to resist.
“Instead of renting some woman by the hour,” Striker said, “I figured we could get one for keeps.”
“We?”
What in all the worlds in the system made Striker think Marat would want to be a part of this scheme? Was this because of the time on Vasquelin that he’d gone to a brothel with Striker? That whole experience had been a nightmare, at least for Marat.
“Slaves aren’t cheap,” Striker said. “I can’t afford one on my own, but I figured we could go halfsies.”
“Halfsies?” Marat found his fingers tightening into a fist again. “You can’t be serious. Even if you are serious, the captain wouldn’t let you bring a slave onto the ship. The married men can’t even bring their wives. You’re either crew, or you’re not.”
“Yeah, I know, but I’ve been thinking.” Striker tapped his finger to his temple. Striker thinking. Now there was a scary thought. “The captain’s business partner—” he put special emphasis on the word, as if everyone didn’t already know the captain was sleeping with Ankari, “—says she’s not real fond of the rations we get most of the time. I heard her telling Mandrake that the ship needs a cook. You know how he listens to her.”
Yes, and Marat knew why. He had been stuck on a space station with the captain and Ankari when the mafia had been trying to take it over. He knew first-hand that Ankari was a capable ally, not simply some decorative piece of fluff, and that Mandrake had been smart to get her on his side. But Striker was right in that Ankari often lamented the lack of a cook on the ship. And she wasn’t the only one who curled a lip at the prepackaged “food logs” that passed for meals.
“So, we get us a nice slave here. I was eyeing that one.” Striker smiled and nodded toward a black woman that reminded Marat of a less muscular version of Sergeant Hazel, whom Striker had been known to try to seduce a few times. “She cooks.” He fished in a pocket and drew out a folding tablet. He opened it, and a holodisplay formed in the air, showing bios of all eight of the women, along with their talents.
Marat glimpsed “gives amazing head” as one woman’s talent and “liking it in the ass” as another, and he
smacked his hand to his forehead. How was it even possible that Striker outranked him? It was purely based on seniority and the man’s uncanny ability to blow things up with the accuracy of a cyborg marksman.
“I figure we get one who can cook,” Striker said, “bring her back to the ship, get the captain to hire her, and she’ll be so grateful that we got her out of this situation, that she’ll want to thank us. Lots. Every night.” He gave the black woman a lurid grin.
She was standing with her legs apart and her arms folded over her bare breasts while wearing a pissed expression. She was about thirty and one of the older women up there. Half of them were clearly teenagers, most trying their best to cover themselves up and avoid the eyes of the grabby would-be buyers circulating the room. Their cheeks flamed red. Marat’s cheeks would be red too. He wished he could shoot all the idiots in the room and end the charade.
“That’s right, keep staring, Ugly,” came a woman’s voice from the end of the room. She stood on one of the raised platforms, the same as the rest of the slaves, but unlike the others, she was addressing the audience. A bronze-skinned woman in her mid-twenties, she had Chinese writing tattooed down her arm, the marks doing nothing to detract from her beauty. Despite Marat’s determination not to stare, he found himself following the sinuous form of a dragon that snaked down her thigh to wrap around her calf. She strutted around the small platform, her hands on her hips, and her breasts thrust out as she glowered at anyone who came close. She kicked at one man who tried to sneak a feel of her calf.
Marat smirked when she connected. Too bad she didn’t have boots on so that would hurt more.
“Not that one,” Striker said. “She can probably freeze your cock with her eyes. If you don’t like the one girl, how about that one down there? Third from the wall?”
“Forget it, Striker. You’re on your own with this scheme.” Marat turned away from the post and would have strode straight for the stairs, but people were being pushed back toward him, clearing the way for someone new to walk down.
Two brawny, bare-chested androids thrust their arms out, clearing the crowd, using their mechanical strength to fling aside any humans who didn’t scatter quickly enough. If that wasn’t enough to convince people to move, their utility belts bristled with laser pistols, knives, and grenades that weren’t legal for civilians to carry on most stations. They were probably considered jewelry in this hole.
A middle-aged man in rich blacks and purples, including a sable fur cloak that fell to his heels, entered after they had cleared the way. He wasn’t armed, but he wore a tight vest without a shirt beneath it, showing off a muscular chest and bare arms adorned with spiked bracers. An old knife scar cut vertically down his left cheek. As soon as people spotted him, they murmured and backed away even more quickly than they had done for the androids.
“Captain Teneris Wolf?” Striker said. “I suppose Mandrake saw his ship dock, but I better let him know an old nemesis is here just in case.” Striker backed toward a corner and tapped his comm-patch.
Marat recognized the name, even if he hadn’t seen the pirate captain before. He had only been with the company for four months and didn’t know the nature of any conflict Wolf might have had with Captain Mandrake, but as the scarred pirate strolled by the platforms of women, studying them as if they were jewels and he was looking for flaws, Marat hoped Mandrake would find a reason to blow the man out of the stars.
Most of the women shrank away from him, less because of the scar and more because of the ice in his eyes, Marat guessed. The pirate ran a hand up one woman’s calf, and she tried to step away from him. One of the androids leaped onto the platform, held her tight, and pushed her to the edge so Wolf could get a feel.
The fist that had never fully unfurled since Marat had walked into the room tightened again, and he wondered how much trouble he would get into if he decked the man.
“Probably get myself killed,” he muttered.
