Alien Warlords' Heir: SciFi Menage Surprise Baby Romance (Warlords of Octava Book 2)

by Vi Voxley

  The bonds are supposed to symbolize everlasting love and now they're basically just genetic compatibility tests.

  "They're amazing," Isabel finally breathed, ripping Dana out of her musings.

  The conversation had moved on without her.

  And amazing wasn't the word she would have used.

  She felt sorry for the Gargons, in a way, for needing to ship women in from other worlds to see if they could find their true match there. It was tragic, no doubt about it. Dana just didn't want any part in it herself. There were many women with many different stories aboard the Sanguine. She didn't think it was a coincidence that none of them shared a past with her.

  Lioness mothers didn't tend to seek out Gargons and their obsession with reproducing, as much of a temptation as the promise of eternal love was. It cheapened everything they believed in and loved.

  "I hope you find the one for you," Dana said truthfully, seeing the way Isabel's eyes shone like stars. "I really do."

  "Imagine that," the girl said, even if Dana already sensed the first tingling breath of fear, leaning back on the couch. "Imagine if I did."

  Isabel's eyes were distant all at once, looking forward towards something she couldn't even imagine. Dana didn't know what she was seeing, but she did see the effect it had on her friend. The soft smile on her lips was the sincerest emotion from her yet.

  "Love like that," Isabel whispered, the cocktail glass frozen in the air. "No more questions, no more doubt. Isn't that what every woman wants? To know. To know that's the guy for you. And with Gargons, there is no distortion between the compatibility and physical attractiveness either. Those guys are built like goddamn tanks. I–"

  She looked at Dana and for a moment, the mood in their tiny little world was frightened. Isabel’s expression wavered with uncertainty.

  "I'm beginning to see what you mean, Dana," Isabel went on. "To dangle such a dream in front of us, only to snatch it away in the next. It's cruel. Thank the gods for forget-it-alls."

  "Indeed," Dana said, toasting to that, the only known cure for the trip back to Terra.

  The Sanguine kept a big stock of the pills locked safely away until they were needed.

  "You know," Rebecca cut in, thoughtful like Isabel, always a mirror image. "I never asked. Why is it that Terran girls have more success than others? I mean, sure, I think I'm pretty cool and so are you..."

  There was laughter that reminded Dana once more that human beings were a wondrously optimistic breed. Even if they were staring the probability of getting their hearts broken in the eye, they could find humor in life.

  "Still, why?" Rebecca asked. "Do you know, Dana?"

  She did. Of course she did. She had to. With a sigh, and after a sip of her wine, she explained.

  "Genetically speaking, we are a compatible match. Terrans and Gargons make great babies together," she said, pouring herself more wine.

  Dana thought she’d given up on wondering if there was a fairytale ending for her out there somewhere, but apparently she hadn’t. The thought popped into her mind far too easily.

  She had to believe there was. It was why she'd decided that it would be her last trip with the Sanguine. Watching others’ dreams get dashed was doing nothing for her faith in there being something better out there.

  Perhaps that was why she was being so emotional about it all. She loved her job. She just didn't see a way to be happy for herself, doing what she did. After they returned to Terra, the arrangements had been made to give her a new life.

  A ship to take her and Sean to a nice little world near the center of the Alliance yet as far from Terra as possible. The safest place they could be, if the Iron League ever attacked. Worlds away from the boy's piece of shit father, excuse her French.

  Her very own silver lining, a shining ray of hope.

  For there sure as hell wasn't a place for her on Octava.

  "Now, a toast," she said, putting a smile on her face. "To all our dreams coming true."

  2

  Havoc

  The Terran ship was coming. There was no changing it.

  Time and time again, it ripped open the wound in the warlord's heart. Havoc didn't resent other men for flocking to meet the females, yet he couldn't deny that every time the Sanguine drew near, he made himself busy at some other part of Octava.

