Drawn to Her Warriors: (Her Warriors Book 1) (Reverse Harem Sci Fi Romance Serial) Read online

  Drawn to Her Warriors

  Her Warriors Book 1

  Rebecca Baelfire

  Drawn to Her Warriors (Her Warriors Book 1)

  Rebecca Baelfire

  Copyright © 2017 Rebecca Baelfire, all rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Please purchase only authorized editions of this book, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrightable materials.

  Cover by Rebecca Baelfire

  Cover images courtesy of DepositPhotos

  Created with Vellum

  For anyone who’s ever looked at the stars and wished for romance.

  This story is for you. All my love.

  Contents

  Just A Dream

  Not Normal

  The Tenants in 505

  Desperate Measures

  Conundrum

  About Rebecca

  Just A Dream

  The ship careened out of control, headed straight toward the vortex.

  Toward death.

  “Stop! Get out of there! Pull back!” I shouted at the ship’s captain, hoping he’d get control of the craft before he crashed, but he didn’t.

  Didn’t, or couldn’t.

  The ship spun like a top, a discus hurtled at the giant opening in space, as if thrown by some cruel and unforgiving god. Terror gripped me, but the rush of emotion wasn’t for me. It was for the inhabitants of the ship, whoever they were. I’d never met them, never seen them, yet the certainty of what would happen to them hit me with the same force as if I was behind the controls.

  I couldn’t tell if the swirling mass of light and smoke pulled the ship toward it with some unseen magnetic force the pilot couldn’t escape, or if he flew toward it willingly, but death loomed, inevitable. I cried out, but the ship vanished into the mouth of the vortex, a fly trapped in cosmic amber.

  Both ship and vortex imploded with a resounding boom and a brilliant burst of violent white light. The light seared my eyes, blazing across the inside of my mind as though my brain had gone supernova.

  Then…

  I jerked awake in my bed, a scream piercing my ears. My own, I realized. Slowly, the dream faded, but it left behind an understanding that burrowed bone deep. The ship’s crew were no more; the emptiness of their ended existence came to me in a wave of sadness and loss.

  As usual, I drew my knees up to my chest, shivering, even though I was soaked in sweat. I grabbed my fluffy purple pillow off the bed and hugged it to my chest, resting my sweat-drenched cheek on the soft, plush warmth.

  It was a strange thing, this dream. I’d had the same one for months. Not every night, though. No, if I had a dream like this every night, I’d have gone mad. But the images came often enough that I avoided sleep where I could.

  I’d never seen inside the ship. The dream always came to me as though I watched the disaster unfold through some giant window in space that looked out at the vortex. Except, I could also feel what was happening as if I were in the space captain’s head. It didn’t make sense, but that’s how scene always played out.

  Outside my window, a siren blared and then faded into the distance. I hated how loud those things were, with my apartment facing out onto a busy New York city street, but for once I actually appreciated the wailing sound. The normalcy it implied grounded me, the decidedly earthly, human sound reminding me of where I was.

  I wasn’t a space captain, and I wasn’t aboard a ship in outer space, dying as I flew through what I assumed to be a collapsing wormhole. My name was Rayne Kincade, and I was sitting in my one-bedroom, rat-infested hole of a downtown apartment. The darkness around me wasn’t the vastness of space, but the blackness of predawn.

  As reality slowly settled around me, the solitude of my apartment at once soothed me with its silence, yet closed in on me, bringing with it an almost painful loneliness. The isolation comforted me because I never had to explain my night terrors, but it also brought loneliness because letting anyone close had never been an option.

  My radiator switched on with its usual clang and boom, and I jumped. The dry, heavy heat blasted into the room with all the delicacy of car exhaust.

  Fuck, I hated that thing. It woke me at all hours when it switched on. But at least the heat was included in the already crazy expensive rent.

  I glanced at the clock on my nightstand. Five AM? That late already? Five hours since I’d gone to bed, yet my eyes felt scratchy with fatigue, my body whipped-tired, like I’d slept an hour. How was that possible?

  Maybe I wasn’t asleep. The thought crept in, ominous.

  “Oh, shut up, mind, get a grip.” I tossed the pillow I’d been hugging into a corner, then peeled myself off the bed. The dream wasn’t real, and neither was the possibility that I’d somehow been somewhere else…or not really asleep in my bed when I’d had it.

  True, I’d always known I was different. But this?

  Hell, aliens weren’t real. I’d given up on that fantasy when I was ten, when a spaceship I thought I’d seen in the night sky turned out to be a meteor.

  I flicked on every light in the apartment, trying not to think of the horrendous cost of the electricity I was wasting, and switched on the coffee pot in my tiny kitchenette. I didn’t want to be alone in the dark right now.

  My jaw cracked on a yawn. It was way too early to be up, but I might as well get to work on the final edits of my book since I had deadlines. Sleep was out of the question now.

  Grabbing milk for my bowl of Golden Grahams, my gaze snagged on a business card stuck to the fridge with a magnet, the only thing on the scuffed, but clean white door. I pulled the card free and stared at the flowery pink writing on white that read, Madam Valentine, Psychic.

