Rescued By Tordin: Olodian Alien Warrior Romance

BOOK: Rescued By Tordin: Olodian Alien Warrior Romance
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Rescued By Tordin
Olodian Alien Warrior Romance
Mychal Daniels
Wise Mind Media

C
opyright
© 2015 by Mychal Daniels for Wise Mind Media

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Edited by Stylusink

Cover design and artwork by Pixelstudio

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Summary

I
ntelligent and focused
, Kyra Simmons has her eye on the prize. She’s locked her sights on becoming the top technical engineer for the most prestigious space program back on Earth. That is, until her life and plans are turned upside down in an instant on board a maintenance Space Station.

Stranded on the now failing Space station, Kyra needs a miracle to survive. She has no idea that the ‘foreign’ astronauts who show up to rescue her are out of this world—literally.

Lord Tordin, Crown Prince of Olodia, knows he’s outside of the mandates of the Intergalactic Alliance when he intercedes to rescue the survivors of the Earth space station. But there’s something or someone pulling him in.

He’s not prepared for what he finds in the unassuming Earth female. Try as he might to stay away, the pull grows stronger and stronger to be with her. His mission depends on his ability to stay focused and be prepared but that’s almost impossible with Kyra in his thoughts and dreams.

On the alien mother ship speeding away from Earth forever, Kyra’s biggest problem is not getting back to Earth; it’s how not to fall for this alien Warrior Lord who’s the actual man of her dreams.

Can she find a way to realize her dreams of power and recognition now that she’s been rescued by Tordin?

Prologue


C
ome in Jalek
,” he said, eyeing the warrior who reminded him a little too much of himself at that age. “What is it?”

“Sire, the bridge asked if I would transport this to you. It appears to be something Malm didn’t want the others to see.”

He stood to cross the expanse of the large personal work chamber. Jalek handed the antiquated package to him and turned to leave.

“Hold, Jalek. I may have a response for Malm, and I have not excused you yet. You forget yourself, young one. Your duty is to anticipate what your commander wants and to execute what your post entails. Are you not the lead protocol officer?”

Jalek looked away ever so slightly to hide the hint of embarrassment that etched his face. “Yes, you are correct, Sire. I believe it is the surge making me so out of sorts. Thank you for the correction. I humble myself to await your direction,” he said, giving Tordin a look that pleaded for understanding.

“Okay. I remember when I went through that, but you have to pay more attention to your surroundings and think of what to expect. You have to anticipate to become a well-rounded warrior. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Sire, thank you for the wisdom, Sire,” the young warrior said.

“Now you may leave. I’ll send for you once I have my reply ready for Malm. And Jalek, go to the Healing Section to get an application for that. I don’t want you hurting someone by accident.”

Tordin watched Jalek leave and remembered how crazy his surge had made him. When men turned into full-on adults, the urge to mate with females came on strong, making even the most docile of them aggressive, forgetful and even combative. Jalek was a good warrior, and Tordin believed the young male could become a great one with a little guidance and mentoring.

He focused his attention back on the primitive form of communication Malm had sent. It was a sealed, handwritten note and looked to be some sort of plans and command. When he opened it, his father’s scrawl stretched across the page with a mission. Tordin had known it was too good to be true. For eight cycles, he’d been able to go where he pleased, and he’d decided to go to the other edge of the small galaxy, where the Terrain lived.

He loved to position his fleet there for rest and to grab snatches of the Terrain’s communications to learn what they were up to. His warriors loved learning how the small, lone, blue planet’s inhabitants were learning to space travel. It looked more than anything else like babies learning to walk and was a delight to see. They weren’t able to travel out of their own solar system yet, but at least they were venturing off their surface.

He enjoyed catching up on the latest tongues of the various lands and delighting in how they entertained themselves. It was amazing how they fixated on outward appearance, power and ability instead of character, honor and calling. Anyone with ability in the least bit different or enhanced, they revered and almost worshipped. That was why he was parked outside their galaxy—he was hiding. The Terrain didn’t know they were not alone. He’d cause an avalanche of trouble if his presence was discovered.

The piece of heavy parchment in his hands reminded him that his father had sent a mission, which could cut this little vacation short. He read the words and grunted with displeasure.

He should have known.

It had something to do with his older brother, Cordin. Would the Goddess ever deliver him from having to be his brother’s keeper? Cordin was always into some sort of trouble or scheme. Tordin was growing tired of it.