  It had been noticed, of course. Mostly by the only man Havoc begrudgingly respected, although the feeling was often tainted by wanting to rip the rival warlord's throat out. He'd attempted it on several occasions and Chase had been vigorous in trying to reply with the same.

  Neither of them had succeeded yet, although not for lack of trying.

  Their friendship was odd, suffice it to say.

  He and Chase had trained together, which was natural for Gargon warriors of the same age. From there, they'd quickly become bitter enemies as it often happened with Gargon warriors who were considerably better than anyone else.

  Now, looking at Chase walking around in his villa like he was at home, Havoc couldn't help wondering how all of this had come to be.

  The answer was simple. When you were as powerful and feared as they were, people tended to treat them differently. With respect, with fear, with adoration and disgust. It was very lonely at the top of the world and Havoc hadn't really been surprised when he realized the only one who understood him was the one man he despised more than anyone else.

  Chase turned to him, a perpetual shit-eating grin on his face.

  "You have to come, old boy," the warlord said, the blue and golden tattoos on his tanned face gaining a ghastly glow under the lights of Havoc's weapons room. "Rotting away here, in your villa, it does no one any good. You need to let Hannah go."

  It had taken Chase a whopping five seconds to bring up his tragically lost fated. It seemed he really wanted his throat slit.

  "You hated Hannah," Havoc pointed out dryly, glancing at him over the edge of the gigantic double-bladed sword he was polishing. "Why would you want me to find a new female?"

  Chase shrugged, a mischievous light burning in his deep sapphire-and-gold eyes, matching the tattoos on his skin. Chase couldn’t look unthreatening or easygoing if he tried. Havoc eyed the long sniper rifle on his friend's back, knowing he was deadlier with the gun than anyone else alive, on Octava or not. The two short blades sheathed in leather pockets on Chase's thighs weren't toys either.

  Two weapon specialties – blue ink for precision and golden for ranged artillery – were rare. Chase happened to be a master of them both. Their doubtful friendship would end the day one of them got in the other's way.

  "Hannah was a bump in the road," Chase said flatly, unable to resist taking a cheap shot like the bastard that he was. "You–"

  His words were cut short by Havoc's blade flying through the air, embedding itself into the wall an inch from Chase's face. The other warlord didn't even blink and if anything, the grin was even wider on his lips now. The rifle was firmly in Chase's hands by the time the blade had cut into the plaster, supported on the mount on the shoulder of his black, flexible armor.

  "Watch yourself, boy," Havoc growled. "The next one will not miss."

  Havoc hadn't seen him draw the gun. On the other hand, if Chase had seen him throw the blade, he'd have ducked or at least stepped out of the way.

  They were both too skilled to be fun like that. Chase's blue and gold, marking him as a marksman and a close combat agility fighter was matched evenly by Havoc's dark red for pure strength and power. It had never crossed his mind to be jealous of Chase's two skills. He had one and it was as raw and brutal as close combat got, and he was the best.

  The ink on his skin ran deep. When he bled, no one could tell the difference, yet Havoc himself was sure his blood was more ink than blood at that point.

  "You are way too temperamental to be so moody," Chase finished, lowering the rifle and sheathing it again. "And now you're out of a weapon. Don't spoil my fun like this."

  "Spare me," Havoc growled, settling
into their usual game despite himself. "There are twenty-six objects in this room I could kill you with before you draw that fancy gun of yours again. This is my weapons room. Don't insult me."

  Chase bristled only for a second, before pacing around again like a predator who has been denied the trail of prey for too long. Hungry, impatient.

  "I was saying about Hannah, so what if I thought she was–"

  "Never talk of her again," Havoc cut in, his deep voice etched with emotion, retrieving his sword and returning to the task of cleaning it. "I mean it, Chase. I've tolerated you for a long time. It doesn't mean that I must continue doing so. You will not utter foul words of my fated."

  The other warlord snorted. If Gargons rolled their eyes, he would have.

