Collision Course

By Zoë Archer

In a galaxy torn apart by war…

Mara Skiren is a scavenger, a black-market dealer. Blackmailed into helping Commander Kell Frayne infiltrate a treacherous corner of the galaxy, Mara learns that her biggest danger is from her sexy, by-the-book partner. She’s a loner with more than a few battle scars on her heart, but something about Commander Frayne stirs up her long-buried need for an intimate connection.

An ace pilot for the elite Black Wraith Squadron, Kell’s mission is to rescue a lost pilot and ship. Unable to deny his attraction to the beautiful, rebellious Mara, he decides bedding her would cool his ardor. But one taste is not nearly enough, and he finds himself sharing more of his real self with her than he has with anyone.

With deadly criminals on their heels and an increasingly dangerous assignment to complete, he’s starting to wonder…if they survived, could he let her go? And will Mara want to stay?

46,390 words

Dear Reader,

A new year always brings with it a sense of expectation and promise (and maybe a vague sense of guilt). Expectation because we don’t know what the year will bring exactly, but promise because we always hope it will be good things. The guilt is due to all of the New Year’s resolutions we make with such good intentions.

This year, Carina Press is making a New Year’s resolution we know we won’t have any reason to feel guilty about: we’re going to bring our readers a year of fantastic editorial and diverse genre content. So far, our plans for 2011 include staff and author appearances at reader-focused conferences such as the RT Booklovers Convention in April, where we’ll be offering up goodies, appearing on panels, giving workshops and hosting a few fun activities for readers. We’re also cooking up several genre-specific release weeks, during which we’ll highlight individual genres. So far we have plans for steampunk week and unusual fantasy week. Readers will have access to free reads, discounts, contests and more as part of our week-long promotions!

But even when we’re not doing special promotions, we’re still offering something special to our readers in the form of the stories authors are delivering to Carina Press that we’re passing on to you. From sweet romance to sexy, and military science fiction to fairy-tale fantasy, from mysteries to romantic suspense, we’re proud to be offering a wide variety of genres and tales of escapism to our customers in this new year. Every week is a new adventure, and we want to bring our readers along on the journey. Be daring, be brave and try something new with Carina Press in 2011!

We love to hear from readers, and you can email us your thoughts, comments and questions to generalinquiries@carinapress.com. You can also interact with Carina Press staff and authors on our blog, Twitter stream and Facebook fan page.

Happy reading!

~Angela James

Executive Editor, Carina Press

www.carinapress.com

www.twitter.com/carinapress

www.facebook.com/carinapress

To Zack, my space trucker.

Contents

Copyright

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

About the Author

Chapter One

Mara Skiren knew there was a venerable expression that perfectly captured her current situation: she was screwed. Completely, unreservedly screwed.

Walking down the corridor toward her ship, she should have been headed toward freedom. Instead, she was being forced into a mission she didn’t want.

The ranking captain briefed Mara as they headed to the docking bay. His words were clipped, efficient, and combined with his standard-issue severe haircut and his crisp gray 8th Wing uniform, made him exactly the type of person she avoided as much as possible. As they walked, they passed more people in 8th Wing uniforms, all of them staring at Mara with undisguised curiosity. Guess it wasn’t every day that scavenging smugglers like her were allowed to roam free through the station.

“Any questions?” the captain asked.

“Just one,” she said. “Why me?”

He frowned at her. “Clarify.”

“You’ve got dozens, maybe hundreds, of good pilots. All of them perfectly happy to take on this mission. Why do you need me to carry it out?”

He stopped walking, then glanced around and lowered his voice. “Our missing pilot and her ship disappeared inside the Smoke Quadrant.”

Mara couldn’t hide her wry smile. “The 8th Wing doesn’t know their ass from their nose inside the Smoke.”

“We’re not familiar with the region, no.” The captain pressed his lips together tightly. “Between the natural barriers and the information network in place, the 8th Wing lacks sufficient intel to adequately appraise the situation.”

“Meaning, you aren’t smugglers, scavengers or pirates, so the whole place is a giant question mark.” She chuckled. “That’s exactly why us scum like it there. Both the 8th Wing and PRAXIS leave us to drink, brawl and murder in peace.”

At the mention of the 8th Wing’s old enemy, the captain’s mouth tightened. “Even if the PRAXIS Group cannot breach that quadrant, either, it is vitally important that we locate and retrieve our pilot and her ship.” He consulted the readout on his digitablet. “Lieutenant Jur’s ship was damaged in an ambush. Her last communication indicated she and her ship were being overrun by scavengers. Her ship’s tracking device stopped functioning within the Smoke Quadrant. We can only assume she has been taken, but by whom and precisely where in the Smoke Quadrant is unknown.”

Mara processed all of this information. It made sense to assume that if the lieutenant and her ship had been seized by scavengers, they would be taken to the Smoke. It was the best place for dealing in black market goods. In the Smoke, no opportunity for profit was ever wasted. Mara never took on human cargo, but an 8th Wing fighter ship would definitely tempt her.

“This rescue mission must be conducted in secrecy,” the captain added.

“If the 8th Wing tries to move in force,” Mara deduced, “all signs of the good lieutenant will vanish.”

The captain nodded. He resumed walking. “At best, Lieutenant Jur will disappear and we won’t ever find her. At worst, she’ll be killed.”

That’s why they needed Mara. She knew the Smoke Quadrant better than anyone. That didn’t reflect well on her character. Fortunately, she didn’t give a damn.

“Your objective,” continued the captain, “will be to infiltrate the quadrant, then find Lieutenant Jur and her ship. You have already been apprised of the repercussions if you refuse to cooperate.”

“I’ve been apprised.” She’d be tried as an enemy combatant and most likely thrown onto a prison scow. Her beloved scavenge ship would be impounded, broken up and used for scrap. “It’s bullshit, you know. I’m not your enemy and I am definitely not a combatant.” She went out of her way to avoid a fight, any fight. She’d had enough of that in her other life.

“It would not be difficult for our courts to prove otherwise. You sell scavenged parts to the PRAXIS Group.”

“I sell scavenged parts to the 8th Wing too,” Mara shot back. “I sell to anybody, so long as they’ve got the credits.”

“Semantics. A guilty verdict can and will be found if you don’t cooperate.”

She fought to keep herself from snarling. Yes, she was truly screwed. She hated being forced to do anything. And she hated going into the Smoke as an operative of the 8th Wing. The Smoke was her place, damn it—rough, wild and unprincipled. Everything the 8th Wing wasn’t.

But she didn’t have a choice. Choice had been taken from her when the 8th Wing had found her in that Kauri bar and brought her in to their station on some flimsy tariff pretext.

“I’ll want an exoneration in writing.” She stepped closer to him, her chin jutted forward aggressively.

“Once you, Lieutenant Jur and her ship return, you will have an amnesty certificate inscribed in your ship’s spec imprint.”

That was something, at least. She just wanted to lead a nice, quiet life of scavenging and smuggling.

She and the captain reached the bay. After he punched in his security code, the doors slid open and Mara let out a little sigh of relief. There she was. Her baby. The Arcadia.

She wasn’t the prettiest ship—Mara had repaired her too many times, and the old girl showed her age now. But Mara was older too. Older didn’t mean less useful, less capable. The Arcadia was still sleek, still fast, and could still tow payloads ten times her size, and that’s all that truly mattered. The ship belonged to Mara, and Mara alone, and for simply that reason, she loved the scruffy thing.

“You didn’t do anything to her?” she demanded. “Tear her open or put a tracking pod on her?”

“Your ship is exactly as it was when you last saw it.”

Mara planned to run a scan later, just to be sure. She’d configured some black market tech so it could detect even the most hidden tracking devices. Her hatred of being monitored or tethered—like a Pabu dog on a leash—was another relic of her old life.

She began to walk toward the Arcadia, drawn by the irresistible pull of everything the ship represented. Her steps faltered and then stopped when a man walked around from the other side of the ship.

Sweet meteor candy. Mara had been back and forth through the galaxy more times than most people changed their socks. She’d seen everything from the Fire Caverns on Tawhiri Rho to the Ice Ghosts haunting the cliffs of Janxa. She’d been to every inhabitable planet and done business with their natives. Seen species both hideous and beautiful, miserable and sublime. Nothing’s appearance shocked her.

This man amazed her.

No way around it. He was one of the most physically attractive men she had ever seen, including the famed Halu pleasure slaves bred specifically to be the most aesthetically appealing creatures in the galaxy. Broad shoulders, powerful arms, long legs. His immaculate 8th Wing uniform brought into gorgeous display his lean, tight muscles. A plasma pistol was strapped to his thigh. Even simply walking, his movements radiated power and strength. His body was hard, lethal. A warrior, this one.