  “Jesus, what was I thinking?” I shook my head and almost threw the card away. Almost called the number and canceled the appointment with her, scheduled for eleven that morning.

  Except I couldn’t. My…condition…went much deeper than a reoccurring dream. I’d tried everything else I could think of to achieve a normal life, from the decidedly mundane to the absurd. Traditional psychiatry, anti-depressants, group therapy. When those didn’t work, I’d moved on to hypnosis, meditation, and herbal remedies. Hell, I’d even tried amulets and crystals. Nothing worked. This was the end of the line. I didn’t even know how Madam Valentine could help, or what I expected her to do, but a psychic was my last chance at salvation.

  Replacing the card on the fridge, I took a long shower, preparing for my appointment with Madam Valentine. Truth be told, I was the very last person who should have thought the idea of a psychic ridiculous, but the thought lingered all the same.

  I dried off and dressed for the day. My favorite baggy jeans and a plain black tee. Check. Mismatched fluffy socks for warmth when the heater shut off. Check. By the time I finished, my watch read almost seven. Four hours to go.

  Four hours until what stood as either my chance at a normal existence, or yet another hokey dead end.

  I slipped into my comfy work chair behind my disordered desk, twining my wayward blond mass of curls up in a messy ponytail while I waited for my computer to power up. Might as well give the last two chapters their final read-through and get the book sent off to the editor before I had to leave.

  I would have loved to go back to sleep, but working while exhausted was better than reliving that spaceship’s crew dying their fiery death yet again.

  Not Normal

  I’d managed to send the book
off to editor and crank out a chapter of its sequel before a message popped up on my inbox from my online friend, Jake. Happiness bubbled in me, seeing his name show up. I opened the message.

  So, I was thinking. We’ve been talking about meeting for weeks now. Let’s do it.

  My heart kicked up a notch and I swallowed, hard. He wanted to meet.

  Familiar panic rose in the back of my throat as all the things that could possibly go wrong raced through my brain. He didn’t know. There was no hope of keeping my secret from him once he spent any time with me. Would he, the only friend I’d ever let myself have since moving out of my parent’s house five years ago, still want to call himself my friend when he found out what I was?

  Throat dry, I read on.

  Let’s go dancing at the club tonight. To celebrate the bestselling book you’re publishing.

  I smiled sadly at the invitation.

  For six months, we’d talked almost daily about everything under the sun. Our families, our hopes, our plans for the future. We’d never met face to face, and yet, in some ways, I felt I knew Jake Porter better than I knew anyone. Only, I’d never told him the truth.

  That I was a freak.

  What I wouldn’t have given to spend the night with my one close friend, glammed up and dancing to pounding music, feeling the energy of club-goers enjoying their nights out. Part of me craved the socialization, the normalcy. I thirsted for it almost as much as I hungered for the kind of bestseller Jake insisted I’d have with my latest creation. Celebrating at a nightclub with him would make the perfect night until…

  Can’t, I texted back. I hated blowing him off, and especially when doing so put off our first official meet, but at least I had a perfect excuse on hand. Lots to do if I’m going to hit publish next week. Deadlines, you know.

  A few moments later, his reply came in. I’ll come get you tonight. You need to get out of that apartment.

  Suppressing a sigh, I considered my reply. I could imagine the scolding in his tone as if he was saying the words. I don’t get out enough, it’s not healthy, a break would be good for me. All valid points that made me wish I could tell him the real reason I rarely did the people thing.

  Too much to do, sorry, I typed. Another night?

  Ding.

  Yeah, okay, but you have to let me take you out for a drink when you hit #1 on Amazon.

  I snorted. It would be nice to end up with a book that rose close to the top one hundred, much less number 1. I’d already checked my daily sales on my three published releases. If I didn’t start making more than a hundred dollars a day, I’d never catch up on my bills.

  Sure. Then I won’t have to choose between rent and groceries every month, I sent back.

  You’ll get there one day. Love you. See you soon.

  See you. Don’t give up on me yet, Jake.

  Never.

  The brotherly reply made my heart feel light and took away some of the depression that always settled on me when I passed up spending time with others. I sent back a string of hearts for him and shut the phone off so it didn’t distract me while I wrote.

  Turning on an internet blocker, I cranked up the music on my computer and set a song on repeat. While Sia’s To Be Human blasted through my headphones, I returned to typing out more sexy time adventures between Space Pirate Kal’tarr and his curvy heroine, Cindy.

  I worked until 10:30, then started getting ready to leave. One last time, I checked myself over before heading out, making sure every inch of my skin except my face was covered. That gloves covered my hands and a scarf covered my neck, tucked into the front of my coat. For the finishing touch, I slung my purse on my shoulder.

  At the front door, hand on the doorknob, I froze. The all-too-familiar panic I always felt when leaving my house kicked in. What would I see, today? Would I be able to handle it?

  Worst case scenarios played through my mind, and I nearly called the whole thing off. Stayed here, locked up in my apartment. I’d be alone, but I’d be safe.