  "You're getting sentimental again, Havoc," he said, not even noticing the glare he was receiving. "This is exactly my point. Hannah – stop it – whatever she was, and I think she was a coward, is gone. That's a fact. She left you with nothing but heartache. Also a fact."

  Havoc said nothing. For one, because it was the truth.

  For two, because the wound had never really healed.

  Gargon warriors didn't have nightmares, at least that was the theory. Yet even a year after Hannah's funeral, the warlord sometimes woke up in the middle of the night, the vision of blood still before his eyes. Hannah's hand growing weaker and colder in his and the heartbeat of the child within her faded with her.

  Both of them had died that night. And Havoc had watched, helpless.

  Now Chase was asking him to risk that he'd do the same to another innocent woman.

  "I'm not going to the festival," Havoc said firmly, focusing on the sword again.

  Chase sighed, being every bit as melodramatic as he accused him of being. In the end, the other warlord did something Havoc hadn't actually expected. He crouched down beside him and looked at him, seriously for a change.

  "Now," Chase said. "I'm going to talk to you like the man I assume you still are."

  "Careful," Havoc warned. "My colors are the ones of blood. I could strangle the life out of you right here and there would be nothing you could do about it."

  Chase gave him a hard look. Underneath it, Havoc noticed a hint of uncertainty, the driving force of their perilous friendship. The only ones on Octava who couldn't be sure which one of them would win if they ever went head to head, neither of them was eager to take a step too far. It made for a curious balancing act.

  Havoc was a giant in his own right. His wide shoulders housed massive strength, enough to push a fighter plane in front of him.

  His black armor was custom made to fit him, fashioned in the same way all Gargon armors were. The leathery material was deceptive, much stronger than it looked, although it couldn't protect them from a full-on blast of a plasma cannon. His, in addition, also had metal plates to boost his already considerable frame.

  They called his warrior kind tanks, but Havoc was a tank. He'd crashed through walls and enemies and everything else that stood in his way. The first Terrans he'd met in the aftermath of a battle with the Iron League compared him to some mystical creature called the devil, coming towards them through dust and smoke, his dark red eyes burning.

  In comparison, Chase was tall and lean like most snipers, crafted to move with speed and precision. He was fast, Havoc had seen it on the battlefields many times. Damnably fast. Any one of their easy boasts could come to life. So far, they hadn't tested the theories.

  "Be a man, then," Chase said, anger now building in him as easily as ever. "You're still young."

  "I'm a year older than you," Havoc noted.

  That finally made the trickster appear again, the grin returning with a vengeance.

  "Exactly. So why, at a time when our people need strong warriors, are you choosing to end your line? Not just that, but you've buried yourself here. A warrior needs fire to fight. There is none in you."

  Havoc considered that, if begrudgingly.

  "I think you almost complimented me," he pointed out.

  Chase stood again, taking a step back and staring at him, a judging look in his eyes.

  "Enjoy it. I only give one a year."

  Havoc didn't reply at once. His eyes were fixed on an object at the far corner of the weapons room, darkness covering it entirely. He didn't need to see to remember every detail of it, given he'd forged the small blade himself.

  A gift to Hannah. Her laughter rang in his ears as he remembered her being delighted that a Gargon warrior would teach her to fight.

  He wasn't sure why he had kept it. The blade was way too small for a warrior, barely a knife for him. And the memories attached to it were as bloody as his nightmares had been.

  Chase followed his line of sight. When he went for the memento, Havoc nearly grabbed for another blade to fling at the man. He didn't. If the day came when he and Chase dueled it out, they'd be facing each other.

  He let Chase pick up the blade, ridiculously small in the warlord's hands.

  "You need to throw this away," Chase said then.

  "No."

  "You're keeping her alive. This is what I was saying. She's gone. You are alive, yet you’re pretending like you died with her."

  That was true, of course. Havoc had been feeling guilty for not visiting the festival, for exactly the same arguments Chase was making. It was eerie to hear them from his mouth, though. It almost sounded like he cared.

  He still couldn't shake the feeling that if he went, it would be akin to cheating. Everything that was supposed to come was something that had already happened.