Instead of being the Warrior Lord of his father’s realm, which was a galaxy three times larger than the one he sat on the edge of now, his recent work had deteriorated into becoming his father’s personal police to find and catch Cordin before he did something that would cause too much trouble. Cordin took being the Emperor’s son to levels of entitlement Tordin could never conceive of, and he was tired of cleaning up after him. But this was his duty and honor, to protect the realm and his father’s throne. A throne that Cordin was obsessed with.

He might as well get this over with. He pulled up the visual communicator to speak with his father, the Emperor, on the secure channel code he’d sent via the written note.

“Yes father, I received the note. What has Cordin been up to now?” he asked, knowing his father would give him a long list of reasons why he should go help his brother.

“Oh, my dear son. He’s determined to ruin the family. Cordin is on his way to Nenndi to try and stop a war that just broke out. I don’t have to tell you what could happen if he’s there by himself for long.”

Tordin was well aware of the havoc his brother could get into. He would go only to spare those poor people of Cordin’s sadistic ways, if nothing else. Not to mention how pivotal Nenndi was to the harmony of the galaxy. It was one of the smallest planets in their galaxy, but it was rich with resources that the others depended on.

“Yes, I see the dilemma. What is the mission, father?” he asked, knowing it was honor that drove him to override his desire for peace and, for once, his desire to do what he wanted to. He listened as his father laid out the mission.

“I need you to try to get there as fast as possible, if not before Cordin. He told me only this cycle after he’d taken a small battle ship. I have attempted to contact the ship but cannot get an answer. He’s purposely blocking me, and the warriors on board probably have no idea I have not approved this mission.”

“Do you want me to intercept the ship or make it to the planet? I need to know so I can get my coordinates and get started.”

“Get to the planet. Once on the surface, you’ll be able to handle him. In that battleship, there’s no telling what he might do. If he were to fire on you, I don’t know what I’d do. I worry when you are on these missions. I always want you to be safe, but your brother seems to have a death wish, with all the dangerous things he does.”

“Father, don’t get yourself worked up over him like this. I need you to let me know what you want me to do. Give me all the information you do have, and I’ll take it from there.”

After Tordin managed to get the Emperor to give him the requested information and a mission to get to the planet and offer assistance, he hung up. This was getting old very fast. Maybe it was time for him to start looking for a mate on one of these missions, to settle down and let his brother blow himself up with one of his schemes.

“No, that would never happen. Father would worry until I gave in and went to bring him back.”

Tordin pulled out his tablet with all the fleet’s resources, levels and energy. He worked up a plan to get to Nenndi by taking the closest hyper sling. With any success, he’d get there a cycle or two before Cordin, if Cordin had just left their home planet of Olodia this cycle, as his father hoped.

Tordin had just finished posting the mission in his commander’s log and given Malm, his second, access to it when Malm contacted him through his vo-link.

“Yes, Malm, what is it?”

“Sire, there is a distress call coming through on an unauthorized frequency.”

“Why are you contacting me then? You know we can only answer calls on the IGA frequency.”

“I know, Sire, but it’s coming from a Terrain vessel close to that planet’s atmosphere. It sounds like they are in real need of help. I wanted to let you know, since it has been broadcasting and none of their agencies have answered.”

A strange tug pulled at him from deep within. It was subtle, but he felt it. It wasn’t hunger-related but gave him pause.

Maybe he’d have Malm investigate to make sure the Terrain would be okay. He needed to get their fleet moving to get to Nenndi.

“Malm, do a quick scan to see if you can gather more information about the call.”

“Sire, I already did, and it is not good. It is a large stationary vessel with quite a few Terrain on board. They are reporting vessel failure, and no one has responded to their call.

“Okay, we’ll check it out from afar. Set a course for their location. Cloak us and let the other ships of the fleet know not to follow. We’ll assess their damage, and if there is a way to help without discovery, we’ll assist. When we’re done, we’ll return here to meet up with the others and then off to a new mission I just received from the Emperor.”

“Okay, Sire. You have a new mission now?”

“Yes. I’ve given you access to my commander’s log, so you can take a look and get the bridge ready to proceed. We’ll take the closest hyper sling to get to Nenndi.”

“Nenndi? What’s happening there? That’s on the outer reaches of the galaxy.”

“Yes, but it has a very big problem heading its way—my brother.”

“Oh, I see. Okay, I will check the log and get on it. I’ve set a course toward the distress call and will let you know when we are within visual reach of it so you can observe and give your orders.”

“Thank you, Malm. I hope their own will respond before we get there to help.”

“Yes. I hope so, too. I will send a notification when we are within visual distance. Is there anything else you require, Sire?”

And this was one of the reasons Malm was Tordin’s second. He’d already gotten the information from the distress call, set a course as they spoke and didn’t forget to ask if his commander needed anything else. Malm was a superior warrior, and Tordin appreciated his service as well as his friendship.

