Mandrake Company- The Complete Series

by Ruby Lionsdrake

  He couldn’t have known her thoughts, but her grip must have excited him. His kiss grew hungrier, more demanding, and she could feel his hard chest brushing her sensitive nipples, his muscles almost trembling from the effort of holding back. She pushed her fingers through his soft hair, clasping the back of his head and meeting his kisses with equal fervor. Didn’t he know he didn’t need to hold back? She had been ready for him since they first walked into the cabin—actually, she had been fantasizing about grabbing his ass and climbing onto him even during the brief shuttle ride that had taken them to his ship. Only the press of all of the other mercenaries, all looking at her with curious eyes, had convinced her to keep her hands to herself. And then Marat had been so glum when he’d slumped down on his bunk, she had worried she wouldn’t be able to convince him to relax and have some fun with her.

  As he kissed her, his straining shaft rubbed against her lower lips, almost teasing her with the promise of more. Streaks of heat coursed through her nerves with each brush of her clitoris, and she found herself groaning into his mouth, her growing need flushing her entire being. He lowered his hand, circling her with his thumb, finding her wet and ready. His sure touch made her eyes cross and her body writhe. She had enjoyed the roughness of the washcloth in the shower, but having him stroking her most intimate areas with nothing between them had her shuddering with longing. She arched toward him, spreading her knees, inviting him to slide into her.

  “Marat,” she whispered. “If you don’t take me now...” His deft fingers sent jolts of desire through her, making her gasp, making her half forget her words. “I’m going to roll you over and... show you who’s in charge.”

  Without taking his lips from hers, he murmured, “Oh?”

  “Yeah, and it’s not your thugly captain.”

  “Good.” He sounded as breathless as she, with sweat gleaming on his torso.

  Just in case he had a notion of delaying any longer, she hooked one leg over his shoulder, nudging his swollen head with her aching core, shifting up toward him.

  He growled again, his eyes intense and burning with desire as he gazed into hers. Whatever he sought in her gaze, he seemed to find it, because he no longer held back. He eased into her, his thickness making her gasp, but she grabbed him with both hands, and pulled him deeper before he could think of pausing or asking if she was all right. She was more than all right, and she shuddered with pleasure as he filled her. Then he started moving, and the pleasure quickly escalated to something she couldn’t name, something she could only moan. He lowered his face to her throat, alternating between nuzzling her and nipping at her as he thrust deeper. His thumb found her clitoris again, even as he kept diving into her, his need building. Sensation seemed to explode from every corner of her body, and she dropped her hands, gripping the sheets, unable to think about anything except meeting his now-frenzied thrusts with her own eager demands.

  She came before he did, a final touch from his thumb sending a flood of energy through her, followed by tremors of exquisite satisfaction. He stiffened and came on the heels of her climax, calling her name as he poured himself into her.

  Ying lowered her legs—every muscle felt like liquid, wanting to melt into a pool on the bed—and draped her arms across his back. She guided him down so that his weight rested on her, wanting to know he wasn’t going anywhere. She kissed him on the neck, because she also wanted him to know that she wasn’t going anywhere. Not as long as he wanted her here. It might be too early to make promises of the long-term out loud, but after the story he had shared of his wife leaving him, she wanted him to know she did not mean this to be some fleeting tryst. With his future up in the air, he must wonder if he would have her—have anything—tomorrow.

  She ran one hand up the muscles of his back, along his neck, and into his hair. She rubbed his scalp with her fingertips and relished in his contented sigh. “I want to stay with you, Marat,” she murmured. “Whatever happens tomorrow.”

  He lifted his head enough to look at her face. Before, his gaze had been intense and hungry; now it was back to regarding her with warmth and appreciation, as if she were someone precious and not simply a homeless pirate with no family and no future. “I want you to stay with me, too,” he said and kissed her.

  She returned his kiss and many more. She didn’t know what the following days would bring, but as long as the nights brought this, she would be content.