And his face. Far too rough to be considered handsome. He had the face of a man who had lived tough—and nothing appealed to Mara more. The clean delineation of his jaw contrasted the curves of his mouth. Thick, dark hair cut very short. Dark brows, dark eyes. Dark all over. And gazing intently at her as he strode toward her.

Her life danced along the edges of respectability, often straying into outright dishonesty. When she took a man to her bed, she picked him specifically because he was equally shady, the kind of man who wanted nothing more complicated than a night of physical pleasure before they went their separate, nefarious ways. Then she could go back to her happy solitude until her body’s demands for release had her searching out a new, very temporary partner.

She avoided men in uniform. Too much stability, too many expectations of reliability.

Looking at this man in uniform, Mara began to seriously reconsider her policy.

Yes, please.

Whoever he was, he stopped just a few feet from her, and the two of them stared at each other as if the captain, the bay, the station and the entire galaxy didn’t exist. The heat of his gaze went through her like a solar flare, lighting up parts of her that had been cold for eons. Dimly, she was aware of the commander’s bars on his uniform’s shoulders, and beneath that, the patch indicating he was a member of the 8th Wing’s elite flying squadron. Up close she saw the tiny crescent of a scar at the corner of his eyebrow, and she suddenly wanted to lick it.

Maybe when she returned from her mission, she would find this man. They could share a bottle of Raijin whiskey and lock themselves in his quarters for a week. With that kind of incentive, she would be sure the mission went well, and quickly.

The forgotten captain cleared his throat. “Mara Skiren, this is Commander Kell Frayne, of the 8th’s Black Wraith Squadron.”

Automatically, she stuck out her hand. She was a scavenger, but she still had manners.

The commander’s warm hand enfolded hers. At his touch, breathing became suddenly difficult. She saw his pupils widen, heard his quick inhalation, and knew her touch affected him too.

“Commander Frayne,” she said. She smiled. “I’ll definitely remember your name for my return trip to the station.”

The commander pulled away and frowned. He turned to the captain. “You didn’t tell her, sir.” His voice was gravelly, deep.

Even though the older man outranked the commander, the captain reddened with embarrassment. “The opportune time never came up.”

Something wasn’t right here. Unease chilled Mara’s spine, cooling her immediate response to the commander. “Tell me what?”

“I’m your partner.”

The scavenger’s eyes widened, and Kell couldn’t help but feel pulled toward their ice-green depths. Extraordinary, her eyes. Filled with intelligence and heat and cunning—and anger.

“No,” she said. “Impossible.” She glared up at him. “I work alone.”

“Not on this mission,” he answered.

She scowled and folded her arms across her chest. Even furious—or maybe because she was furious—Kell had never seen a more stunning woman. He’d read her file, slim as it was. Seen her on the holovids. Those images had shown her to be attractive, and he’d gotten some ribbing from others in the squad about what a hardship it was going to be, spending many hours in close proximity to such a beautiful criminal. Kell had laughed, but said with complete confidence that it didn’t matter if Mara Skiren was the reincarnation of the love goddess Oshun—the mission was everything. Not once in his whole decorated career had he strayed from his objective, which was just another reason why he was considered the best in the squad.

He still did not doubt himself, but seeing the scavenger in the flesh made him realize he would have to call on all his discipline and training to keep his focus.

She had the tawny skin and almond shaped eyes of an Argenti, her cheekbones high, her lips ripe with erotic promise. Almost aristocratic, her features. Ivory-hued hair tumbled loose around her shoulders, and he wondered if it felt like cool white silk against bare skin. Her battered nyyrikki-skin jacket hid the shape of her upper body, but he suspected she was slim all over, as attested by her body-hugging cargo pants. But the slenderness of her body misled one to think she could be easily overpowered.

Kell had been in the 8th Wing for over fifteen years. Before that, he knew his way around a battle pit. He had learned quickly how to judge someone, how to read them and what external signs were deceptive. One look at this woman, and he knew. She was ferocious.

Never more so than when she felt herself cornered.

“Bad enough I’m being blackmailed into this.” She folded her arms across her chest. “But I draw the line at teaming up with anyone. Especially some 8th Wing puppet.”

His own temper flared. “I’m not a damned puppet. I’m a pilot, just like you.” One of the Black Wraith Squadron, which meant he was a fucking great pilot.

She stepped nearer, so that the toes of her boots nearly touched his own. The closer she got the more beautiful she became, even as angry color stained her cheeks. “Hundreds. No, thousands of missions I’ve flown. Alone. You aren’t necessary, Commander.”

“Commander Frayne is the 8th Wing’s best pilot,” Captain Esen said.

The scavenger looked unimpressed. “He’s not touching my ship.”

“It’s not your ship I’ll be touching.” Kell planted his hands on his hips.

Her eyes rounded. Her cheeks grew even more flushed.

Damn, that didn’t come out quite right. Or maybe it sounded a lot more like what he wanted to do, rather than what he had to do. “If Lieutenant Jur is too injured to fly her ship back to base, I’ll have to pilot it.”

“The Arcadia’s magnetic tow net can handle the lieutenant’s ship.”

“She flies a Wraith, just like I do. They’re too valuable to risk to a tow net and if we’re being pursued, it’ll make too good a target. The safest option is to have me fly the Wraith if Lieutenant Jur can’t.” He stared down into Mara’s eyes, willing her into subordination with just a look. He’d made ensigns and new recruits shake in their flight suits.

Not this scavenger. She just glared right back up at him. “I’ve never lost a payload. Not once. I’m not going to lose your damned ship.”

“We can’t take the chance that this will be the first time.” He didn’t back down, either.

She opened her mouth to speak, but Captain Esen cut her off before she could say something cutting.

“The Wraith ships that the Black Wraith Squad pilot are extremely valuable,” he explained, “but it’s the tech they use that makes them of incalculable worth. If that tech fell into the wrong hands—”

“PRAXIS,” she said at once.

“They’ve been trying to get their paws on a Wraith for years.” Kell’s voice was hard as he recalled the skirmishes and battles fought just to keep that crucial tech away from the PRAXIS Group. Lives lost, many of them his friends. He hoped that Lieutenant Jur wasn’t one of them, but there would be no way of knowing until he got inside the Smoke Quadrant.

Provided, of course, that the stubborn scavenger gave in and took him on as her partner for the mission. Whether she agreed or didn’t, he was going to the Smoke Quadrant. Her compliance did not matter, especially with a mission this critical.

“Then I’ll pilot the Wraith ship,” she said, “and put the Arcadia on auto pilot for the return journey.”

“Only members of the Squadron can fly a Wraith,” he answered.

She snorted. “Please. You 8th Wing hotshots aren’t the only ones with skills. Give me fifteen minutes and I can fly any ship.”

“Not a Wraith.” He held up his left hand, revealing the square of slightly raised flesh in the center of his palm. “Biotech implants. Without this, the Wraith is an inoperable hunk of metal. But with the implant, the pilot and the ship become one. And that’s what PRAXIS wants for themselves. They get a hold of a Wraith, they copy the tech, and the shitstorm that is the PRAXIS Group is going to get a whole lot worse. Even for scavengers.”

Her lips tightened, but she wouldn’t speak, wouldn’t yield.

He had had enough of playing nice. “One of my squad is missing. She could be injured. Or maybe whoever has Celene is torturing her.” His jaw tightened, thinking of the lieutenant, alone, hurting. They were all trained on how to survive and endure torture, but that didn’t make it easier to contemplate one of the squad being abused. “We’re wasting time because of your temper tantrum. You don’t work with a partner? Tough. Now you do.”

For a moment, he and Mara simply glared at each other. He saw the calculation in her gaze, saw her mind working to find some way out. But there wasn’t one. Kell had a mission, Mara Skiren was part of that mission, and there was nothing further to discuss. He’d get the job done. He always did. And if he could hurt the PRAXIS Group in the process, so much the better. World-eating bastards.

Suddenly, Mara turned and stalked toward her ship. She punched in the entry code, and the hatch opened with a hiss.

She said over her shoulder, “If you’re not on the Arcadia in five minutes, I’m leaving without you.” Then she marched into the ship, muttering.

Captain Esen looked at the space where Mara Skiren had stood, and he did the same. He expected her to leave an afterimage, like a solar flare burned into the eye.

“Her file doesn’t do her justice,” the captain murmured.

“Not much would, sir.”

“It’s not going to be an easy mission.”

“That is an understatement, sir.” Breaching the natural barriers surrounding the Smoke Quadrant, infiltrating the region of the galaxy known for its ruthless criminals, finding Lieutenant Jur, getting both her and her ship to safety. A challenge, yes, but Kell had undertaken missions just as perilous. When it came to himself or other members of the Black Wraith Squad, he had complete confidence.

