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  CEASEFIRE

  Team Orion Nebula

  The Great Space Race Series

  Kayla Stonor

  Published by Kayla Stonor, 2017

  Copyright 2017 © by Kayla Stonor

  www.kaylastonor.com

  Editor: Travis Luedke

  Cover & GSR Logo Art: Flirtation Designs

  Kindle Edition

  All Rights Reserved: No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the copyright owner and publisher of this book.

  Publisher’s Note: The contents and characters in this book are entirely fictional and the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners. All persons depicted in images (including cover) are models and illustrative only. The content in this book includes adult reading material (18+).

  Contents

  The Great Space Race

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Epilogue

  Other Books by Kayla Stonor

  About the Author

  The Great Space Race

  Who will win? Who will lose?

  A reality that these contestants must survive.

  Three! Two! One! And they’re off!

  A smokin’ hot crew of romance authors in science fiction & fantasy have joined forces to bring you The Great Space Race—Octiron Entertainment’s out-of-this-world reality show where couples fight to complete four perilous challenges before Winter Solstice on Primaera, Paragon Galaxy.

  Race over to www.gspacerace.com for all the authors and titles in this exciting series. Each romance can be enjoyed as a standalone novel or as an instalment in the Great Space Race. Order of reading is not important, the space race series is not a stickler for rules other than those Octiron deem vital to their bottom line, except please don’t announce the winner and spoil the race for our zillion fans!

  Many thanks to CJ Cade (Cathryn Cade) for bringing me onboard and organizing us all, to Sabine Priestley for galas, the show host, and other Octiron delights, to Teresa Noelle Roberts for a race start scene, and to the other authors for allowing me to add sparkle to Ceasefire with competitors from their worlds.

  Keep up with new releases & offers by Kayla Stonor

  Chapter One

  “Y our cover’s blown, Ahnna. Client reads Qui-positive. He’s a fucking reptile!” Xavier’s warning blasted over Ahnna’s psycom neural implant like a second voice in her head. “EXFIL on roof in five. Get out of there.”

  Though Xavier provided support from the foyer ten floors below, his urgency translated as if he stood beside her, snapping in her face. Ahnna’s pulse spiked with an irrational fear that Xavier’s transmission had been overheard.

  No. They couldn’t shut her down… not when they were so close, and she’d been careful. There was no reason to believe her cover had been compromised. Alien-human hybrids enjoyed their kinks same as humans. The Qui could be a genuine client.

  Hold position. Mission is a go until I call for EXFIL. Her thoughts transmitted a sharp rebuke to Xavier, betraying the intensity of her anxiety. She’d trained for these encounters, but Qui were dangerous.

  She raced to the closet, swapped boots for metal-capped stilettos, and then crossed to the nightstand where she stored tools of the trade she could explain away. She shoved a scanner-resistant knife under the bed bolster.

  The odds might not favor her chances against a Qui, but in a game of bluff, Ahnna held the advantage. Human Defense-X trained their soldiers to live and breathe their cover identity. Ahnna worked day shifts as a poker dealer, but at night she became Mistress Catherine, Domme for hire, because everyone needed a side job in New Vegas.

  Her cover also gave her a legitimate excuse to play with handcuffs. Ahnna took out a pair of titanium ShiftLok restraints, designed to block a Qui from shapeshifting into their natural reptilian form with all their inherent combat advantage. She set the sex toy on the nightstand.

  “Ahnna!” Xavier snapped through her psycom.

  A quiet knock overlapped the double tap of her heartbeat.

  Nanos stabilized her vital signs and quieted the blood pressure pounding in her ears. Ahnna looked to the window facing a view of psychedelic light-shows blurred by falling snow. She could scrap the mission right now, dash out the window to catch the heli-evac, but it was probably too late—the musical raucous outside would give her away.

  Ahnna projected a false calmness through her psycom. He’s knocking at the door. It’s not a raid. Holding position, I’m good.

  “One moment,” she called out, her tone light and airy, buying time to open a tube of clear Q-Narc gel, a new twist on a street drug used for recreational highs. This potent version hampered a Qui’s metabolic rate. The tranquillizing effect wouldn’t last, but it would slow him down enough to apply the restraints. Or kill… except then she’d lose a high-value hostage.

  She carefully dipped her alumicryl nails in the solution, then smeared it onto her stiletto heel blades and wiped her fingers clean. Pulse artificially steady, bio-rhythms normalized, she casually walked to the door, just another night of routine debauchery in the city that never sleeps. At the last moment, she unzipped her black corset to her navel, shook out her long, golden curls, and licked her scarlet-painted lips for extra gloss-effect.

  Ready for sex or war… perhaps both.

  Opening the door, she posed, hand on hip, one knee seductively bent, curvy ass straining her skin-tight leather pants.

  Her client leaned against the wall, his casual stance not fooling Ahnna for a second. Her eyes narrowed and he straightened to a height close on six-foot. Damn. The reptilian wore his human skin like a chameleon, not a scale in sight. If not for her Intel, she’d have mistaken him for a normal man, and a very sexy one with those dark-chocolate eyes. Not even his perfectly circular pupils betrayed the Qui lizard hiding beneath his golden-tanned skin. Most Qui-human hybrids displayed diamond shaped pupils with striking, inhuman coloring.

