Make Love, Not War

by Mina Carter

  Table of Contents

  Copyright

  Title Page

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

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  About the Authors

  Copyright

  Copyright 2015 Mina Carter & J.William Mitchell

  Cover Art by Mina Carter

  Published by Blue Hedgehog Press: Jan 2015.

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  EBooks are not transferable. They cannot be sold, shared, or given away. The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is a crime punishable by law. No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded to or downloaded from file sharing sites, or distributed in any other way via the Internet or any other means, electronic or print, without the publisher’s permission. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000 (http://www.fbi.gov/ipr/).

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are fictitious or have been used fictitiously, and are not to be construed as real in any way. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales, or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  Author's note: All characters depicted in this work of fiction are 18 years of age or older.

  Make Love, Not War

  (The Revenant Chronicles)

  MINA CARTER

  USA TODAY BESTSELLING AUTHOR

  &

  J.WILLIAM MITCHELL

  Chapter One

  She needed to get wasted, and laid, not necessarily in that order.

  Rodaan Black, Daani to her few friends still alive, strode into the bar and looked around. She’d not expected much of the place, second rate transport outposts like this tended to attract degenerates and bandits along with those down on their luck, but even so, this was scraping the bottom of the barrel. The bar, the biggest she could see along the main strip in town, currently had three patrons, four with her.

  Two old-timers were cozied up to the bar, eighty, if they were a day, and a younger man sat in the corner, scowling into his plexi-glass. No real glass in a place like this. It was likely to become exhibit-A if it came to a bar fight.

  Advanced age or not, the oldsters still gave her the once over as she approached. Deliberately, she dropped a hand to the grip of the heavy pulse-pistol holstered at her hip, and they couldn’t have missed the throwing daggers strapped to her thighs. Daani’s attire for a night out didn’t differ much from her combat outfits, just cleaner with less blood.

  “Hey¸ what’s a cute chick like you doing in a place like this?” one of the old guys asked, flicking a tongue over what looked to be the lone remaining tooth in his mouth. Human, she guessed, and younger than she was, even though she didn’t look it. None of her species did.

  “That’s my business, old man.” She didn’t bother to crack a smile as she stared him down. “And none of yours. If you want to keep that tooth in your head, I suggest you find something else to be interested in.” Old he might be, but she’d met retirees who could still shoot better than those half his age and she had a feeling this old coot was no exception. She could see it in his eyes. The bulge under his jacket was just slightly less telling.

  The guy opened his mouth to say something, but his companion tugged at his sleeve and nodded to Daani’s arms. Bared to the shoulder by her black tank top, her tattoos were visible for all to see. Geometric designs wrapped around her wrists and covered her forearms to the elbow; her service record from back home for a war decades ago. Only another of her species could read them, but most, like the oldster, recognized them for what they were: a warning not to fuck with her.

  That was backed up by the five parallel lines wrapped around her upper arms. They marked a person who had spent time in Mirax Ruathe, the hardest penal colony this side of the Garragoch Nebula. Each ring marked a year. Five rings. Five years. Average life expectancy in Mirax Ruathe was thirteen months.

  Daani always had been one to buck the trend. But then, what did they say? Always bet on Black.

  The oldster gave her a small sneer and shook his head as he turned back to the bar. She knew it was just a parting shot from a man with too much pride, but enough sense not to trade his physical well-being for it. Sure, the idea of knocking out an old timer wasn't something people looked at nicely, but Daani wasn't in the business of nice. While those two were senior citizens, her intuition told her time hadn't quite tamed them from the rough lives they'd lived when they were younger.

  As the two turned to their cheap whiskeys, she picked a spot halfway between the old timers and the younger guy in the corner who hadn't looked at her once. The bartender, a bored looking Kysarian, set down the glass he had been polishing with a rag. "What can I get you?"

  "Jurian Brandy?"

  The man shook his head. The brandy was some of the good stuff, damned potent too, but it was getting harder and harder to smuggle out of Juria Prime every month. "Fresh out. Still waiting for a new shipment."

  "Okay. Next best thing."

  The Kysarian glanced for a moment at the guy in the corner which told her he had the exact same thing. Daani didn't say a word while the bartender picked up a plexi-glass and filled it half way. As soon as he set it down, she snatched it up. "Just keep it coming." He nodded and returned to whatever it was bartenders did if they weren’t pouring drinks.

  After she'd taken a few healthy swigs of her ale, she gave the place a surreptitious once over. The spot she picked wasn't bad, in between lamps so she wasn't directly illuminated. She also had a good view of the two graying wise guys. However, it wasn't her first choice of seating arrangement. Big, blond, and scowling in the corner had beaten her to it. It made her pay him more attention. He had a good angle over the whole place, and down the length of the bar. Because he was away from the overhead lamps meant he wasn't under a spotlight. The curtains just behind him to his left must lead to the kitchens and the back exit.

  "See anything interesting?"