Even if he hadn’t spent much of his life working among the seedy criminals of the underworld, he knew enough to be certain there was a reason everyone had backed away from Wolf. Those android bodyguards were probably programmed to kill anyone who attacked their master. In space controlled by the Galactic Conglomeration, androids were considered personal property with their owners being responsible for their actions, including being tried for criminal charges perpetrated by their “property,” but Marat wouldn’t bet on any such laws being enforced out here. This station was a haven for pirates, smugglers, and bounty hunters for a reason; it was owned by a rich underworld baron and was anchored out in unclaimed space.
“Don’t even think about pawing me, Captain Ugly,” the Chinese woman said as Wolf approached. Her hands were still fisted at her hips, and she shook out one of her legs, as if readying it for another kick.
Marat admired her fearlessness, but he wasn’t sure how wise it was. Even a booted kick wouldn’t do anything to harm an android, if it landed at all.
“Oh, I’ve been thinking of little else since I came down the stairs,” Captain Wolf said quietly—the room had grown utterly silent, and Marat had no trouble hearing the words. They were the first Wolf had spoken.
One of the androids leaped up on the woman’s platform. She dodged, avoiding its reach twice—impressive given how fast androids could move and the fact that her left ankle was tethered. But it finally latched onto her upper arm. She bucked and kicked back at it, smashing her heel into its knee. The blow would have dropped a regular man, but an android didn’t feel pain. It merely latched another hand onto her, stepping behind her and thrusting her toward its master, who reached up for her calf.
The android’s grip didn’t keep the woman from kicking at Wolf. She came within inches of connecting with his nose, but he jerked his head to the side and would have avoided the blow even if the android hadn’t pulled her back sharply. Her balance thrown, she teetered and flailed her arms, but it kept her upright.
“What a man,” the woman growled when she recovered. “Can’t even go shopping for slaves without the help of your pets. You take them into the bedroom too?”
The pirate smirked. “Sometimes. Care to find out?”
“You even think of buying me, and I’ll kill you in your sleep, you whore-spawned bastard.”
“Such an attitude,” Wolf murmured. “Conquering you will be a pleasure.”
“Right up until you’re dead.”
The woman’s words did nothing to deter the pirate’s interest. The lasciviousness glittering in his cold eyes as he looked her up and down made Marat want to throw up. Or shoot the man. Or both. His fingers found the grip of his pistol, and Marat took a step toward Wolf.
A hand clamped onto his shoulder from behind.
Marat ground his teeth but let himself be stopped. The second android, the one still on the ground by its master, had noticed his move the instant he made it. Already, its cold mechanical eyes were locked onto Marat’s hand, the one wrapped around the grip of his pistol. He hadn’t drawn the weapon yet, but something told him he would be dead before he managed to aim it if he did.
“You all right?” Striker asked, jostling him to draw his eye. “You look like you’re...”
“Seething?” Marat snarled.
“I was going to say constipated, but whatever. Look, there’s the auctioneer. The bidding will start soon. Here’s the four with cooking listed as one of their skills. I already showed you which one I want. Which one do you want?”
Marat’s first instinct was to knock the tablet away. And maybe knock Striker on his ass too. Still, he caught himself looking at the list, wondering if the Chinese woman was on it. It was a ludicrous thought—this whole situation was ludicrous, and he loathed Striker for talking him into coming down here—but maybe he could outbid the pirate and deny him whatever torment he wanted to inflict on her. He couldn’t even believe he was thinking of buying another human being—Buddha’s light, how had he fallen so far from the normal life he had once lived?—but he would do
nothing but set her free. He wasn’t an expert in underworld slavery, but he couldn’t believe there was a law against that.
“There.” Marat spotted the woman on the list and pointed to the image of her face, which hovered above her list of skills. Ying Wei was her name, and cooking was on there, along with a few other domestic skills and a number of combat skills. That hardly surprised him. It also did not surprise him that there was nothing on there about pleasing a man.
“Oh, no,” Striker said. “I don’t want anything to do with that man-hater. Besides, even if we combine our savings, I doubt we could outbid a pirate captain. He’s got a repurposed Fleet ship that’s a lot fancier than the Albatross. I hear the combat shuttles are gold-gilded.”
“Does that mean Mandrake isn’t going to pick a fight with him?” Picking fights might not be wise, but in this instance, Marat was disappointed.
“Mandrake won’t back down if the pirate makes trouble for him, but there’s not much money in the revenge business. He’s usually real smart about the work he picks. Unless someone puts a big bounty out for Wolf, he’ll keep his distance.”
“Too bad.” Marat had never been one to wish for riches, but his blood was simmering—he couldn’t tear his gaze from Wolf’s continuing fondling of the woman—and he wished for them now. Enough to outbid the man at the least, but enough to have him blown from space would be even better.
“Here are the other three options.” Striker pointed. “Wait, make that two. That one’s only fifteen. There’s no way Mandrake is going to hire someone that young.”
“I’ll pretend that’s not the only reason you wouldn’t consider a minor.” Marat’s daughter had passed away over a year ago, but he hadn’t forgotten what it was to be a father, to have his heart in his throat worrying about his little girl. He shuddered to imagine her, or one of the friends she had played with, in a position like this.
“All right,” Striker said, the comment probably passing over his head. “So it’s these two. We can try for both. One might get fewer bids. How much you chipping in?”