“No, not at this time. Let us hope we don’t have to rescue any Terrain today. That could turn into a delicate situation fast. Thank you, Malm, and I’ll wait to hear when you have a visual.”

1

K
yra’s body
instantly responded in a smooth twirl, a 180-degree pivot.

“You know, violence in the morning makes me happy—especially when it’s directed at you!”

The mug she’d held shot through the air with a release of gusto that had been pent up for far too long. She knew she shouldn’t have said or done it the instant the mug of hot coffee connected with the lead technical analyst’s chest. But it felt cathartic, like a huge weight was lifted.

She was rewarded with the look of shock and disorientation that flittered across his face. The impact of the mug as the liquid made contact with his body was the weapon she needed to let him know she meant business. The fact that some of it managed to ricochet back onto her hand and arm had little effect on her highly stimulated fight response. He was moving away from her personal space, and that was the ultimate goal.

Thankfully, none of the various consoles’ delicate electrical components were affected. Nope. The only casualty was the last precious cup of her delicious, hot morning coffee. Brewed from her own specialty blend from home, the last of it was now splattered down the front of her boss’ body.

Such a waste of great coffee.

“You fat, ugly bitch! How dare you throw a missile of coffee at me?” He looked around frantically for something to sop up the dark brown liquid that had drenched the front of his too-tight, work-issued, button-down shirt and khaki pants.

They were alone in the space station’s operations room, and he’d taken advantage of that fact once again.

“I was defending myself from you, Brantley,” she said, not caring whether the coffee burned him or not.

As he frantically rubbed at the stain on his shirt with a dust repellant cloth used for the equipment, he had the nerve to say, “You attacked me for no good reason. This is insubordination.” The movements seemed to exert him as he began to huff and puff in exasperation.

She had no instinct or compulsion to help him. Instead, she stepped back from the broken mug on the floor and watched. She would later recount that moment as either her boldest heroic feat or her greatest act of stupidity for not walking away from the jerk. She concentrated on hiding her disgust at the swirls of long, dark belly hair trying to creep out of the now coffee-stained white shirt he wore.

Why was he so…nasty?
Would it kill him to put on an undershirt like most civilized men?

Too many times she’d seen this same nightmare-inducing sight. She suspected a glandular problem, because at the end of his shift, his shirt was usually drenched with sweat and clinging to his doughy body. The swirling belly hair, looking like a parasite trying to emerge from his tight shirt, would always freak her out. And she wouldn’t dare think about all the weird designs his back hair created under the sweaty shirt.

Gross
! She shuddered at the thought. Worse, he had the nerve to try to rub up against her butt all the time.

Kyra hated the fact that he always managed to have her work the same shifts he did. When she’d asked about moving to another one to get away from him, he replied that she was the junior analyst and would always have to work the same shift as the supervising manager—him. It had been a little over twenty-three months of this tyranny, and she’d snapped.

Yes, she’d had it.

Twenty-eight minutes into her morning shift, and he’d already managed to sidle up and rub himself against her backside. She was bent over a console checking temperatures, climate composition and the gravity regulators when he’d done it. All her muscles instinctively stiffened as she felt the hardness of his little penis wedged between her butt cheeks.

She hated their uniforms. Why couldn’t they wear the more informal shirts that looked like the classic golf shirts of old and the more flattering utility slacks, like other departments? No, she had to wear men’s white button-down shirts that only managed to gap across her ample chest when she didn’t have safety pins to doubly secure the spaces between the buttons.

Those hideous, stiff, men’s khaki pants never managed to accommodate her trifecta of womanly designation—large hips, butt and thighs that were out of proportion with her waist. The effect was a perpetual gap in the back of her pants that belts couldn’t always fix. To remedy as much of the distortion as possible, she wore pants that were a few sizes too big. It was either that or run the risk of the fabric stretching for dear life across her thighs and butt. She always managed to feel like she’d dressed in a white and tan blob of demoralizing designation reserved for the invisible and unattractive of society.

Kyra had no doubt that it was Brantley who chose the atypical set of uniforms the station’s operations staff wore. He was stuck in a bygone fashion era, based on a corporate world that no longer existed. The pleas of the staff to change the uniforms always met with his same tired reply. “We are the backbone of this station, and we will set ourselves apart as such.”

The sad fact was that he was delusional and thought he looked professional. His big stomach and flat butt made his pants sag. He looked like a damned fool. They might have been glorified custodians of the space station, but they didn’t have to dress like janitors!