Throw a wild card like Mara into the situation, and all of his carefully planned stratagems became lunar dust. She unbalanced everything. Including him.

“I’ll bring Lieutenant Jur back, sir.”

Captain Esen nodded as if this had never been in doubt. “Her Wraith, too, Commander.”

“And if the Wraith is too damaged to fly…” He knew the 8th Wing’s protocol for such situations but wanted direct confirmation from the captain.

“Destroy it.”

Which meant that there was a possibility he might be stranded, or consigning himself to capture or death.

“Of course, sir.” He knew without consulting the chrono on his wrist brace that his five minutes were almost up, just as he knew Mara would leave without him if he didn’t get his ass on to her ship. “Time to go.” He gave the captain a salute, which was returned.

“Good luck, Commander.” Captain Esen glanced meaningfully at the scavenger ship.

Kell grabbed the duffel bag he’d stowed nearby. “Black Wraith Squad doesn’t need luck.”

“This mission, you just might.”

Taking a deep breath, he boarded the scavenger ship. He had already familiarized himself with the ship’s specs. The cockpit at the front connected to a galley, and sleeping quarters lay just beyond that. For one person, the ship would be small but comfortable. For two, however, the situation would be less accommodating. Extremely uncomfortable, actually.

He navigated quickly through the narrow passages to stand just outside the cockpit. Mara sat in the captain’s chair, running a diagnostic and plotting a course. Her shoulders stiffened at the sound of his boots on the floor. She didn’t turn around.

“I’d tell you to grab a seat for take off,” she said, “but there isn’t one.”

“Incorrect.” He dropped his bag and strode toward the galley. There, at a tiny table, were two seats, the only grudging acknowledgment that someone other than Mara Skiren might be on her ship.

He unlatched one chair and carried it back to the cockpit. She did turn around then, watching as he latched the chair down to the metal grid on the floor of the cockpit. Right beside her. He gave it an experimental shake and was glad to see that it didn’t budge.

“Now you have a copilot.” He dropped into the seat and fought his smile when she scowled at him.

Swiveling back to the control panel, she punched in the launch sequence. The ship hummed to life. The bay doors retracted, revealing the darkness of space, the multitudes of star systems and the gleaming lights of 8th Wing ships on patrol. His pulse kicked a little just to see it. Didn’t matter how many times he launched for his own patrol or on a mission. In some ways, he was still that dirty-faced kid staring up at the night sky, wishing himself among the stars.

This wasn’t a routine mission, not by a long shot. He had a difficult task ahead of him, and an even more difficult woman beside him.

The lights from the control panel illuminated her face, and again he was struck by how incongruously aristocratic she looked, how coolly beautiful. The sidelong glance she gave him, though, revealed that she was profoundly unnerved by his presence.

Well, she rattled him too. They were even.

“Launching,” she murmured, “in five, four, three, two, one. Hang on to your balls, Commander.”

They blasted off.

Chapter Two

The ship was too small. It never had been before. There had always been plenty of room for her. Mara knew that technically, the Arcadia hadn’t actually shrunk. But now the bulkheads felt too close, the passageways too narrow, and the cockpit felt like a Meruvian snuffbox.

Not very difficult to find the culprit behind the Arcadia’s sudden loss of size.

As she piloted toward the Smoke Quadrant, she sent another wary glance out of the corner of her eye. The 8th Wing flyboy was studying the control panel intently, his dark brows drawn down in concentration. His presence beside her was large, warm, masculine. Foreign. Unwanted.

“Planning a mutiny?”

Frayne didn’t look up from his scrutiny of the controls. “If I jettison you, I can’t get to the Smoke Quadrant.”

Nice. “Why the inspection?”

“I always learn whatever ship I’m on. Never know when I’ll need to take the controls.”

Mara bristled. “You aren’t getting your hands on my ship. I promise you that.”

He turned to her, and even this slight adjustment of his posture made her feel hemmed in, overwhelmed. She told herself it was because he was 8th Wing, a representative of everything she avoided—order, discipline, regulations. Obligations. Yet she knew, deep down, that his gray uniform accounted for only a very small part of what unsettled her.

His eyes, darker than the depths of space, held hers. “Tell me what I can get my hands on.”

“Keep them to yourself,” she snapped, but a pulse of heat worked through her.

He lifted his broad shoulders in a negligent shrug. Yet he wasn’t as indifferent as he tried to look. Mara felt his gaze on her as she slid out of her seat to make some adjustments to the ship’s climate controls. Felt his gaze all over her body. It was too damned hot in here.

“How long until the Smoke Quadrant’s outer perimeter?”

“About twenty solar hours.”

With a muttered curse, he surged to his feet to stand in the galley space behind the cockpit. He prowled like a caged beast, all sinewy, supple motion. Even though she stayed in the cockpit while he paced in the galley, she was still able to sense the power of his body. His large hands clenched and unclenched reflexively.

“We need to talk strategy. Part of me just wants to go in with guns blazing—but I know that can’t happen.”

“It’s got to be on the quiet.” She couldn’t take her eyes off him as he moved. A man his size shouldn’t be so graceful, yet he was, and the contrast between his masculinity and the sleek motion felt unexpectedly potent.

“Any sign of trouble, and our leads dry up.”

“Exactly.” She managed to pry her gaze away to study the chart on the control panel. “The best intel about moving black market goods is on Ryge. I should start there.”

“We,” he said. “We should start there.”

She blew out an impatient breath. “I don’t work with we, just me.”

“Until Lieutenant Jur and her ship are safe, it’s we.” He crossed his arms over his wide chest. “And in order for us to function properly as a team, you will tell me everything about this Ryge.”

“Here’s a communication for you, Commander,” she said. “I’m not one of your Black Ghost—”

“Black Wraith.”

She waved a hand, dismissing this. “I’m not part of your squad, and I’m not 8th Wing. The Arcadia is my ship. So you can’t order me around. If you want to know something, you ask. Got it?”

His jaw tightened. It took several moments before he spoke. “Agreed.” His voice was a hard growl. “Tell me about Ryge. Please.”

Mara bit back a smile. There was something distinctly arousing about a strong, attractive man saying “please.” Even if she couldn’t stand the man on principle.

She tapped a few keys on the control panel, and a small holo of the planet Ryge appeared, flickering in the half light of the cockpit. “Most of the wheeling and dealing in the Smoke is done on Ryge. If someone wants to move merch or do some trading, they come here.”

“Any cities?”

“A few, but if you really want the best goods, you go to Beskidt By.” She tapped the controls again, and the holo zoomed in on the city, sprawling like a gaudy fungus on the face of Ryge. “Once I—we,” she corrected quickly, “get there, we’ll have a better idea as to where the lieutenant and her ship might be.” She glanced at the commander. “Don’t suppose I could convince you to stay with the Arcadia while I do recon.”

“No.”

Right. She should have figured. Commander Frayne liked to be in control at all times. Made her wonder what might happen if he ever lost it. Made her wonder what could force him to lose that precious control.

“You’re going to have to lose the uniform.” She eyed the garment in question. Frayne in his 8th Wing flight suit gave her lots of unwanted ideas. “There’s no way anyone is going to give us any information about black market deals with you dressed like that.”

“Taken care of. I brought civvies.”

“Show me.”

“Now who’s giving orders?” But he actually smiled, and Mara was totally unprepared at how it transformed his face from tough and austere to flat-out gorgeous. His smile revealed a tiny dimple near the corner of his mouth, as though some hidden scoundrel lurked beneath the surface of the hard warrior.

She had a weakness for scoundrels.

“Get the damned bag,” she muttered.

Surprisingly, he did. She remained in the cockpit, but as he bent and rummaged through his gear she was treated to the sight of his tight, firm ass. By Oshun, she wanted to bite him on one taut cheek.

He straightened and caught her ogling his behind. She had seen some of the infamous fertility rites on Ruva Nu without batting an eye, but now she blushed. The look he gave her was questioning, faintly mocking. And yet…she wasn’t mistaken. His gaze met hers, gleaming with an answering interest.

Without speaking, he tossed a bundle of clothing toward her. She snagged the clothes from midair before examining them.

“Those better meet with your approval.” He nodded toward the garments. “Because they’re all I’ve got.”

She held them up for inspection. The shirt was huge—if she wore it, the thing would come down to her knees—and perfectly ordinary. A little plain, actually. Same with the pants. Everything felt a little stiff in her hands, as if they were seldom worn. He wasn’t out of uniform often.

Her tongue clicked in disapproval. “Terrible.” She threw the clothes back at him.

