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“Thanks, boss. We’re on it.” Wren grabbed the tablet, grinned at Daisy, then hurried out of the room. She’d spend the evening researching the next target and figuring out the best way to capture it.

“Wait up. I wanted to say thanks.” Striker was right behind her.

She turned toward him. “What for?”

“Saving my ass back there. You should have let me take the fall. After all, you said you didn’t want me as a partner anymore.”

A warmth spread up her chest and onto her cheeks. “I didn’t mean that. I mean, I sort of did at the time, but I was angry. I wanted the mission to be a success.”

He grasped her shoulder and squeezed, making her want to melt against him. She was tired, that was all. She wasn’t lusting after Striker.

“It meant a lot. I know you don’t think much of me, but I was trying to help.”

“It’s fine. Really, let’s drop it. We’ve got a new mission; that’s all I care about. I was worried Cleo would stick me on desk duties. Not that I mind. I mean, I’ve got a ton of slides I want to get through. And—”

He pressed a finger to her lips before grazing his thumb over her chin, sending a lightning bolt of desire through her. “You think too much. You heard Cleo. This is our downtime. And I’ve got a great idea. Why don’t we shower off this toad together?”

There was the Apexian she despised, getting all sleazy and suggestive. She didn’t like the idea of showering with Striker, not one bit. She never thought about being naked with him. She wasn’t interested in his muscles or that full mouth that would do magical things when it roamed over her body.

Wren jerked her head and stepped away. “No, thanks. I’ll see you first thing tomorrow. Don’t be late. I won’t wait for you.” She turned and walked away. She needed order, not chaos. And there was one thing she was certain of. Striker was the very definition of chaos.

Therefore, he wasn’t meant for her.

***

It seemed to take Striker forever to get back to his cabin. The door slid shut behind him, and the lights rose slowly to reveal a basic, sparse room. Minimalism at its best.

He left his dusty, goo-covered boots by the door and padded to the small kitchenette. He grabbed a drink and slumped on the couch.

This wasn’t his home. It was fine as a place to rest his head, but it was nothing more than that. He didn’t share this space with anyone. And the women he let into his bedroom stayed for one night, then he moved them on. It was better all-around for everyone if it stayed that way. No ties made life simple.

He lifted the tablet that contained tomorrow’s mission brief and scanned the files. A sullock. That sounded fun. He looked through a few of the pictures. They were about three feet high, covered in shaggy fur, and had several sets of razor-sharp, venom coated teeth. He wouldn’t make a grab for one of those anytime soon.

He sipped his drink and flipped open the photos file on the tablet.

There were several of his mom, all old. She’d been gone almost thirty years, but he still missed her. Or rather, he missed the memory of her, the memory of what having a mom should be like. His favorite picture flashed up. His mom and older sister with their arms wrapped around each other and cheesy grins on their faces.

Striker swallowed the lump in his throat and looked away. Both gone. Both dead because they’d followed their hearts. His mom died giving birth to him, and his sister died because she fell in love with a scumbag with quick fists and a quicker temper.

He changed files and flicked through images of his former squad. The elite squad. The first place that had felt like a real home. He’d lost contact with so many of them. After what happened, it didn’t seem right to stay in touch. That had been his fault, too.

He dropped the tablet on the couch and closed his eyes. He didn’t have many rules he followed, but he always guarded his heart. It had been punched, stabbed through the middle, and just about destroyed when he’d lost his sister, best friend, and his position on the elite squad in the same year.

If you didn’t love or care about anything, you couldn’t get hurt.

He pressed his fingers into his closed eyes. Never get attached. It was the best rule he’d ever followed. If you screwed up, and he always managed to screw up, only you lived with the mistakes.

An alert pinged outside his door. He sat up. “Who’s that, ELVIS?”

“Rexx is outside,” ELVIS said. “Shall I let him in?”

“Why not?” He stood and stretched his back.

The door slid open. Rexx towered outside, always a looming presence in his head to toe black, which included gloves and a fitted hoodie. It was a sight Striker was used to. They’d worked together for years at different outpost stations. The guy was straight talking, uncomplicated, and happy to drink in silence. He also hated to be touched.

He’d been happy when Rexx got assigned to the protection duty for the Creature Salvage Service. He never spoke about why he’d left the elite squad, but Rexx rarely spoke at all, so it wasn’t so weird.

“Hey, you up for training?” Rexx remained outside the door.