Kyra was the only female on the crew of seventeen, and the uniforms were cut to fit a man’s body—not her very curvy one. To make herself feel like the woman she was and to have something that fit her body in a more flattering way, she’d decided to wear approved uniform khaki skirts. She’d wear them from time to time to mix it up and to remind herself that she didn’t have to look like a thrown-away hobo. Her only consolation this morning was that she’d worn the unflattering pants instead of one of her skirts, which somehow offered her the feeling of a little more protection.

This time, Brantley had gone too far. He’d actually wiggled himself against her. There was no mistaking it. All the diplomacy she’d managed to exercise for almost two years flew out the room with that act of blatant disrespect.

Before she knew what was happening, she’d swung around and thrown her coffee mug at him. It didn’t matter that she’d just filled it with hot coffee. It served him right for sexually harassing her once again.

Kyra dreamed of becoming the space program’s top technical engineer, and this post was her first step. She’d worked hard, earning a master’s degree in applied technical engineering from MIT, and she took this position instead of going on to get a PhD. At the time, it seemed like the best way to get into the program on the surface, forgoing additional schooling to get field training here. These positions were coveted, and she’d jumped at the chance to join the space station, even happy to start as a junior analyst. But almost two years of dealing with this toad with no promotion in sight was not worth it. She’d had it. This was proving to be the dead-end, thankless job she feared she’d get trapped in. Brantley was never going to promote her. She knew that now. He couldn’t teach her anything; none of them could. She was here, doing her own thing and learning by trial and error. He just wanted her around as dependable labor and an object to feel on and get his rocks off.

“Brantley, I warned you. I told you if you tried to rub your little, shriveled, gherkin-pickle dick against me one more time, I’d make you regret it.”

“You think too much of yourself. I was just trying to get by when you stuck your fat ass out. No one…” He looked around to see if anyone else was around to hear what he was about to say and repeated it more slowly. “No one is going to believe that I would ever attempt to sexually harass you. It’s not like you’re a looker like your doctor friend. Why would I risk my job over your sub-par ass? I still don’t know how you passed the physical or weight requirement to be up here in the first place.”

“Ha! You’re one to talk, Jabba the Nut!”

“Oh, okay, so now you’re really making this too easy. You attacked me unprovoked, and now you’re hurling insults at me? Kyra, I’d say you are creating a hostile work environment, and I can’t have that on my team. You’re fired!”

“What? You can’t fire me. I’m the one forced to work with you. You’re the hostility in this trap!”

He turned, ignoring her as he snatched the station intra-connected communicator up to speak. Kyra couldn’t believe how calm she was. It was as if she didn’t care anymore. Anything was better than having to work day in and day out with this loser.

Brantley’s rushed voice filled the room as he connected with his intended party.

“Security? Yes, this is Brantley Mitzen, Head of Operations, and I need an escort to remove an ex-employee from this secured space.” He glared at her as he emphasized ‘ex’.

“You’re calling security on me? You have lost your mind. Duh. We’re on a space station. Where am I going to go?”

At that, he turned back to her with a smirk for the ages. “I’m going to have you confined to your quarters until transport back to the surface can be arranged.” He covered the receiver with a hand and continued, “You messed up, Kyra. You didn’t play the game very well—you shouldn’t have denied me. You didn’t have the options you must have thought you had. I was the only one showing you any interest, and you managed to blow even that. Or should I say, you didn’t blow it in a way that could help you advance.” He glanced up and down her body in a way that made her skin crawl with the ickiness of it. Still not content to give it a rest, he added, “Now you’ll rot in your rooms until I can get your ass kicked off this station. You messed up, and now you’re fired.”

He was mental. How could he think she’d be willing to put up with that kind of behavior from him? But now was not the time to show weakness. He’d only make her more miserable if he knew he could get on her nerves.

She mustered up all her strength, put on an impenetrable face of resolve and said, “Fine. I don’t want to be in the same vicinity as you any longer than I have to, anyway.”

Soon the doors to the area slid open, and five large security personnel filled the room. The one in charge looked from Kyra to Brantley and asked, “Is this the perpetrator?” She watched him as he seemed to appraise the coffee-drenched and highly agitated Brantley.

Brantley took the opportunity to launch into an Academy Award-worthy tirade. “Yes, she attacked me and threw hot coffee on me, unprovoked.”

She didn’t miss the quick look of triumph that slithered through Brantley’s dull, poop-colored eyes. The bastard.

Hearing that, the head of security instructed the others, “Secure the perpetrator.”

Oh hell, he called me a perpetrator—twice. This can’t be good
. She immediately braced for rough handling but was instead surrounded and led back to her quarters—to sit and wait.

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