He grabbed them and scowled. “What? They’re fine.”

“Those clothes make me sleepy.”

“So I’m not a fashion vid. That shouldn’t matter.”

She snorted. “Where smugglers are concerned, appearance counts for a lot. It’s all about flash. I’m going to change when we get to Ryge, but if you stroll into Beskidt By wearing that stuff, everyone’s going to know you don’t belong. Then good luck trying to get any intel.”

“There’s no time for any side trips to a shopping barge.” Irritation roughened his voice.

“Wait here.” A few adjustments to put the ship on autopilot, then she hopped up from her seat in the cockpit. She spent an uncomfortable, arousing moment edging past him as she threaded through the galley where he stood. She and Frayne kept bumping into each other as she tried to get through the galley. They both breathed in sharply at the brief contact.

She finally dashed out of the galley and down the passage toward her quarters. Once inside, she opened a storage panel, then pulled out a battered trunk. The thing was a little heavy, so she dragged it back down the passage to the galley.

Frayne watched her curiously as she opened it. “There should be some things in here that will fit you.” She rifled around until she produced some shirts and pants. “Maybe these.”

“What the hell are you doing with men’s clothing?”

She shrugged. “Souvenirs and trophies.”

He glowered ferociously. “I’m supposed to wear the cast-offs of your lovers?”

“Not lovers,” she corrected. He looked almost relieved until she added, “I had sex with them, sure, but I kicked them out after a night. That doesn’t count.”

“Sounds like a lover to me.”

“A lover means sleeping with someone more than once. I never do that. Too much commitment.” She peered at him. “I can’t believe this is making you angry.”

“I’m not angry,” he snarled. Yet he seemed almost surprised by his heated reaction.

“So…” She shook a handful of clothes at him. “Find something.”

She didn’t think the words that came out of his mouth would have been approved by the 8th Wing Communication Council. For a few seconds, she almost believed he’d rather go naked than wear some of the clothes worn by her nighttime entertainment. Wouldn’t that make an interesting picture—Commander Frayne striding through her ship wearing nothing but his plasma pistol and boots. Her mouth became uncomfortably dry.

His big hand lashed out and grabbed a few shirts. “I’ll try some of these, but no goddamn way am I going to wear another man’s pants.”

Her brief hope that he wouldn’t bother wearing anything below the waist was dashed when he snatched up his civvy pants. He stalked away to her quarters. She didn’t want him in there, but room wasn’t exactly plentiful on the Arcadia, and unless she wanted him stripping right in front of her, her quarters was the only place he could change.

Not that she’d mind watching him peel off his 8th Wing uniform, the serviceable gray material sliding off his arms, down his hard torso and flat stomach, until he pushed the fabric down his hips, then lower…

Stop it. This whole forced mission was a screw job, and tangling with the commander would make a complicated situation even more difficult. She liked things an uncomplicated as possible—but she was coming to learn that, where the commander was concerned, nothing was simple.

In Mara’s quarters, Kell quickly shucked off his uniform, his movements mechanical though his mind and gut churned.

Why he was so angry? It shouldn’t matter if the clothes belonged to her one-night stands. It shouldn’t matter to him that she even had one-night stands.

But it did. It mattered.

He stared at Mara’s unmade bed. It was definitely wide enough for two. Had she brought them here, those men? Did she get these sheets twisted by writhing around with some brash space privateer? The image of her, sweaty and wild and sleek on the bed, came all too quickly into his mind, but it was him he pictured with her, not a swaggering pirate.

As he stepped into his civilian pants, he felt the strange urge to find those random men and beat them into cosmic powder. For fuck’s sake, get a hold of yourself. He didn’t even feel jealousy about the women he did take to bed, let alone a smuggler he had no intention of bedding. A smuggler with creamy hair and taunting eyes.

This is about the mission, he reminded himself. Nothing else.

Still, after picking the one shirt that wasn’t either transparent or cut down to the navel, Kell took a grim satisfaction in using his regulation blade to shred the rest of the men’s clothing. He threw the remains into a waste compartment.

Brilliant. Why don’t you just piss on them while you’re at it?

He finished dressing, and was glad there wasn’t a mirror in her quarters. He didn’t want to know what he looked like.

If the expression on Mara’s face was any indicator, he looked damn good. He ambled back to the galley, dressed in his closest approximation of a smuggler. She sat in the cockpit with her seat swiveled around to face him. Her eyes went wide, and he waited for her to laugh. Instead, a flush crept across her cheeks and she slowly licked her lips.

“That’ll…work.”

He glanced down. His pants were standard black cargos, and he’d strapped his blaster back onto his thigh. The shirt was also black, sleeveless, and cut for a smaller man. It fit Kell a little snugly, revealing every ridge and contour of muscle. Judging by Mara’s glazed eyes, she didn’t mind at all. Her gaze lingered over his exposed arms. He had to check the impulse to flex for her.

“What’s that?” She pointed to his shoulder.

He absently touched his fingers to the tattoo, an image of a serpent and a hawk locked in combat. “Something to remind me of home.”

“Home.” She repeated the word as if she didn’t understand its meaning. “Where’s home for you?”

“With the 8th Wing, now.” Her question robbed him of any bravado he might have felt from her approving gaze. Coldness swept through his body, reminding him not just of the mission, but the reasons why he’d enlisted with the 8th Wing in the first place. “You?”

“This is it, now.” She waved a slim hand to indicate the ship.

Neither of them asked where home had once been. Before the 8th Wing, before the Arcadia. Yet the answer was there, just the same. A darker place. The kind of place that made them both find new homes for themselves, new lives. He wondered where she was truly from, what had driven her away.

It didn’t really matter what had happened. She was a scavenger and smuggler, and she had made it abundantly clear that she wanted nothing to do with the ongoing war between the 8th Wing and PRAXIS. Profit was her motivation, and that was all.

Yet as they stared at one another, he felt the edge of desire cut through him. Desire, and the uncharted map of a life he might have lived if he hadn’t found the 8th Wing. A kid with dreams of something more, something better in the sky—he could have wound up just like her, another scavenger stealing a living. Stealing freedom.

Is that what made her who she was now? Is that what he saw when he looked at her, what drew him to her?

A warning beep suddenly filled the cockpit, breaking the moment. Mara spun to the control panel and softly cursed.

He slid into the cockpit and took his seat. “Trouble?”

“PRAXIS.” She tapped a few keys, and a PRAXIS patrol-class cutter appeared on the display. It wasn’t the biggest or most dangerous PRAXIS ship, but it had a goodly compliment of weapons that could blast a little towing ship like the Arcadia out of the sky.

He tensed. “Tell me your ship is armed.”

“She is, but it won’t be necessary.”

The comm line shrilled. “Scavenger ship, prepare to be boarded.”

“Affirmative.” She cut the comm line.

He braced a hand on the control panel. “Don’t let them on the ship.”

They both watched as a shuttle detached from the PRAXIS cutter and headed toward them. One shuttle could hold at least six PRAXIS troops. He wondered how many were on the shuttle now, and if he could take them all down. His plasma pistol was charged. He eyed the narrow passages of the Arcadia. They didn’t offer much room for combat, but he was trained.

“Either I let them board peacefully, or they force their way on.”

“I’ll pilot. Use evasive maneuvers.”

But she shook her head. “Forget it.”

The ship shook slightly as the PRAXIS shuttle came alongside and linked. He rose to his feet and drew his plasma pistol.

“Holster that, flyboy.”

As she started to rise from her seat, his grip on her arm stopped her. “Going to turn me over to PRAXIS?” It made sense. She could rid herself of her 8th Wing escort, forget the mission, and possibly earn herself some leniency from PRAXIS.

She stared up at him, eyes burning cold. “Just keep your mouth shut, and I’ll get us both out alive.” When he still wouldn’t release her arm, she said, “Trust me.”

“Why should I?”

Their eyes locked. “No reason. But you should.”

Trust her? The woman was a scavenger, a smuggler. She lived only for herself. Yet, as their gazes held, he looked deep. His instincts had kept him alive his whole life, from his home world to the space battles in far-away solar systems, and they were the only thing he’d been able to count on when even technology failed. They told him that, yes, he could trust Mara Skiren.

His fingers slowly unclasped from around her arm. He nodded tightly.

Something shifted in her expression, a momentary hint of surprise that he would trust her, followed by a flutter of…gratitude. His trust was an unexpected gift—they both understood this at the same time.

They turned when they heard the sound of the bay door open, and footsteps on the metal floor of the galley.

“Don’t say anything,” she warned.

He nodded again, and together, they moved into the galley. Kell kept himself loose, ready for anything. Mara asked for his trust, and he gave it, but he never trusted PRAXIS. They’d broken too many treaties, overtaken too many worlds, destroyed too many lives.

