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“They’re working out what they want to do with us,” Daisy said.

“They could be working out a plan to take it in turns to have their fun,” Eden said.

Cleo sat in a seat by the comms panel. She grimaced and shook her head. “They’re cautious. It makes sense. They won’t get an offer like this too often.”

“Their cocks will make the decision for them.” Sloane stood in the doorway, her arms crossed over her chest. “It’s the way guys always work.”

Wren glanced at Sloane. She’d been quiet since she’d been turned down from joining this mission. It was unlike her. Sloane had a quick wit and an even quicker mouth.

“Most men are ruled by what hangs between their legs,” Cleo said. “That’s why we’re here to keep things on an even keel.”

Wren flushed as she recalled her steamy encounter with Striker in her quarters. She felt guilty about orgasming and running, but this mission had to come first. She’d figure out a way to make it up to him. That was if he was talking to her. Since the decision had been made that the mission was going ahead, he’d kept his distance.

Heavy footsteps thudded in the corridor, and Wren turned. Her heart sailed into her throat. It was Striker. He didn’t look any happier than the last time she’d seen him storm out of the briefing room.

Sloane shifted out of his way, a cocky smile spreading across her face. “He’s checking up on the girls. Making sure we’re not messing up.”

“Any word from the Gente?” Striker’s tone was gruff.

“We’re still waiting,” Cleo said. “It could be hours.”

“They’d be insane not to agree to this.” His gaze cut to Wren, and her breath caught in her throat. He was barely keeping his anger in check.

“It’s the quickest and easiest way to get the animals,” she said.

He shrugged and turned away but remained by the door.

“Listen up, folks. We’ve got a message coming in,” Cleo said.

Wren hurried over. “Is it the Gente?”

“Give me a minute,” Cleo said. “I need to let the translator do its work.”

“The translator is fully operational,” ELVIS said. “The incoming message has been received. Transmitting now.”

“This is the Gente ship, Sulan, responding to the Apocalypse. Your swap is acceptable. However, we have conditions.”

Cleo hissed out air. “Of course they have. Let’s see what these ass wipes are after. Continue the message, ELVIS.”

“We need the profiles of the three females who’ll be exchanged. We must ensure their fertility.”

“Fertility! No fucking way.” Striker stomped over. “They’re not getting their hands on that information.”

Wren touched his arm and felt him stiffen under her hand. “It’s no surprise they want those details. After all, if we give them three infertile females, we’re no use to them.”

“They’ll know who you are,” Striker said. “They’ll have your records. That’s personal information.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Wren said. “They can’t do anything with that information if they don’t actually have me.”

“I don’t like it,” Striker said.

“None of us like it,” Sloane said. “This is how it’s going down. Step back. Let the women do the work. We know how to handle these Gente.”

“Cleo, send them my profile,” Wren said. “We can use my blood as an example of what they’re getting.”

Striker growled and stomped to the door, but he didn’t leave. He hovered like a dangerous predator waiting to strike, his shoulders tight and his hands in fists.

Wren hated that she was causing him pain, but she wouldn’t abandon this mission. “Here, I don’t mind.” She stuck out a hand.