Reckless (Interstellar Brides Program: Primal Mates #3)

Chapter 1

Lady Lyra of Atlan, Operative, Coalition Fleet Intelligence Core, Earth

I shouldn’t be watching him. I should have taken my data scans and moved on.

Left the building, and this human male, far behind.

Except, the other humans had arrived, interrupting my investigation.

I had been unable to take the samples I needed from the dead Silver Scion’s body. Irritating, clueless humans.

I should already be out there hunting. Scanning the grounds for unique energy signatures.

Uploading data to Core Command for analysis.

Following the trail. I should be doing my job.

The dead man wasn’t just another human casualty—he was a Silver Scion, his body integrated with Hive tech.

A cyborg. My last good lead. Tracking down whoever killed him should be my top priority. My only priority.

The victim’s corpse would be easy enough to track down later. I didn’t need to be here, watching them flounder around, clueless. The humans were very predictable with their policies and procedures. Every moment I delayed gave the evil ones I hunted a head start. I really should go. Now.

Turning away, I took one step. Two.

Sweat broke out on my brow. My heart thundered in my chest like it was about to explode.

Pain pierced through my skull like I’d been struck with a dagger.

Third step…my foot refused to leave the ground as if my boots were fused to the concrete.

My spine arched and a shout of protest nearly escaped me.

Not my shout. Hers.

No. No. No. I did not have a beast. I was a female, not a male. I was no Warlord. The new, unexpected, feral voice inside me was just my imagination. Didn’t exist. Right? All in my gods damned head?

So why couldn’t I leave this place? The instant I even pictured myself turning away from him, something in me snapped taut.

My muscles locked, breath hitching as if the very air refused to move without him.

Heat and panic surged through my chest, an animal-sharp instinct that drove me to stay rooted where I was.

Every part of my body rebelled against the idea of walking away.

My reaction was violent, visceral, as if some unseen force gripped my spine and dragged me back toward him.

I didn’t just think I couldn’t leave; I felt it pulsing through every nerve, undeniable and all-consuming.

My reaction to him didn’t make sense. I turned my head away and forced my eyes to close. Stop looking. This is just an anomaly. It will go away.

I heard him move and my willpower vanished. I opened my eyes so I could watch him. Obsessed. With a human male. Gods help me.

The humans didn’t see me. They couldn’t—not with the invisibility field of my suit shimmering around me, the special frequencies the armor emitted bending light and sound until I was nothing more than a whisper in the shadows.

To their untrained eyes, I didn’t exist. I was merely a phantom in their midst.

And yet, he looked straight at me. The human detective crouched beside the body, his hazel gaze sweeping the room. Searching. Hunting.

Homicide Detective Ethan Blake, Miami, FL

The silence pressed in like a living thing, thick and unnatural, strangling the usual sounds of a crime scene.

No whispers, no shuffling feet, just the hum of the industrial lights above and the faint metallic groans of abandoned machinery fighting to exist without their masters.

There were no distant murmurs of onlookers or reporters being held back by the officers on the outside of yellow tape.

The stillness seeped into my bones like something else. Something…wrong. A predator lurking in the shadows. Watching. Waiting.

I ignored the churning in my gut and tried to focus on the task at hand.

The abandoned, industrial warehouse reeked of rust, mold and decay.

The humid night air carried the acrid sting of burned flesh, scorched hair, and blackened concrete.

I crouched beside the victim’s body. The chill crawling up my spine had nothing to do with the crime scene or the corpse. I’d seen far worse.

No, the feeling that made my hair stand on end had nothing to do with what I was seeing and everything to do with what I was feeling. Like we were being watched. Hunted. Like whoever, or whatever, had done this had stuck around to enjoy the circus.

The body lay sprawled on the concrete, pale and lifeless.

The poor man had been drained of whatever spark had once animated him.

I crouched beside him, the gritty floor biting into my knees through the heavy denim of my jeans and peeled back the tarp that someone had hastily draped over him when forensics had finished.