A PRAXIS officer and two armed troops stepped into the galley. Kell fought down the demand to just take the fuckers out. If anything happened to the officer, the clipper would open fire, and then everything would be over.

Unlike the 8th Wing’s gray uniforms, the PRAXIS Group’s uniforms were a spotless, gleaming white, as if they still believed themselves to be an influence for positive change and progress in the galaxy. Once, long ago, they had been, but greed had superseded the impulse toward advancement and worlds fell underneath the unstoppable force of PRAXIS’s demand for more. More wealth. More planets. More power. Any who disagreed or wanted their own governance were crushed.

Only the 8th Wing stood between PRAXIS and their complete domination of the galaxy.

The officer—a captain, judging by the bars on his collar—stepped into the passageway as if he owned it. He stared insolently at Mara and then Kell. Kell tensed, half expecting the captain to recognize him as the enemy. But the 8th Wing was always careful about keeping the identities of personnel hidden, especially his squadron.

Mara greeted the PRAXIS officer calmly, despite the weapons that were likely trained on her ship at that very moment and the presence of the two armed troops. Her composure reminded Kell of top fighter pilots, level-headed in even the most dangerous situations.

His admiration for her struck him unexpectedly, like an elbow between the shoulder blades.

Mara kept her focus on the PRAXIS officer. “This day gets better by the minute.”

The officer’s eyes lingered on Mara, liking what he saw. Kell’s fists curled and tightened. If that bastard so much as breathed on her, he would tear the captain’s limbs off.

“What brings you to this part of the galaxy, scavenger?” the captain drawled.

“Business.”

The captain smirked. “Of course. Bottom feeding, as usual.”

She didn’t respond to the taunt, even though Kell had the strangest need to punch the smirk off the captain’s face—not because he was PRAXIS, but because of his rudeness to Mara.

“Can we make this quick?” She gazed toward the cockpit. “I’ve got a schedule.”

Annoyed that she wasn’t going to rise to the bait, the captain frowned. “You know why I’m here.”

She did? Kell resisted the urge to shoot Mara a glance. Instead, he stared impassively at the captain.

Mara sighed. “Give me a minute.” She turned and left the galley, but not before sending Kell a quick look that very clearly said, Do not beat the captain into unconsciousness.

Easier to make the request than to obey, especially when the captain openly leered at Mara’s ass as she walked away. His leer faded when he caught the murderous look on Kell’s face.

“Do I know you?” the PRAXIS bastard asked.

“You don’t want to know me.”

For a moment, the captain blanched, then he puffed out his chest as his hand rested meaningfully on the blaster at his waist. “Careful, scavenger. I could have that disrespectful mouth of yours welded shut.”

“Please try,” Kell said.

“Please don’t,” said Mara, returning. She gave the captain a vaguely apologetic shrug. “He’s new. Doesn’t know how things operate.”

“Make sure he learns, and soon.” The captain’s voice dripped with derision. “Before he gets himself and you into trouble.”

“He’ll learn,” Mara answered. She glared at Kell.

I’m standing right here, damn it. But he clenched his teeth until they ached to keep from speaking aloud.

“The tribute?” the captain asked.

Wordlessly, Mara handed him a small metal container. The captain opened it and smiled, then his smile faded. “These had better be real Ingvarian emeralds.”

“I’m not stupid.”

The captain held up one of the stones, light catching in the deep green facets. The container was full of the gems, each the color of forest shadows, each worth more than an Ingvarian miner could earn in five solar years.

Satisfied, the captain returned the emerald to its container. He tucked the box under his arm. “This will suffice. PRAXIS appreciates your tribute.”

“Are we done here?” Mara asked.

“For now.” The implicit threat was obvious. “You can proceed. See you again soon, scavenger.”

Mara’s lips tightened into a flat line. She clearly wanted to fire back a cutting retort. All she could do was nod, then watch as the PRAXIS captain and troops exited her ship.

Neither of them spoke until the shuttle disengaged from the Arcadia and returned to the PRAXIS cutter. They watched as the cutter flew off, presumably to collect more graft.

She sat in the cockpit and busied herself at the control panel, but Kell was still too tightly wound to just sit. He stood in the galley, staring at her back.

“I don’t want to hear it.” She hunched over the controls. “And I’m putting the cost of those emeralds on the 8th Wing’s tab.”

He couldn’t stop himself from pacing, which was the only way he could work off even a fraction of the anger and energy surging through him. He wished this ship had an exercise bay. What he wouldn’t give to go up against a combat holo, punch out his frustration.

“This is why the 8th Wing and their allies fight against PRAXIS. To stop them from taking whatever they want.” As he paced, he ricocheted like a plasma shot. “They take from everyone. Even you. But you don’t have to accept it. You can join the fight.”

She turned and stared at him. A war was waged behind those eyes of hers. Beneath the carefully wielded cynicism he saw apprehension.

“Join the fight.” Doubt weighted her words.

He battled against his own frustration. How could anyone pretend to be neutral when PRAXIS ran roughshod over everything? They would devour the galaxy unless more people took a stand.

Something shimmered through her expression, the barest hint of uncertainty, as if questioning the course she had plotted. Such a contrast from the brash scavenger.

She returned her attention to the control panel before he could be sure. “I’m just a bottom feeder. What I do doesn’t matter.”

“Mara—”

“Drop it.” She punched buttons on the panel with unnecessary force. “The only reason I’m on this mission is because the 8th Wing blackmailed me into it, not for some greater good.”

A strange double sensation of both remorse and righteous anger pierced him. He didn’t like the fact that the 8th Wing had coerced her into cooperating. It made them little better than PRAXIS. But how could anyone insist on neutrality in a war that affected everybody?

“Your allegiances are clear.” He started pacing again, because that was all he could do.

“And if we’re drawing lines in the sand,” she added, “you’d better stay on your side.”

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning I don’t need you getting into a dick-measuring contest when PRAXIS comes calling.”

He felt the blade of her words between his ribs. “Right. Better to just play Nitikkan checkers while that PRAXIS jackass assaults you.”

“I was assaulted?” She batted her lashes with mock astonishment. “It must have happened without me noticing. Not a very good assault, then.”

He glowered at her. “Lesson learned. Next time I feel like protecting you, I’ll punch myself in the face as a reminder not to.”

The anger in her expression slowly dissolved, giving way to uncertainty. “Protecting me? Is that…Is that what you were doing?”

He didn’t answer her, but the look he shot her was answer enough.

“Protecting your way into the Smoke Quadrant,” she said. “Right?”

She saw only what she wanted to see. Nothing he said made a difference. Frustrated, he turned and kicked the little table in the galley, denting it. “No wonder you work alone.”

He stalked off, but wasn’t going to get very far. From a porthole, he saw the retreating lights of the PRAXIS ship. For now, it wasn’t a threat. PRAXIS wasn’t crazy enough to follow them into the wilds of the Smoke Quadrant.

As Mara guided them toward their destination, he looked through a front-facing porthole and saw the faintest trace of red in the distance. Before anyone could enter the Smoke, they had to breach Ilden’s Lash.

He didn’t know what was going to be more dangerous—the ring of fire encircling the quadrant, the murderous thieves and scoundrels who lived there, or the woman piloting this ship.

Chapter Three

They shared an awkward meal at the cramped and now-dented table in the galley. Neither Mara nor the commander spoke as they ate. She burned with questions about him—where he came from, what made him join the 8th Wing, if he liked reading or preferred watching vids—and her curiosity unsettled her. Normally, she didn’t give a damn about someone’s life story. Learning more about them made her own life too complicated.

But something about Commander Frayne spoke to her, reached her, no matter how much she wanted to preserve her isolation. And that bothered her.

She spent most of her time silent, going about her business without speaking to another person for hours, if not days. Yet the silence between her and Frayne grated, reminding her how those silent days were often more lonely than peaceful.

“Food’s not too spicy, is it? I developed a liking for Tulian peppers and put them in everything.” Gods, could she be more banal?

“Not too spicy. I like it hot.”

Of course he did. More than the Tulian peppers made her face heat. She took a long pull from her bottled water and vowed to keep quiet.

As soon as they finished eating, they returned to the cockpit. He filled the small space, not just with his size, but his presence. A radiance of energy around him, male and potent.

She needed to get away from him.

With almost eighteen solar hours to kill before reaching the outer perimeter of the Smoke, the best use of time would be to get some rest. She had navigated Ilden’s Lash dozens, maybe hundreds of times. But it was still dangerous, no matter how familiar, and she needed to rest before threading her ship through the belt of neoplanets and magma. A tired pilot was a dead pilot.

