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She lifted a hand to access her comm link. “Cleo! We’ve got trouble. An alien—”

Wren shrieked as she was tossed on the ground, and the link was ripped out of her ear. She blinked up into the face of a Gente. His prominent brow ridge was lowered, and there was murder shining in his pale green eyes. He was broadly built, with a bone ridge running from his forehead down to the tip of his nose.

“Your friends can’t help you now.” He stamped on the communicator, wrapped his long, solid fingers around her throat and lifted her.

She choked as her feet left the ground. Please let Striker get here in time. If she could distract this asshat for long enough, it would give Striker the time he needed.

A whirring, clicking sound behind her had her heart sinking.

The Gente growled and slung her into the open hatch on his ship.

He strode in, and the door sealed behind him. “I should kill you. You’re more trouble than you’re worth.” He loomed over her, his legs apart and his hands fisted.

She slammed her foot between his legs, scooting back as he doubled over with a roar of pain. She may not have Striker’s fighting skills, but every alien had a vulnerable spot. When it came to the guys, it was usually between their legs.

Wren jumped up and looked around for a weapon, but there was nothing in the metallic gray corridor that would be useful. She turned and ran. There’d be an escape hatch. If she could find it. If she could get it open and —

Calloused hands grabbed her shoulders and threw her to the ground.

Terror gripped her insides as she slammed against cold metal. She kicked back, not looking at her target. Her foot met a wall of muscle, and she grimaced as her bones protested.

The Gente growled again, grabbed her by the back of her jumpsuit, and punched his fist against an access panel. A door slid open, and he tossed her into the room.

Wren landed on a pile of oil scented rags. She flipped over, dazed and bruised.

He stood in the doorway, a scowl etched on his broad face. “I should let the creatures in my cargo bay have you.” His gaze ran over her, and he rubbed a hand on his groin. “You owe me. I’ll take you myself before I auction you off as payment for the pain you caused. Stay here, keep your mouth shut, and don’t move. If you try anything, I’ll slit your throat and toss you into space.” He punched his hand against the access panel, and the door slid shut.

Wren lay there for a moment, waiting until her thundering heart had slowed enough for her to see straight. There was no way in all the galaxies she was staying here. She stood and straightened her torn jumpsuit.

This Gente had made a mistake by capturing her. No one stopped Wren Tulloch when she was on a mission to find a rare creature.

She had a quick look around the room. It was small, barely any bigger than a storage closet. There were cans of lubricant, more rags, cleaning equipment, and a few repair tools.

She lifted a small wrench. This would do. She pressed her ear against the door and listened for signs of life.

The ship’s engines came to life. Perfect. That would help conceal what she was about to do.

Wren knelt beside the access panel of the control door, prised open the front, and got to work.

***

No fucking way! Striker’s heart felt like it would burst from his chest as he sprinted the last few feet as the Gente ship hovered off the ground.

He wasn’t letting go of Wren. If that ship took off without him on it, it could go anywhere. He would lose her.

He pumped his arms, focused on the back pivot of the ship, and launched off the ground. It helped that the gravity was buoyant on Libran. He slammed against the pivot and locked his arms around it as the ship gained altitude.

Striker shimmied up the long thin pivot arm that led into the bottom of the ship. He just made it inside as the pivots pulled in and the access point sealed.

Rage boiled through him like lava. That dumb giant of a Gente had thrown Wren around like she meant nothing. If he’d been able to get a clear shot, he’d have killed him. But firing his weapon would have risked Wren.

He wriggled on his stomach until he got to the end of the pivot arm. There was a grate in front of him. He levered it open and pushed it out.

Striker poked his head up. There was a short corridor, and no one in it. Lucky him. He pulled himself through, then replaced the grate.

He did a quick check of his surroundings. A door at the end of the corridor must lead to the cockpit, and there were three doors on either side of this corridor.

Wren had to be in one of these rooms.