  She looked his heavy-built frame up and down, noting the tenting bulge at his crotch. Seemed the Qui liked what he saw, and her body throbbed in kind, an unwelcome response for a damned lizard.

  Her psycom kicked in. “Got his name. Tierc Marcel.”

  Booking details listed her client as M. Terson, but then most escort clients preferred anonymity. Marcel? The name seemed familiar…

  She’d studied the Dol’ce-Marcel Qui bloodline in Civics—practically Qui royalty. The fact she was still breathing confirmed her suspicion the Qui-human wasn’t here to take her down. With Qui nobles in town, the United Regions would be running background checks on residents and she’d done nothing to attract attention. This visit had to be routine. If she swallowed her distaste for servicing a Qui, she could remain in play—complete her service with one kill-shot, an indisputable message that the Human Resistance fought on.

  She’d trained her whole life for this mission.
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  Remove the enemy in their midst, prove her commitment to the cause, and she’d join HD-X’s echelon.

  Damn, this Qui was hot. Her corset chafed her nipples.

  Throughout her inspection of Marcel, she’d held back any hint of her anxiety, practiced at delivering an uncomfortable pause. Always leave them guessing. The possibility of the door slamming in their face encouraged cooperation.

  Ahnna’s eyes met his. “You’re still dressed.”

  “You want me to strip out here?” He glanced along the hallway.

  The hybrid wasn’t sure about her. He looked for proof of duplicity, a hint Ahnna posed a threat. Her best defense was to stay in cover, and her client hesitated too long. No Domme worth her salt would tolerate such disrespect.

  Ahnna moved to close the door, interested to see Marcel’s response.

  “Wait.”

  She stopped, politely waited, and his jaw tightened. Good. He couldn’t read her. She could be his target, trained and deadly, or the Domme he’d hired for the night. Marcel faced an uncomfortable dilemma. He shrugged off his jacket and laid it on the hallway floor. Ahnna allowed interest to show when he pulled his top over his head revealing a perfect set of undulating abs. He noticed and she caught the minutest flex of his nostrils. So, he scented her arousal. Fuck him. Any girl would be turned on by a demigod of male perfection disrobing at her command.

  Was that cinnamon?

  His pheromonal assault hit her hard, filled her nostrils, caked the back of her throat and turned her arousal into a slow drip between her thighs. Resentment curled in the pit of her stomach. The Qui deployed pheromones at will, a natural biological weapon that made the winged reptilian species the most dangerous sentient life in the known universe.

  Don’t ignore the obvious.

  “The Eros Agency didn’t tell me you were Qui.”

  His fingers hovered over the buckle to his leather belt. “I’m human first. Does my Qui make a difference?”

  Ahnna looked him up and down. “Honey, now that I know, I’d be more offended if I didn’t smell your lust. Anything else you want to confess? There are disclosures required by law.”

  “I’m new to this, I apologize for the omission.”

  “I won’t go easy on you.”

  His brow dented, a slight grimace on his lips.

  Ahnna backed away, leaving the door open for Marcel to make his choice. “Put your clothes on the chair.”

  * * *

  Octiron Entertainment’s portal operations base exploded with activity as technicians scrambled to contain escalating power spikes. In the reinforced operations hub, the Acquisitions Director—Ops-Dir—processed multiple holo displays and audio chatter from numerous departments of the facility. For the first time in his career, he feared the wrath of Central Alliance. Matter transfer through wormholes carried such destructive potential, Central Alliance demanded reliable operators and control systems to access Paragon’s portal technology. Portal failures invited increased oversight, inspections, and revocation of Octiron’s portal license.

  Right now, the Ops-Dir did not have control.

  In the words of his predecessor, ‘Never get complacent, portals obey a set of laws we’ve barely begun to comprehend,’ and this portal had a mind of its own.

  “Destination coordinates unclear, Director,” reported a senior supervisor, his tone disbelieving. “Portal Sync fluctuating out of phase!”

  The streaming holo-data supported the supervisor’s theory. “Close it down,” the Ops-Dir ordered.

  The responsible technician looked on the verge of panic. “Abort unresponsive.”

  For a brief moment, silence fell.

  “This isn’t new territory.” The Director placed fingers against his head, thinking out loud. “We’ve hauled contestants out of the Milky Way before. Maybe a hard failure? Run full diagnostics.”

  The bald-headed jagoff watching from the sidelines jumped up. “What the larf are you doing in the Milky Way? I asked for a new species! A wild card! A sexy humanoid the viewers have never seen before! Change the search parameters.”

  The Ops-Dir ignored him. He hated when Crandal interfered in a portal extraction. Octiron’s prime-time handler was forever imposing screwball requirements. The fool lived up his own ass and fucked his contestants for kicks. Crandal had no authority here. Operations belonged to the Op-Dir. More importantly, the data had just bull-dozed through a mathematical dead-end.