“I’ll take the controls while you sleep,” Frayne said when she told him her plans.

“Nobody touches the Arcadia’s controls but me.” She punched in the directional coordinates and set the ship to autopilot. All sensors were engaged, so if anything or anyone came within a solar hour of the ship an alert would sound, waking even the deepest sleeper. Just one of the many modifications she’d made to her baby. “Can’t be a solo flyer without a little technical assistance.”

The commander didn’t look pleased to be superseded by the autopilot, but she didn’t care. This was her ship, her rules.

“If you don’t like it,” she suggested, “you can get out and walk.”

He did not bother to respond to this. Instead, he stared out the front display, eyes intent on the red miasma of Ilden’s Lash in the distance.

From the corner of her eye, she followed the hard, clean lines of his profile, the strong nose, full bottom lip. A few creases in the corners of his eyes from years of squinting in the unfiltered starlight. That tiny scar at the very edge of one eyebrow—it looked like it came from a knife, not a plasma weapon. He was rugged. A fighter.

She had to wonder—what truly made him want to protect her from the PRAXIS captain? Had Frayne been a fellow scavenger or smuggler, she would immediately know the answer to that. Self interest. Had the commander been anyone else in the 8th Wing, she would make the same guess.

But he wasn’t a scavenger, smuggler, pirate or some lackey trying to protect the 8th Wing’s agenda. She was beginning to learn that Commander Kell Frayne was his own man, with his own drive, his own strength. Both of which he had been ready to use to protect her.

No one had done that in…ever.

She slid out of her seat and ducked into the galley. She didn’t want to think about Frayne defending her, or his reasons for doing so.

“Heading back,” she said. “You may as well get some rest too.”

He turned and stared at her. “This ship has only one sleeping quarters.”

She felt a thick pulse of heat through her body at the unspoken words. One sleeping quarters. One bed. A bed they both knew could accommodate two, even if one of its occupants was Frayne’s size. And wouldn’t she love climbing over that big, hard body of his, exploring and learning its potential and promise. She’d seen his reaction to her back at the 8th Wing base. They could do some wicked things to each other.

The cosmos knew she’d taken men to bed on shorter acquaintance. But the circumstances had been very different. She’d been able to say goodbye, or, in some situations, kick them out in the morning. Not an option with the commander. Their mission together had barely begun. Sure, she could enjoy his body for the next few hours, but what about afterward? She didn’t know what would be worse: if he dismissed her, or if he wanted something more. She had no desire for anything lasting, anyone that wanted true intimacy.

And he was 8th Wing. The other side of the law.

Complicated. Too complicated. She wanted simplicity. That’s what her life had been about, ever since leaving Argenti.

She broke away from his gaze. “I keep a hovermattress, in case of emergencies.” From one of the bulkheads, she pulled out the compacted mattress, then tossed it toward him. “It should fit in the galley.”

He caught the foil-wrapped mattress, his expression of disappointment disappearing almost as soon as it appeared. “This’ll work. The conditions are better than camping in the marshes of Jenufa Ten.”

“You’ve done that?”

He nodded.

“Doesn’t Jenufa Ten have blood-drinker moths the size of cats?”

“The size of dogs, actually. Big dogs.”

Mara shuddered. “I run a cleansing protocol every half a quarter, so there shouldn’t be any blood-drinker moths. Maybe a dirtroach or two.” She grinned.

He smiled back. “I’ll keep my plasma pistol handy.”

Well, hell, if he was going to be charming, he wasn’t going to make this mission any easier. She hit the light controls, engaging the sleep protocol. The lights dimmed. She started to edge toward her quarters, feeling strangely awkward. “Not used to guests. Is there, uh, anything else you need? Some sleep clothes?”

“When I’m on duty, I sleep with my pants and boots on. Off duty, I usually sleep naked.”

Images filled her mind. His bare flesh, the clean, solid form of his body. The tight sleeveless shirt he wore proved how fit he was, and without the shirt, she would see the planes of his chest and ridges of his abdomen, the muscles trailing lower. She wondered if his chest was smooth or haired, and what both textures would feel like against her skin.

“I sleep naked too,” she whispered.

His breath came in a sharp rasp, his eyes blazed with dark fire. In his tight grip, the packaging around the mattress tore. The noise was the sound of control being slowly torn apart.

“If you want to sleep alone, go now.”

A hot thrill shot through her, centering at the tips of her breasts and between her legs. What would it be like to have his warrior’s intensity focused on her? She did and didn’t want to know.

Without another word, she turned and bolted to her quarters. There was no door—no reason to have one when the ship was hers alone. She debated for a moment whether or not to take off her clothes. The Arcadia was small enough so that he’d be able to hear her undressing. A little voice taunted her. Get naked, let him listen to you strip. Tease him. Maybe he’ll join you.

Shut up, she snarled to her inner voice.

She took off her jacket, removed her boots, had another moment’s debate, and then shucked her pants. That was as far as she could take it. Her tank top and panties stayed on. Anything else would be too much of a temptation. Already she found herself straining to listen to him, hearing him move through the galley and unfold the hovermattress.

She waited, holding her breath, for the tell-tale sounds of clothes being stripped off. His shirt, at least, since he was on duty. Curiosity gripped her.

As silently as possible, she crept from her quarters and padded down the short passageway that lead to the galley. She peered around the corner.

He sat on the edge of the hovermattress, his knuckles braced against his knees. He stared straight ahead at the bulkhead. He’d removed his shirt, but, true to his word, kept his pants and boots. Oh, that was a torso to be inscribed in the stars. Hard and carved and meant for both combat and pleasure, dusted with dark hair. A few scars crisscrossed his bronzed skin. She stared at the gorgeous contours of his arms, the muscles tight with strain as if he barely held himself in check. She wanted those arms around her, holding her down as he took what she wanted to offer.

He didn’t turn his head. “Unless you want me to bed you, I suggest you go back to your quarters immediately.” His voice was more growl than words, and she felt herself grow damp.

Even so, she ran back to her quarters, bare feet slapping against the metal floor, then threw herself into her bed. Her heart pounded in time to the needy pulse between her legs as she lay back.

She wanted a simple life, free of entanglements, free of complications. Commander Frayne was very, very complicated—and that made her want him all the more.

Kell swore under his breath, trying without much success to find a comfortable position on the hovermattress. The mattress itself wasn’t the problem. Neither was the unfamiliar environment. He usually could sleep anywhere, at any time. A soldier grabbed rest whenever it became available. He could fall into a deep sleep in minutes and come to full wakefulness in a second.

But that ability had deserted him. More specifically, his cock refused to let him sleep. It was hard and aching, demanding that he get up, stride the few short paces to Mara’s quarters, and lay his weight atop her. Sink into her heat.

His peripheral vision was excellent. He’d seen the blatant interest in her eyes. The way she looked at him as if he was the last drop of water in the Gephel Sand Wastes. She wanted him as much as he wanted her.

It didn’t make any damn sense—he was 8th Wing, she was a scavenger—and it also made perfect sense. Whatever either of them thought about the other’s ethics, or lack thereof, their bodies hungered for each other.

She would be a wild thing beneath him, writhing and fierce. The kind of woman who wanted it hard and hot. He already knew she would leave scratches down his back. Just as he already knew he would leave marks where he gripped her thighs. Those thoughts alone made his cock swell even further.

If he was alone, he’d take care of things. Finish himself off with a few quick, brutal strokes of his hand, and then finally get some sleep. But he wasn’t alone. The scavenger slept only steps away, no door on her quarters. He knew he wouldn’t be quiet. His need was too fierce. He’d come with a groan. She’d hear him.

The thought aroused him even more. He’d never been an exhibitionist. But things changed. People changed.

Was she lying in her bed now, thinking about him, quietly touching herself?

Focus on the mission. Mara was conscripted, an unwilling collaborator. Having sex with her was a complication he, and the mission, did not need. No matter how much he and Mara wanted each other.

Gods, this was torture. He needed to rest, an impossible feat if he kept tormenting himself. He drew upon every ounce of his training, all of his self-control and discipline. Slowly, in painful increments, he willed himself to relax, loosening the tension that ran like plasma fire through his body. His breathing slowed as sleep finally took him.

His dreams were ripe with images of her. Tawny skin. Almond-shaped eyes closed in pleasure. Reckless, eager mouth.

When the sleep protocol ended and the lights came on, he woke just as aroused and frustrated as he’d been hours earlier. Mara rustled around in her quarters.

He sat up and ran his hands through his hair, feeling like ten kinds of hell. He dressed quickly, put away the hovermattress, then ducked into the narrow hygiene bay to splash water on his face and relieve himself. It took a few minutes before his throbbing cock subsided enough so he could piss. Reviewing evasive maneuvers and combat patterns helped distract him. After, he washed, and looked at himself in the mirror. A hard-faced man stared back, his mouth a tight line, tension vibrating through his shoulders.