  Epilogue

  Ying followed Marat through the gunmetal gray corridors of the Mandrake Company ship, resisting the urge to hold his hand. Or smile. Even if Wolf’s death had left her feeling satisfied, and her interlude with Marat had her feeling downright cheerful, he was still in trouble. She intended to stand up for him if his captain proved unfair. Maybe it wouldn’t mean much to some mercenary leader, but she would do it anyway. Her father would have shot a man who had disobeyed orders, especially if the choice had put his ship at risk. If this Captain Mandrake was thinking anything of the sort, she meant to disabuse him of the notion, one way or another.

  Fortunately, she no longer wore the sickbay gown. It would have been hard to disabuse anyone of anything in that. Early that morning, Marat had gone on a clothing scavenging mission for her and had collected donations from the handful of women on the ship. One borrowed outfit would have been fine, but Ying must not be the only one who considered Marat sweet and appealing, because he had come back with his arms full. She now wore a pair of slacks that were only slightly too roomy in the hips and a thin sweater that covered her tattoos—probably a good idea for an official meeting with the captain.

  Marat led the way into a briefing room with a large, old wooden table taking up most of the space, a surprising contrast from the textured metal and drab gray of the rest of the ship. A single man waited inside the room, standing near the portholes rather than sitting at the table. It was Ying’s first time seeing Captain Mandrake outside of combat armor. He wore a black short-sleeve T-shirt that accented brawny arms and broad shoulders that appeared capable of snapping men in half. He wasn’t as old as she would have guessed from his gruff, humorless commands, but he did have some flecks of gray at the temples, and nothing about him left her doubting that he was in charge.

  “Sir,” Marat said, coming to a Fleet-style parade rest with his hands clasped behind his back.

  Ying leaned against the wall and folded her arms over her chest. When Mandrake glanced at her, she stared back at him, her chin up, her expression unyielding.

  “Four weeks of double shifts, Azarov,” Mandrake said, “and in your free time, you’ll help Striker clean all of the weapons and armor on the ship.”

  “Sir?” Marat looked like he wanted to scratch his head, but he kept his hands behind his back.

  “You have a problem, Sergeant?” Mandrake’s tone said he had better not.

  “No, sir. I just thought you might kick me out.”

  “Nobody gets out of my outfit that easily. You’ve got twenty months left on your contract.”

  “I... Yes, sir.”

  “But if you disobey my orders again, I’ll shoot you. Understood?”

  “Yes, sir. Uhm, out of curiosity, will you be keeping the ship? Or selling it?” Marat glanced at Ying. “Since she killed Wolf, she should get at least part of the spoils.”

  “Selling it,” Mandrake said. “I have no interest in becoming a fleet admiral. The spoils will be split fairly. Dismissed.”

  Marat looked at Ying. “Uh, both of us, sir? Or...?”

  “You.”

  “Oh.” Marat frowned and opened his mouth.

  Ying waved for him to leave. She doubted she had anything to fear from the captain, no matter how gruff he seemed. She might never have been a soldier, but even she knew he was getting off light for what he had pulled.

  Marat closed his mouth. She thought he would march straight out, but he did pause to clasp her hand before leaving. Even if she didn’t consider herself the type to need comfort or condolences—at least not often—she appr
eciated the gesture. The warmth of his strong, callused palm made her think of their night together, and her cheeks flushed at the memory. It was too bad he would be busy with all of these double shifts. Not that she knew how long she would be allowed to stay on board. Hadn’t Striker said something about only crew being allowed? No wives or girlfriends? Marat had implied there was a cook’s position that she might apply for, but would Mandrake offer her a job if he knew her past? He might not believe someone with a history of poisoning people through her food would make a desirable cook for the ship.

  The door slid shut, leaving Ying alone with the captain. His expression hadn’t changed, though he couldn’t have missed the handclasp, even from the other side of that massive table.

  “Bryony Brooksmouth?” Mandrake asked.

  Ying shifted uncomfortably, remembering she had given Marat her birth name to share with the captain. “Not for a long time.”