  It was Mr. Blonde, and if she hadn't known the question was directed at her, she'd have thought he was now interrogating his half empty pint of ale.

  “Depends.”

  She leaned back, one elbow on the bar and studied him over the rim of her plexi-glass. He was big, even when seated, with broad shoulders that flowed into heavily muscled arms. From this angle, she could see a leg encased in black fatigues very like hers and one booted foot. A large booted foot.

  Tall then, probably well over six feet, possibly nearer six and a half, and easily two hundred pounds. Which meant he outstripped her by well over a foot and a hundred pounds, so if it came to a scrap, she needed the element of surprise and to play dirty. Very dirty.

  Not that she planned for this to devolve into a fight. She had something far more pleasurable in mind, and blond and scowling might be just the right type of diversion.

  He looked up, and a piercing blue gaze caught her. “Depends on what?”

  *

  The woman at the bar didn’t answer for a long moment, just held his gaze. Despite himself, Gunnar was impressed. Most women didn’t look at him directly. Actually most women took one look at him and scuttled the other way as if their asses were on fire.

  Not this one. This one just looked at him, smiled, and took another swallow of her drink. “Depends on you.”

  She intrigued him enough that he forgot the reason he was there. She was no merc bunny— the sort of woman who hung a
round places like this on the prowl for soldiers of fortune. Setting aside her inked arm, her gear was too worn to be just for show, and her manner was just too hard edged. She wasn’t a groupie. Nowhere near. His spook radar wasn’t blaring warnings at him though, so he scratched that off the list. If he didn’t miss his guess, she was a ground pounder for hire.

  Overall, it didn’t take a PhD to figure out she was there to get wasted, same as he was. He’d heard her conversation with the bartender loud and clear. Now if he was just half as lucky as he could be at times, getting shitfaced wasn’t the only thing they’d have in common today.

  “Well, not really sure how much more interesting I can make myself look right now.” Gunnar scratched his chin in thought for a moment. “I got an idea but I’d rather do that where I won’t make enemies of the men here traumatized by the sight of me in my birthday suit.”

  She was a difficult one to read, further proving his guess her kit wasn’t for show and she was a merc just like him. Interest and heat rolled through his veins as he stood and waved a hand at the chair opposite in invitation. Silently, he urged her to take it.

  Mercs were always hot in the sack—the whole make hay while the sun shone thing—but there was an extra element with this one that intrigued him. She was so damn delicate, for one thing. How did a woman that tiny survive this life?

  Finally, she smiled, took a drink from her pint and pushed off the bar to approach him. He held his breath as she reached the chair, then slid into it with a grace he would never manage in a million years, and held her hand out.

  “I’m Daani. Pleased to meet you.”

  She had manners and seemed familiar with the Terran gesture. Interesting. He took the offered hand. Instead of shaking it, he lifted it to his lips and kissed her knuckles. He watched her the whole time, and maybe it was wishful thinking, but he was pretty sure he saw her shiver. “I’m Gunnar. The pleasure’s all mine, Daani.”

  Their gazes held as long as their touch, but Gunnar reluctantly let her go. Last thing he needed was her thinking he was a creep. He couldn’t help but notice her hand was tiny in his palm. His mind wandered toward just how good it would feel for certain parts of her to be wrapped around a particular part of him.

  Gunnar fought the urge to groan as his line of thought elicited a reflexive twitch south of the border. He took a big swig of his ale to cover it.

  Yes, she was hot. Her face was something he’d definitely describe as beautiful, kinda cute with her elfin features. Tiny as she was though, he could tell she had a lean and compact body underneath her clothes. Her tank top was a simple garment that was hardly lingerie, but thin as it was and held up by a pair of narrow straps, it was damned enticing. The neckline dipped just enough to give her a decent cleavage and the way the fabric molded to her breasts made his hands itch to tear the damned top off her.

  He must have been staring because when he looked up at her face, she wore an amused expression. Gunnar smiled unapologetically. “Hey, I’m not the only one who sees something they like.”

  She leaned back in her chair, body relaxed as she ran a finger around the rim of her pint glass. Delicate, slender fingers to match the rest of her. This time it was Gunnar’s turn to shiver. He prayed to any god listening that he was reading these signals right because the thought of having her naked beneath him had his blood on fire. If he had it wrong though, he'd be nursing a case of blue balls for a week, if he didn't strain his right hand first.

  “Hey, you wanna go somewhere more private?” He glanced at the two old timers near the other end of the bar, the pair leering at them and laughing at their own personal joke. Gunnar shook his head and smiled as he turned his attention back to her. “Maybe get to see more things we might both like.”

  He held his breath as she pursed her lips and considered his question. He didn’t miss her gaze flick over his shoulders, then assessingly down his body. She’d done it earlier, but that had been threat assessment. He knew because it had been the first thing he’d done when he’d seen her. This though...this was all about a woman looking at a man, and dammit, if that didn’t make him sit up straighter in his seat and tense his shoulders and arms a little. If that swayed the lady to his way of thinking, he’d out and out pose for her.