When he emerged, a mug of steaming kahve was pressed into his hand. A fully-dressed Mara slipped past him into the hygiene bay, avoiding his gaze, but he saw enough to note she looked a little drawn, as if she’d spent an equally unsettled night. That didn’t make him feel any better.

He settled into the cockpit with his mug. A sip proved the kahve was dark and bitter, without sweetness. Exactly the way he liked it. Something he and the scavenger had in common. Including their shared preference for spicy food. He didn’t want to like her. That would be far more labyrinthine than simple lust.

Kell drank his kahve and stared at the nearing Ilden’s Lash. The alarm blared, indicating they were less than a solar hour away from reaching it. Red light filled the cockpit as the ship flew closer. He studied the phenomenon. Few 8th Wing pilots ever got this near. He could examine it in greater depth, report back to command. The information could be useful for future operations.

“Forget it.” Mara slipped into the cockpit, also cradling a mug. She turned off the alarm. “If Ilden’s Lash doesn’t kill 8th Wing pilots, the thieving scum that live in the Smoke will finish the job.”

“You count yourself one of those scum?”

She grinned over the rim of her cup. “Absolutely.”

Kell couldn’t stop his own smile, especially when he saw how her grin made her appear playful, mischievous as a girl.

“I didn’t think the Smoke Quadrant was that well patrolled.” He forced his gaze back to the display showing Ilden’s Lash. “Given that it’s full of thieving scum.”

“No one is more protective of their possessions than a thief. They know how easily things can be stolen.”

“Spoken from experience.”

“Lifetimes of it.” She spoke with the kind of worldliness Kell only heard from retired combat pilots but looked like she had not yet reached thirty solar years. Her eyes held knowledge, hard-won. Her years had been full and difficult.

Not unlike his own.

He didn’t want to think about parallels between them, or anything else that might draw them toward one another. He was an 8th Wing officer, and duty meant everything. He held honor tightly, having had so little of it early in his life. To keep his mind on track now, he continued to stare at the display.

“Tell me more about Ilden’s Lash.”

“So you can make a report for the 8th Wing, like a good little soldier?”

“Because I want to know, damn it. I’m always hungry for more knowledge.” He remembered being a kid, finding discarded digitablets in the waste heaps and reading whatever had been downloaded onto them. Didn’t matter if they held instructions for repairing hydro-regulator systems or the best lunar low grav spas. Every bit of information was devoured.

Mara looked at him, contemplative. He held still under her perceptive scrutiny.

“Didn’t expect that,” she murmured, more to herself than him.

“Why would you? You’ve got the 8th Wing all figured out. We’re all the same.”

“Just like all scavengers are the same?”

He gave a rueful snort. “I call a draw.”

“Agreed.” This time, when they shared a smile, it was from a mutual, wry understanding. Neither of them was quite what the other had expected. She broke the connection first, turning back to the display. “Ilden’s Lash is what makes the Smoke so secure and how the Smoke came to be. It’s a band of protoplanets, some of them more solid than others. Even the more developed planets are still mostly magma.”

“So they’re constantly shifting and re-forming. Like one of those old-fashioned magma lanterns.”

Her laugh was low, husky—unexpectedly arousing. He suddenly imagined her sultry laugh as she tumbled across her bed, with him tumbling atop her.

“Think I remember my older brother having one of those,” she said, entirely unaware of his thoughts. “He used to smoke bindleweed and stare at it for hours.”

He tucked away the knowledge that she had an older brother as one might pocket a glimmering flake of zelenium. Each piece of information about her felt strangely precious.

“But that’s an apt analogy,” she continued. “Ilden’s Lash looks almost exactly like that, except you’d be incinerated if you just stood and stared at it. A passage through might look clear one moment, and in the next, it’s a wall of molten rock.”

“Unpredictable. That’s what keeps everyone out.”

“Except the scum.”

“Except the scum,” he echoed.

They both took sips of their kahve. Sitting with her in the small confines of the cockpit, both nursing their mugs—it felt intimate. He had sat in the base’s mess more times than he could remember, sharing the day’s first cup with other members of the squad. Even when it had been just him and one other person, male or female, discussing the latest briefing or plans for R & R, he hadn’t sensed the same kind of intimacy as he did now.

She must have sensed it, too, because she cleared her throat and shifted awkwardly in her seat. “Just because there are some who know the Smoke and know Ilden’s Lash doesn’t mean it isn’t dangerous. Pilots die trying to make their way through, even ones who’ve taken the Lash a hundred times before.”

“Doesn’t sound like an even trade,” Kell mused. “Risking your life again and again just for a bit of privacy.”

“Two things, Commander. First, never underestimate a scavenger’s need for privacy. We spend our lives running from the law, constantly looking over our shoulders. Having a place that’s all our own is a gift.”

He mulled this, considering how it reflected on her needs. “And the second?”

She gave him another blood-heating smile. “Risk turns us scavengers on.”

“Us scavengers? Or you?”

“Yes to both.” She ran her finger around the rim of her mug. “But especially me.”

He fought a shudder of need. When he spoke, he was surprised how level his voice sounded, instead of the growl he thought it would be. “You should consider becoming a fighter pilot.”

“A bunch of thrill seekers?”

“Worse than kids darting between laser trams.”

She shook her head. “And here I thought you 8th Wing types were all rule and regulation.”

“A lot are,” he admitted. “Couldn’t fight PRAXIS if there wasn’t discipline and order. But Black Wraith Squad—we’re the wild ones.”

Her gaze turned contemplative as she stared at him. “I like the sound of that.”

Kell seriously wondered if she was trying to kill him. Every word out of her mouth seemed laden with erotic promise. Deliberate or not, it played havoc with his willpower. He felt tightly wound, as if it had been two months and not two weeks since he’d last taken a woman to bed. It took him a moment to remember who that woman had been—a lieutenant from the Engineering Corps who’d been looking for a night’s release—but everything about that night vanished in the heat of Mara’s presence.

How the fuck was he supposed to get through this mission with his mind and reflexes intact? He had thought the danger would come from either PRAXIS or negotiating the Smoke Quadrant. Turned out that the biggest threat sat right beside him, in the form of a scavenger with wide-set eyes, silky white hair and a thirst for excitement.

It was a relief when the control panel blared, breaking the moment. Mara straightened and set her mug down at her feet.

“Better drain your cup, Commander,” she said, all business. “It’s about to get rough.”

He did so, and just in time. They had reached the outer perimeter of Ilden’s Lash. Giant, shifting masses of molten rock seethed and moved, and clots of partially-formed asteroids careened between them. A hunk of scrap metal drifted through the Lash. The moment it contacted a swell of magma, it incinerated.

Seeing Ilden’s Lash through the cockpit’s window sent a bolt of adrenalin through him. A normal person would be frightened. Kell grinned.

She caught his grin, and her eyes gleamed with anticipation.

“Let me fly us through.” He leaned forward, barely able to contain his excitement.

“Don’t trust my skills?”

“I want to take a shot at it.”

“Decelerate your thrusters, Frayne. This is my ship, and my run through the Lash.”

He growled his displeasure. Whenever he saw a challenge, he ached to conquer it. But unless he wanted to tie Mara down and wrest the controls from her, he was going to have to content himself with letting her do the work.

“I hate being a passenger,” he muttered.

“Me too.” She took the controls.

And then all arguments about who would and wouldn’t be piloting the ship disappeared as they breached the Lash.

Calm but focused, Mara angled the ship to swerve through a narrow opening between two protoplanets. The ship shot forward, then banked hard to port when a cluster of asteroids spun toward them. Three asteroids collided with one another, shattering into clouds of jagged debris. The ship shimmied with the force of the concussion.

“Having fun?” Mara shouted above the rattle of the hull.

“Hell, yes,” he shouted back.

“Good—because it gets better.”

Someone else, someone sane, might have said that the going got worse, but clearly Kell and Mara had different ideas as to what constituted “fun.”

They flew toward massive shapes of nascent planets that spewed arcs of magma, stretching like fiery bridges between the protoplanets. Just beyond lay the relative calm of the Smoke Quadrant.

Mara pushed the ship onward, accelerating. Great technique. A lesser pilot would think to slow down when approaching a dangerous obstacle, but those with more experience knew that greater speed meant greater maneuverability. And Mara guided them with a skilled, fearless hand, swooping and diving between the protoplanets. Several times, it looked as though she steered them directly toward a surge of magma, but just as the ship neared the molten rock, the surge shifted out of their path, leaving them a clear route forward. Meanwhile, the clear routes suddenly were blocked by seething columns of magma.