  No. I couldn’t do that. Seeing Madam Valentine might be a desperate action, but it was all I had. Years ago, when my condition first made its presence known, I’d promised I’d never, ever allow it to make me a prisoner in my own home. I had to try.

  Voices outside my apartment—from other tenants, I assumed—passed my door. My hand shook on the knob. As soon as the voices faded, I drew a deep, calming breath and opened the door.

  The hallway stood empty. I relaxed a little.

  Rounding a corner on route to the elevators, my landlord, Raul, bumped into me.

  The physical contact only lasted an instant. Our shoulders brushed, but that was all I needed.

  A single image flashed across my thoughts, clear enough to make out the eviction notice in his hand. Confused that I’d only seen the single image, I glanced at him, taking in his thick yellow winter coat, almost as bulky as my black one.

  Relief filled me. Without skin-on-skin contact, people’s thoughts and emotions still reached my mind, but I never received nearly as much as I did when someone touched me directly.

  Still, the momentary connection between us hit me with enough of his emotions that I flinched. His irritation with the tenants he was evicting buzzed along my thoughts.

  Raul paused in his tracks, thick dark unibrow raising with concern.

  “Good morning, Raul.” I plastered a smile on my face, a practiced, easygoing one that usually staved off worry.

  “For you, maybe,” he grunted.

  “Cranky this morning, are we?”

  “Why are you always such a ray of sunshine in the morning, Miss Kincade? It’s not normal.”

  I laughed. “There’s enough angry people in this city all the time. I won’t add to it unnecessarily.”

  Besides, after years of being inundated with other people’s negative emotions, I’d learned when I stayed positive and upbeat, it helped distract me, not only from what I saw and felt from them, but from the isolation that had become essential to my sanity.

  “How sweet,” Raul grumbled. “I need a word with you before you go.”

  Normally I’d have gone straight to the elevators without stopping for a chat. Anything to avoid the risk of further physical contact, but I wouldn’t allow myself to run in fear anymore. If I had anything to say about it, today would be the last day I had to hide from the world.

  “What’s up?” I asked.

  “I’ve been getting a lot of reports this week from other tenants about a strange smell coming from apartment 505.” He pointed to the door at the end of the hall. “Have you noticed anything?”

  When the eviction notice in his hand flashed my head, I’d seen the number listed on it. The notice was for them. A strange smell? My curiosity spiked.

  “I didn’t notice anything, no. What do you think is going on?”

  He held up his finger for me to wait for him and went down the hall, past my apartment, then shot the notice under 505’s door.

  Maybe it was the writer in me, but I’d always loved a good mystery, and since the guys in that apartment had moved in two months ago, they’d been a total enigma. I’d only seen them once or twice, the first time when they moved in, and then only briefly, from a distance each time. All looked large and muscled, interacting in a way that suggested closeness. How many men were in there, I didn’t know, but something told me it was more than the three I’d seen. There’d been something odd about those men, but I was never able to put my finger on it.

  When Raul returned to me, he lowered his voice. “I think they’re cooking meth or something in there.”

  My eyes widened. “Why the heck would you think that?”

  “Let’s see. They’re using a ridiculous amount of my electricity. The bill is four times what it should be. The smoke alarm is always going off. And it stinks in there. I’ve had tenants on this floor complain about the smell for weeks. I’ve been trying to evict them almost since their first week here, but I can never get hold of any of them.”


  “Wow.” I tried not to imagine a meth lab blowing the building sky high, like I’d seen on the news. “How many guys do you think there are?”

  “That’s the other thing. They’re signed to have two people, no pets and no other people living there, but I’ve seen at least one more. Weird guys. How would they fit three in there?”

  How indeed.

  Before moving in, I’d viewed that apartment, nearly taking it until I found out mine was a lot cheaper. 505 was perhaps half again as big as my box-car apartment. You couldn’t get more than a couple in there comfortably. I wondered idly if the renters were gay. Sleeping on top of each other was the only way three big guys would fit.

  The decidedly hot image of my three gorgeous neighbors sandwiched into one oversized bed, a muscled buffet for the eyes, flitted through my mind and I almost smiled.

  I made a mental note to find a way to add my three sexy neighbors to my next novel.

  “Anyway,” Raul added, “if you see anything odd, let me know. I want them gone.”

  “Sure thing. Gotta go, Raul.”

  It bothered me to think of meddling in people’s affairs, but if he was right and they were cooking drugs, I’d keep an eye out. I hated busybodies, but I didn’t want to blow up, either.

  A few minutes later, I stepped out into the cold and breathed in the crisp, fresh scent of winter. The scents out here provided a delicious relief from the musty smell that permeated the rundown old apartment complex. Even in this city, filled with exhaust and smog, I could still smell the pine from the trees on the building property, the clean of new fallen snow.

  Not even the first of November, and big white snowflakes danced through the air toward the ground. More snow lay thick and pristine, a blanket of white the city hadn’t had a chance to turn to that ugly, grey sludge or pound into dangerous ice. I loved how it clung to the trees and covered the houses, making the city look like the inside of a giant snow globe.