  Her smile barely curved her lips, but he saw it and triumph surged through him. “Private sounds good. Where did you have in mind, hotshot?”

  “I’ve got a place,” he revealed as he finished the last of his ale with a healthy swig and set the pint glass aside. He didn’t need any more of the sauce and with the chance to be with this hot little thing tonight, he wanted to be as sober as he could get. “Not that far. Just down the road.”

  Taking his lead, she likewise took a final swallow from her glass and slid off the stool. Before she could pull out money, he addressed the bartender as he got off his seat. “Hey, Pete, put it all on my tab.”

  The Kysarian she now knew as Pete didn’t even look up. “You got it.”

  She met him at the door, smiled up at him, and said one thing: “Lead the way.”

  Chapter Two

  Tapping in his code at the keypad by the entryway, Gunnar gave the security sensor the requisite second to do a biometric scan. The wait, as the device verified records in the system, felt like an eternity, then the locks disengaged with a dull click. He sighed as he pushed the heavy metal door open and stepped in with his intriguing guest in tow.

  “Home sweet home,” he announced as the door closed behind them and once again locked into place. It was heavy security but while some people may say ‘paranoia,' to him it was just an occupational requirement.

  The place was far from fancy; already pushing ‘industrial chic,’ but it was clean. It was all his and he liked it. They were on the top floor of what used to be a low-cost office building before the economic problems in the region. The business had failed and he’d managed to grab a decent piece of real estate at bargain basement prices.

  It was a large, open-plan place where the most visible investments were in furniture and fixtures. A plush, black leather sofa sat before a large-screen ULDTV, forming a living area to the left. On the other side, exercise equipment was set up with weights resting on racks. Toward the other corner of the cavernous room a king-sized bed dominated his sleeping area. Cabinets for his clothes and weaponry bordered the kitchen, next to the door for the bathroom. The absence of walls made the place look amazingly larger.

  “Nice place. Spacious,” she commented as she walked past him.

  He hadn’t missed her glance to the heavy duty security on the door. Unlike other ‘guests’ he’d brought back, her expression wasn’t between fearful and aroused, as though she were scared but excited at being locked up with a bad-boy merc. Instead, her look had been approving. As if it was the kind of thing she’d have chosen.

  He watched her as she moved. Lithe, graceful, lethal. If she hadn’t already plotted at least four ways out of the place, he’d be surprised. She was so damn tiny though… He felt like a brute compared. His heated gaze flitted over her shapely figure as she reached the couch. Fingertips caressing the leather, she turned and rested against it.

  “So...are you going to offer me a drink, or do we dispense with the social niceties and get to the good stuff?”

  “Pretty sure neither of us is thirsty,” he said as he followed her, stopping before her and trapping her between him and the couch. “Now, I’m hungry, but not for food.”

  He took in details of her, his eyes appreciating every facet, and committing them to memory while a slow moving fingertip followed in the wake of his burning gaze. Her cheek, her jaw, her neck… lower and lower, meandering at the hollow at the base of her throat then moving onto her shoulder.

  “Just one question, though, the last one in a while actually,” he said in a voice lower and more strained than before. As he spoke, his finger dipped under the strap of her tank top and toyed with it briefly before slowly tracing the hem of her neckline until the rough digit nestled i
n the hollow of her cleavage. His gaze locked onto hers. “Do you prefer to strip or do I get to unwrap your hot little body myself?”

  She wasn’t shy, meeting his gaze levelly and without a hint of coyness. He’d never been good with the games women played, so he liked that, liked the directness and honesty. Reaching up, she brushed soft fingertips over his jaw.

  “Unwrap sounds hot, as long as I get the same treat.”

  That did it for Gunnar. He knew he looked good, made an effort to keep his body in top shape, but he’d never once in his life had any woman refer to undressing him as a treat. With a growl of mingled lust and triumph in the back of his throat, he bent at the waist and scooped her into his arms before striding toward the bed in the corner.

  The trip didn't take long enough to cool him down, and Daani ended up bouncing on the bed as Gunnar took a moment to quickly shed his footwear before joining her. With one knee digging into the mattress, he loomed over her smaller form as he leaned down and kissed her. And damn, the kiss was exactly like her too—uninhibited and demanding.

  As she opened her mouth and let him in, their tongues dueling playfully, his hand moved down along her body until he reached her waist. Divesting her of her gun belt and knives barely took a moment. A few seconds later her boots thudded heavily onto the floor, her socks discarded the same way.

  She seemed to have been waiting her turn for as soon as they shifted, she broke the kiss and brought her mouth lower to nibble at his neck. He groaned roughly and found himself on his back. Her small hands found the hem of his shirt, and he cooperated by lifting into a half crunch so she could drag the offending garment up and away from his body. Leaning back on her heels, she took a moment to look at him appreciatively, a sultry smile on her face.

  "Definitely something interesting." She winked at him and he felt the brush of her hand against the bulge in his pants.