  His eyes widened.

  To harness space, time, and gravity, draining Primaera’s power grid, for the sole purpose of transporting potential race contestants from across the galaxy… The Ops-Dir shook his head. The notion of employing alien technology and resources simply to acquire new faces to entertain the ignorant masses… it was madness.

  A mad physicist’s wet dream.

  With this kind of power and equipment, if a single component mis-aligned, dozens of things could go horribly wrong—

  “Sir! Portal syncing,” yelped a supervisor.

  “To what?” the Director demanded, fingers swiping reports aside to get to the information he needed. “Repeat abort! Cut the damn power!”

  The prime-time handler scowled, opened his mouth to speak.

  “Look, Crandal,” the Ops-Dir snarled, “the way this portal’s behaving, I can’t guarantee a complete transport. Feel free to correct me, but the Great Space Race requires its contestants alive and intact… at least for the start of the race.”

  “Larf!” someone cursed.

  The Director swung around, homed in on a thin Syrellen blinking all three of his blue eyes. “What?”

  “Power’s cut, sir. Portal remains strong—it’s self-fueling.”

  “How?”

  “Diagnostic running.” The Syrellen manipulated the holo-diagnostics system with hands and feet, the appendages indistinguishable. “The sync AI latched onto the wild card search pattern… its stuck in a loop. The portal is drawing power from a solar storm in the Orion nebula. Without power limits, the AI is focused on acquiring the wild card anomaly—”

  The Ops-Dir re-examined the data, recognized similarities with the Maths supporting Rosen-bridge theory. “We’re looking at a portal between parallel universes.” A tight pain in his chest made it hard to think. “Mr. Crandal, you wanted a wild card, well you got one—the Sync AI has found a DNA signature I don’t recognize.”

  “Sync AI rebooted. Attempting to re-establish control,” another tech reported.

  Crandal jumped into the void, eager. “Director, the safest course might be to let the AI grab whatever’s there, initiate jump, and terminate normally. I can sell this wild card. Contestants from another universe! At least the reports will show we followed acquisition protocol to the best of our ability. You don’t want to be on the wrong end of a Central Alliance inquisition.”

  “Would you like to be on the wrong end of a black hole event horizon?” The Director clenched his fists, barely containing his fury with bureaucratic morons who manipulated alien wormhole technology they scarcely understood, portals with the power to shred space-time. The Great Space Race and its rabid fans weren’t worth destabilizing the entire space-time continuum.

  On the other hand, he didn’t see a second viable option.

  He shot a hard glance at the prime-time asshat. “Very well, you start praying we survive your wild card extraction.”

  * * *

  Tierc Marcel placed his clothes on the chair as Mistress Catherine directed, scanning the room with one sweeping glance. His retinal implant detected no weapons. He ignored the restraints and other BDSM tools of a dominatrix.

  What the hell was he doing here?

  Standing in her room, buck ass naked like an idiot, all because some fucktard Intel analyst assessed Ahnna Sokovik’s resume as too pristine. What was the standard profile of a BDSM Domme? The woman used a reputable escort agency and worked card tables by day. Tierc couldn’t see much difference between a dominatrix protecting her private life and a terrorist
staying low. He’d arrived in New Vegas to oversee security for the UR conference and chatter of a Human Defense-X plot had prompted Tierc to revisit any recent red flags. Sokovik’s application to work an extra shift during the main event was more suspicious than her resume. Preparing to face his punishment like a good little sub, with a woman he would definitely class as a professional Domme, he questioned the wisdom of his suspicions.

  He’d intended to be in and out of this mock date, hoping to escape with his dignity intact.

  Sokovik blew that plan apart in seconds.

  A female voice entered his psycom. “Central Command requesting sit-rep.”

  Suspect has a neural implant, Tierc responded. Tools of the trade consistent with occupation. He neglected to mention the handcuffs and other paraphernalia. That kind of detail could fuel an endless spiel of jokes at UR Command.

  “Stand by for orders.”

  Unable to put the evil moment off, Tierc turned and faced Mistress Catherine, cock ready and eager for action—awkward—his arousal wasn’t forced. Damn, he wanted this chick to be legit. Too bad their encounter was being recorded in living color.

  Skal, she looked at him like he’d crawled out from under a stone.

  “Hands behind your head.”

  He complied, nerves ratcheting up when she approached. She wore a slinky corset that protected her modesty although her cleavage offered plenty for the imagination. She moved so close they stood almost cheek to cheek, towering stilettos giving her an extra four inches. Her toe nudged his instep and he shifted his stance to comply, but then she cupped his balls in her hand. Tierc hissed, his Qui surged and he battled an unaccustomed impulse to shift.

  The woman shattering his control frowned at him. “Only your balls should be blue.”

  Tierc looked down, grimaced at the sight of blue-tinted scales rippling along his stomach and ribs. He cursed and reinforced his human form with a concentrated burst of energy. He hadn’t slipped a spontaneous Qui shift since puberty. Either Ahnna’s DNA was kicking hard on his mating receptors, or this dominatrix shit was messing with his head.