  He nodded. “Understood.” His voice and demeanor were different than they had been with Marat. Not gentle, exactly, but less intense. “I’ve never had a cook for the ship before, but I’ve been informed it would be good for morale. I agreed to it if we could find someone with combat experience.” He raised his eyebrows.

  “I was never professionally trained as a soldier, if that’s what you’re asking, but someone comes in my kitchen and has a problem with my food, I have no trouble killing him.”

  Mandrake gazed blandly at her, perhaps not certain what to make of the comment. Maybe he wanted a more straightforward answer as to her qualifications.

  “I can pilot a shuttle in a pinch, make up poisons for assassination missions, and I’m proficient with a number of pistols,” Ying said.

  “And knives?” he asked dryly.

  “If need be.”

  “You want the job? If not, we’ll let you off at the next safe stop.”

  “If you’re offering, I might give it a try on a trial basis. If I don’t have to yes-sir a bunch of idiots and I can be queen of the kitchen.” She might want to stay with Marat, but she also wasn’t ready to sign away her life for X number of years, nor volunteer herself to be on the bottom rung of some irritating military chain-of-command.

  The corners of Mandrake’s mouth turned down. She had a feeling he liked irritating military chains-of-command. Mercenaries weren’t quite the same as pirates.

  As Ying was wondering if she had just talked herself out of a job, the door opened. She half-expected Marat returning to check on her, but a woman strolled inside, dark wavy brown hair bouncing around her shoulders. She had a lithe, athletic form, but didn’t look like one of Mandrake’s soldiers. She wore light makeup, a blouse that accented her breasts, and her eyes twinkled without wariness or fear when Mandrake squinted suspiciously at her.

  Before the captain could say anything, the new woman spun toward Ying.

  “Is this the new cook?” she asked, spreading her arms. “Can I hug her?”

  Ying didn’t know whether to step back or to just stare in horror. She didn’t want a hug from a stranger.

  She glimpsed Marat standing outside in the corridor and peering in her direction before the door closed. The pleased smile on his face kept her from scurrying backward.

  “That’s still up for debate,” Mandrake said.

  “Whether she’s a cook? Or whether I can hug her?” Thankfully, the woman lowered her arms and stuck one out for a handshake instead. “I’m Ankari. I loathe food logs. Please join the crew and become my savior.”

  Mandrake issued a noisy snort.

  “Whatever he’s offering to pay you, I’ll double it,” Ankari added.

  Ying blinked. She hadn’t been thinking about money, but getting paid would be an added perk to having her food and lodgings taken care of again. This time she could save more and plan better for her future.

  “That better not be out of my twenty percent,” Mandrake grumbled.

  Ankari grinned and walked around the table toward him. “Didn’t you just get a new ship to sell?”

  “It’s full of bodies and has a hole in the hull where some combat team drilled its way in.”

  “Well, whose fault is that?” Ankari stood on her tiptoes and kissed him on the lips. Mandrake didn’t exactly melt into goo at her gesture, but he did look faintly pleased. He patted her on the back before she walked back toward Ying. “Let’s get this negotiation wrapped up, shall we?” Ankari asked. “You’ve been offered double pay. Do you accept?”

  Hm. Did she accept? The idea that not everybody here was a mindless soldier drone marching around with guns and grenades reassured Ying somewhat. And she would have Marat too. She smiled to herself, remembering him hefting her over his shoulder and “rescuing” her from the androids. He certainly wasn’t a drone.

  “I told him I’d cook for the ship on a trial basis,” Ying said, “but that I wouldn’t sign a contract or yes-sir him.”

  “He agrees,” Ankari promptly said.

  “Ankari,” Mandrake warned.

  Ankari didn’t even look at him. She waved at Ying, then strode back through the door. “We have a cook,” she announced in a loud, cheerful voice.

  The round of cheers and applause that erupted from the corridor surprised Ying. She hadn’t realized anyone except Marat was out there. His eyes were only for her as he gazed past Ankari and through the doorway. He gave her a shy wave and a big smile.

  The door shut, not quite drowning out the continuing cheers and exuberant shouts.