“Sorry I’m late. Traffic was a nightmare.” I apologized to everyone in the room. The Coroner was here, waiting on me. I’d been on the other side of the city when the call came in. Took me twice as long as it should have to get here.

“No problem. Just arrived a few minutes ago myself. Forensics just finished up, anyway.” Kevin Jenkins’s clipped voice came from behind me, tight with something he wouldn’t say out loud.

I didn’t look at him. Whatever my partner was going to tell me wasn’t good, and I didn’t want his words to cloud my mind or steer me down a predetermined path.

I didn’t want to miss anything. He could fill me in on whatever bullshit was going on when I was done with my inspection.

My gloves stretched taut across my knuckles as I pulled the tarp completely off the dead man.

Grimaced. The victim was white, male, early thirties.

Big fucking guy. Linebacker big. Civilian clothes.

Boots worn smooth at the soles, jeans with grease stains at the knees, a gray-blue T-shirt faded to the point that whatever logo had once graced the front was unrecognizable.

He could’ve been anyone. A dockworker, a mechanic, maybe just some unlucky bastard who wandered into the wrong place at the wrong time.

Death had stripped him of anonymity. It had carved something grotesque into his flesh, a secret woven beneath his skin.

Even if his death had been unremarkable, which it wasn’t, there was his face.

His mouth was hanging open in a silent scream, his brown eyes, wide and bloodshot, fixed on something that no longer existed.

The way his neck twisted unnaturally, his arms frozen mid-reach—it was like he’d been caught in the middle of a desperate fight for his life.

Been grappling with a giant. Only there were no other signs of a struggle.

No blood spatter, no bruises, no broken bones.

No bullet holes or stab wounds. No overturned furniture.

“Ethan.” Jenkins’s voice grated behind me, too sharp for the oppressive stillness.

I heard the tightness in his chest, knew he was reliving a nightmare in his own mind.

I couldn’t go there with him. Not yet. Not fucking yet.

I shoved my own memories down with long-practiced efficiency.

I had no time for weakness or regret. Not here. Not now.

“Hold on.” My voice came out rough, my throat tight as I tilted the man’s arm toward the light. God help us.

His arm was covered in burns, blackened skin charred into jagged lines. But these weren’t random scorch marks. They radiated outward from precise patterns etched into his flesh, like lightning burned into wood.

A faint glint of metal caught and reflected the dim glow, and my gut twisted. This wasn’t an implant from some underground clinic. This wasn’t a hacked-up, black-market, mod job.

These cyborg implants were far more advanced than anything we’d seen. Dangerous. Alien.

And they had either failed or been used to commit murder.

I exhaled slowly. “Jenkins, did the ME mention anything about Coalition implants?”

The detective crouched beside me as I pulled a pen from my pocket, used the pointy end to lift what looked like a wire from his flesh. It was thin, silver in color, and no thicker than a human hair. His frown deepened when he caught sight of the circuitry embedded in scorched flesh.

“Not a damn word,” he said. “Hell, I didn’t even notice that before.” Jenkins was a couple years older than me, had more years on homicide. He was one of the few people alive that I trusted.

“They’re everywhere.” I studied the burns spreading across the victim’s arms and tugged at the t-shirt to expose his shoulders, his neck.

Fuck me. The marks ran down his spine, disappeared under his pants.

I’d bet when they stripped him, the marks would run all the way to his feet.

Head to toe. This wasn’t localized. It was systemic. A full-body mod malfunction.

“If I had to guess,” I murmured, “I’d say he didn’t just have an implant. He was wired with something. Something that didn’t just fail—it turned on him.” Wires, circuits—delicate, alien things that didn’t belong in a human body. Things that killed.

Jenkins dragged a hand over his dark blond beard, blue eyes cold as steel. “You think it fried him from the inside out?”

I nodded. “Looks that way.”

“God damn fucking alien motherfuckers.” Jenkins spoke quietly so only I would hear. “What the hell is this stuff doing in one of ours?”

One of ours. A human. As far as Jenkins was concerned, we were fighting a war the public was not aware of. There were only two sides. Us… and them.