  Seeing Hannah, her red hair flying in the afternoon breeze, matching his eyes. The sense of wonder he felt when he saw her and the incomparable joy when she'd noticed him, too. The smile on her lips.

  The pool of blood around her when Havoc finally let go of her hand. The small blade on the floor beside the bed.

  The feeling of being whole that she'd brought, even if only for a short while. It had been... everything. And then it had been taken away from him, no matter how strong or powerful he was. He couldn’t change it.

  How possible could it be that a man like him would find a Terran bride twice? In his mind, it was impossible.

  There would be no harm in going when Havoc firmly believed that Hannah had been his first and last match. The fated bonds didn't bloom to life between broken people that often. They were too sacred, too valuable to be wasted like that.

  If only to get Chase to stop talking about it… Havoc mused to himself.

  He'd prove exactly that to Chase, show that people who didn't want the bonds, or who had wasted theirs, didn't get the bonds. As it should have been.

  "I will go," he said roughly.

  Chase beamed, clapping his hands together. To his credit, he only looked a little surprised.

  "Great! Now we're talking. Where do you–"

  "To the tournament," Havoc finished.

  The smile died on Chase's face as he reverted back to frowning. It worked well for him, the long black strands of his hair framing the flaring golden blue eyes.

  Hannah had preferred Havoc bald, saying his enemies would think him more fearsome that way. He'd never changed it. He'd never changed many things.

  "The tournament is for Gargons," Chase said tiredly. "Terran females don't come here looking for blood and brawls. They won't come there."

  "Some do," Havoc said, getting back to his sword. "I'll see you there. We should duel."

  That challenge made Chase's eyes shine for a moment, the thought of war always guaranteed to put him in a great mood.

  Then he shook his head again.

  "That's not a way to meet a bride."

  "I'm not trying to meet one," Havoc shot back and this time, there was a warning sign in his deep voice. "I'm going to be there. If it's meant to be, she'll be there. That is what you asked. That is all I will give you."

  Chase glowered once more.

  "You are the most stubborn man alive. What would you offer a female when
all you do is dwell on the last one? She's going to drown in all the sorrow you heap upon her," he asked.

  "You're one to talk," Havoc said calmly, not raising his eyes to him. "What will you offer a female when there's no depth to you at all?"

  The long silence that followed was alarming enough that Havoc looked up. Chase was regarding him with his mouth pressed into a thin line. The fury that was never far beneath the surface with him was bubbling up, ready to be released.

  Havoc's grip around the handle of his sword tightened. He prepared himself for the eventuality he'd finally pushed Chase too far.

  Then the moment passed and Chase was who he'd always been. He didn't comment on the jab, choosing to walk away.

  "I'll see you at the tournament," the warlord called as his steps descended into the distance.

  With a frown, Havoc watched him go.

  He gave it a moment of thought. He knew in his heart the taunt he'd made had been unfair. There was plenty of character to Chase. Just, for how little he showed of it, there might as well have been nothing.

  He continued working on the sword, now needing to make sure it was ready for the tournament. In his mind, Havoc was already making plans to leave Octava the next time the Terran ship arrived.

  The Iron League was stirring again. That wasn't even a bad excuse to be absent from the festivities. It was a concern even Chase shared. Very soon, there might be war.

  All the more reason not to start a new relationship.

  He'd already gone through it once. He wasn't prepared to risk everything again, even if it meant staying alone and leaving his potential fated without a match.

  That, too, would be the will of fate.

  3

  Chase

  Chase arrived at the binding festival in a worse mood than he'd expected. Havoc truly was the most irritating man alive.

  At least Chase had a duel upcoming with him. There, he'd be free to beat the foolishness out of the other warlord.

  The moment he actually saw the Terran females, Chase's annoyance washed away like it had never been there to begin with. There was no reason for him to be troubled for anyone else, not when his own fated might be walking around in Octava's capital city, Taria, right now.