  “In the past, I’ve had nightmares of mutiny,” Mandrake said. “This wasn’t quite how I imagined it unfolding.” Shaking his head, he rounded the table and headed for the door. Before walking out, he offered Ying his hand. “Welcome to the outfit, Ms. Brooksmouth.”

  Though Ying felt a little dazed, she accepted his firm handshake.

  Marat rushed in as soon as he could squeeze past the captain. He engulfed Ying in a hug, one she did not try to reject. She met his kiss with enthusiasm.

  “You’re on duty, Azarov,” came Mandrake’s voice before the door slid shut.

  “Sorry I won’t have time to give you a tour,” Marat said, though he did not rush to release her. “I’m sure Ankari will show you around.”

  “Or she’ll show me straight to the kitchen where she’ll tie me to a pot rack so I can’t escape.”

  Marat grinned. “That is a possibility.”

  As Marat kissed her again, she found herself grinning back, realizing she was pleased by the new situation. The fact that people actually wanted her here. This might just work out.

  THE END

  The Tracker’s Dilemma

  1

  The grass blades waved gently in the breeze, the stalks erect and unbroken. Sergeant Heath “Tick” Hawthorn scanned the prairie, the lake in the distance, and the copse of trees at one end, his practiced eyes seeking signs that anyone two-legged had been through the area recently. So far, he hadn’t seen, heard, or smelled anything that hinted of human intruders, but something nagged at his senses, a feeling that they weren’t alone on the grassy moon.

  “See anything, Tick?” a gruff voice called from behind him.

  Sergeant Striker, spiky brown hair waving in the breeze similarly to the grass, tramped toward him. The big man carried a massive assault rifle in his hands, had a grenade launcher slung across his back, wore a belt full of daggers and laser pistols, and topped off the ensemble with a bandolier full of grenades. He flattened the grass as he strode along, making Tick glad he had already searched the area behind him.

  A second man followed him at a distance, the new fellow, Corporal Hemlock. He stepped more carefully, watching the ground as he went, though he carried almost as many weapons as Striker, and his scarred hands promised he had seen many battles.

  “Not yet, but I’ve got an itch,” Tick said.

  “An itch? Should’ve come to that brothel on Dock Seven with me. Could’ve found a nice girl to scratch that for you.”

  “Not that kind of itch.” While he surveyed
the prairie again and waited for the others to catch up, Tick pulled a small canister out of his pocket. He fished out a piece of his caffeinated gum and popped it into his mouth.

  “No? That’s shocking, considering how little action your rifle has seen lately.”

  “It’s really not necessary for you to keep tabs on my rifle.” Tick felt a burst of energy from the mint-flavored gum. He turned back toward the lake and the copse of trees he wanted to check, second-guessing his decision to let Striker catch up.

  “I keep tabs on everybody, on account of needing ideas for my comics.” Striker stopped beside Tick and made a drawing motion in the air.

  “Didn’t think your stories involved the sexual exploits of the Mandrake Company mercenaries.”

  “They involve anything that’s interesting. And since we haven’t had any real jobs in more than a month, I’m expanding on what qualifies as interesting. Say, your microbiologist know your name yet?” Striker grinned at him.

  “Of course she knows my name.”

  Though Tick was trying to work and this wasn’t the time for mooning over a woman, he couldn’t help but think of the dark-haired and fair-skinned Dr. Lauren Keys, the way she was so out of place on a mercenary ship, the way she seemed like she needed someone to protect her, to watch out for her, to offer her a shoulder when something alarmed her. He wouldn’t mind being that person, it was true. He respected the battle-hardened women on the ship, like Sergeant Hazel and Private Sahara, but for a lover, he preferred someone feminine, someone who needed him. Too bad he was here, and she was back on the Albatross, no doubt leaning over her microscope and making notes on her tablet. More than once, Tick had fantasized about easing up behind her, sliding his arm around her waist, and leaning in to nuzzle her throat.

  “You sure about that? The other day when we passed her in the mess hall, she called you A27.” Striker’s grin broadened.