It takes the lady-like crashing of her spaceship for stubborn Molly to find love.
Attacked and forced to crash on a barbarian planet, Molly must come to terms with never leaving this world and allowing the chieftain to have his way with her, all whi...
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The ship shuddered, and the whining groan of assaulted metal reverberated through Molly's cabin. She dropped her tablet and rolled over, banging her head on the bulkhead. Moaning while grabbing her forehead, she hissed as the throbbing pain shot darts behind her eyes.
The scowl on her lips sent creased lines to her bruised temple. Gravity stabilizers must have glitched. Another shudder reverberated through the hull, mimicking her trembling hands. Not glitched ... damaged maybe? The stars flew past her floor-to-ceiling windows, the scenery the norm until a burning piece of her ship waved farewell as it jettisoned on its unscheduled voyage.
Groggy and naked, she stumbled out of bed and unhooked her jumpsuit, yanking it on. Her messy braid swayed around her with her jerky movements, forcing her to flick it out of the way. After swiping her boots, she ran toward the aviator pod, wincing as her bare feet slapped the grated metal of the passage. She paused beside her pilot's seat to slide her boots on and zip up her jumpsuit.
"Status?" she asked MARC.
"Death is imminent," MARC intoned. Modified with sarcasm in his last upgrade, his 'manly' voice irritated the shit out of her on an hourly basis, worse now than before the Vargosh incident. Next time he whined about upgrades, she would check the manifest before approving them.
"Thanks, you rust bucket, so helpful as per friggin' usual," she grumbled, sliding into the seat to grip the lever. She didn't remove autopilot just yet, deciding it was better to find out what was going on before she took over. But she did punch in commands, needing to know the extent of the damage. She could ask MARC, but sometimes it felt good to do things on her own. Besides, she couldn't deal with his sass without having had her first or eighth cup of coffee.
"What would you prefer to hear? Your life will flash before your eyes as the Vargosh turn the ship into the galaxy's largest spaghetti strainer?" MARC's sarcasm cut through her shock.
"How do you know what a spaghetti strainer is?" She threw out a hand to silence him as if MARC had eyes. Well, he did if vids counted. "Never mind, I don't wanna know."
"Vargosh are preparing to fire again." MARC sounded bored.
"You don't say? It isn't as if they're the most stubborn race ever to exist? Or that they hold grudges for generations?"
"Just saying, Mols. We could try to dodge this one. You are kinda dilly-dallying."
"Dilly—." She bit her lip as she thumped her thigh. Punching the console wouldn't help, especially if she accidentally jettisoned their stores or opened the cargo bay doors. "Fuck, MARC, I don't need your shit now. Any chance of avoiding these asshats?"
"Asteroid field one click to your right. F.Y.I, for your information, it's suicide. But knowing you, and I do, you'll ignore the warning."
She rolled her eyes at his dramatic, metallic hum, his version of a sigh. "Fine, then you pilot the Jasmine if you are up for the challenge. I'm certain someone of your vast capabilities could navigate such an obstruction. Or would you prefer I try?"
