Rurik

Ora Lindqvist has one rule: never take a job from a wolf. Then a nine-foot Varin named Rurik walks into a bar with more money than sense and a wreck-field coordinate she can't resist. Rurik has been chasing the black box that proves his squadron was sold out for two years. He has not been looking for a mate, and does not intend to find one in a smoke-filled hangar the first time his hand closes on a human's. But the box is in a field the Fleet already swept, and the name on it belongs to an admiral. When Rurik is arrested, Ora does the loudest thing she can think of: she flies his black box straight into a Fleet parade and plays it. She doesn't need a mate. She does, apparently, need a co-pilot.