“That’s how these wily fuckers work.” She laughed like a madwoman. “I love it.”

He grinned. Unpredictable—the Lash and the woman. It surprised him how much she made him smile.

They were almost through. Mara pushed the accelerator.

“Starboard,” Kell murmured.

She banked away just as an asteroid flew at them from the starboard side. Then they were out, Ilden’s Lash retreating behind them in a fiery red haze. Adrenalin continued to pour through him, even though he hadn’t been the pilot. Another day.

“Appreciate it, Commander.”

“Kell. Seeing as how I just saved your ass, you can call me Kell.”

“You didn’t save my ass,” she argued, but she didn’t sound angry. Far from it. She laughed again, and the sultry sound curled warmly in his groin. “I had everything under control. Kell.”

Hearing her say his name, his pulse spiked—far more than it had when navigating the dangers of Ilden’s Lash. Hunger gripped him, and it was all he could do to keep from dragging her out of the pilot’s seat, having her straddle him. He wanted his mouth on hers, his hands all over her body. His cock felt huge, demanding. It wanted inside her.

Focus, goddamn it.

“We’ll be at Ryge soon,” she said, totally unaware of the fact that he wanted to fuck her up against the control panel.

He barely managed to growl his assent. They couldn’t get to Ryge soon enough. Even a man as tightly controlled as Kell had a breaking point, and he was getting dangerously close to his.

Chapter Four

She played with fire.

Mara studied her reflection in the mirror, a knowing smile curving her lips. It was dangerous, what she was doing, but she couldn’t stop herself. After breaching Ilden’s Lash, she’d seen the raw hunger and need in Kell’s face, and the same impulse that had her laughing all the way through the band of dangerous protoplanets made her choose the clothing she now wore.

She had gone a little overboard—deliberately. Yes, the scavengers and smugglers on Ryge liked to dress flamboyantly. Calling cards for how successful they were. A drab scavenger clearly wasn’t doing well, and they were a collection of braggarts. Nobody respected the soft-spoken, the humble. Reputation wasn’t everything, but it counted for a lot.

Mara’s reputation gleamed, and everybody in the Smoke knew if they wanted merch moved, or prime scrap, she was the one to see. So she dressed the part.

As the Arcadia neared Ryge, she had slipped into her quarters to change from her usual working clothes to her Smoke persona. The rationale being she needed to learn any intel on the whereabouts of Lieutenant Jur and her Wraith ship, and the best way to glean intel was to cut a wide and respected swath through the watering holes of Beskidt By.

But, as she stared at her image reflected back at her, Mara knew the real reason she’d selected these particular clothes. And he was sitting in the cockpit right now.

She took a deep breath and walked from her quarters into the galley.

Hearing her footsteps behind him, Kell spoke. “We need to formulate a—” His deep voice trailed off as he turned and saw her, an expression of complete and total wonderment on his face.

“Formulate a what?”

“A…strategy.” He couldn’t even blink. “A strategy to…uh…to…” Then he simply stopped speaking and stared.

She resisted the impulse to pose, though she very much wanted to. She knew she looked good, drew power from that, as she held herself still for his amazed stare.

Her typical uniform of cargo pants, heavy boots, tank top and nyyrikki-skin jacket was now on the floor of her quarters. Instead, a crimson koen-hide skirt clung to her hips, ending at mid thigh. Her cap-sleeved, gold tissue blouse scooped low on her chest, revealing an expanse of tawny skin. She’d laced herself into a corset of dark red Hadaza silk, which ended just beneath her breasts and lifted them up in unashamed display. Koen-hide gauntlets covered her from wrist to elbow, held in place by a series of buckled straps. Her matching sharp-heeled boots climbed to just above her knees, and more buckles gleamed in deliberate provocation. It would take patience and resolve for him to strip her of the boots, unlace her from the corset and unbuckle the gauntlets, but she knew the rewards would be worth it.

Naturally, she still wore her plasma pistol. And naturally, she could fight or run in her boots.

Unfiltered desire tightened Kell’s features. Slowly, he began to rise from his seat in the cockpit, his eyes never leaving her. A growl resonated low in his throat, making him sound more beast than man. It had been at least a day since his last shave, and the dark bristle across his jaw only strengthened his rough, animal appearance.

She pressed her thighs together as a rush of arousal flooded her. Last night, she had lain in her bed and listened to Kell moving his big body restlessly across the hovermattress. It had taken more self control than she’d thought she possessed to keep from pinning him down on that mattress. She’d had to sleep on top of her hands to keep from touching herself.

“Back on my homeworld,” he said, his voice low and roughened, “there were these feral macskacats. No one knew how such wild creatures got into the cities. But they adapted to their urban environment, hunted in the shadows. Sometimes street orphans disappeared, and we knew the macskacats got them. One cornered me, once, when I was alone after dark.” His dark stare burned her. “Barely made it out alive.” He pulled on the cropped sleeve of his shirt to reveal an old scar across his shoulder—four deep gouges from an animal’s claws.

“But think of the thrill from facing the beast.”

“Foolish to discount the threat of a dangerous animal.”

“Better watch your back. I might leave you with more claw marks.”

There was nothing warm or friendly about his smile. It was pure predator. “In this analogy, you aren’t the animal.”

Mara sauntered forward, though her heart beat faster. “Whatever wildness you’re capable of, I can take it.” Then she started. “Fuck.”

His eyes darkened even further. “Exactly.”

“No, I mean—” she pointed over his shoulder, “—fuck.”

Kell turned and cursed under his breath. “That’s Ryge?”

“On a bad day.” Mara squeezed past him, and though her body heated as it rubbed so closely against his, her attention was fixed on what she saw out the cockpit window.

A swirling energy storm encircled the planet, its heavy mass broken by flashes of lightning. The roiling clouds were sickly yellow, and through them one could barely see the surface of the planet.

“The pollution on Ryge does this sometimes.” She sank into her seat. “Nobody can fly in or out until the storm abates.”

Kell took his seat beside her. “How long does that take?”

“Could be days.”

He cursed again, surprising Mara with his extensive vocabulary of foul language. She had no idea 8th Wing even knew such words existed.

“We don’t have that kind of time.” He growled his frustration.

“If we can’t get through, no one else can, either.” She pointed toward the forms of other ships orbiting Ryge, all of them waiting out the storm. “That means that whoever has the lieutenant and her ship probably won’t do anything until the storm clears.”

“‘Probably’ isn’t good enough. I need certainties.” His jaw hardened as he stared at the tempest surrounding the planet. “Have you ever flown through one of these storms?”

“No.” She fought against a rush of embarrassment.

After a moment, he said, “I’ll fly us through.”

Had she misheard? “Hell, no.”

“I understand if you’re scared—”

She was, a little. Still, the thought of anybody but her at the Arcadia’s controls made her palms damp and her stomach hurt. She had fought too much to surrender her ship to anyone.

“—but I refuse to let the slightest delay keep me from securing Lieutenant Jur’s safety, or the safety of her ship.”

The man who’d spoken with fierce, sexual hunger moments earlier was gone. A hard-edged soldier had taken his place, one who refused any capitulation. She discovered she found them both equally alluring.

Beyond this, she saw that he worried for the safety of his squadron. The intensity of his gaze showed concern that went beyond mere duty. Lieutenant Jur was Kell’s friend, and that meant something to him. Had anyone ever cared for her with such ferocity? Being in the presence of that kind of loyalty humbled her, made her yearn for something she had never known.

“We take on the storm,” she finally said. “But I’m piloting the ship.”

He looked like he wanted to argue. But spines weren’t reserved just for 8th Wing flyboys. Mara had one, too, and she wouldn’t back down. Arcadia was hers. Only hers. He saw that she would not yield, then grudgingly acquiesced, settling into his seat with only a slight grumble.

If he really wanted to, he could have lifted her bodily from the captain’s seat. Found some way of restraining her while he took the controls and flew them through the storm. But he didn’t. True, she’d demonstrated her skill by getting them through Ilden’s Lash. But, dangerous as the Lash was, ships breached it often. No one was attempting to breach the energy storm.

Kell, however, trusted her. His trust moved her, more deeply than his blatant desire. She had never allowed any of her supposed scavenger friends close enough to develop trust. Yet in the short time she had known Kell, he’d seen something within her, something he believed in.

Suddenly, navigating the storm seemed a little less daunting—knowing she was in control, but having him beside her.

“It’s time,” he said.

“Time to make this energy storm our slave.”

A corner of his mouth curved up, and she wanted to trace the shape with the tips of her fingers or, better yet, her tongue. Instead, she rubbed her slightly damp palms on her skirt. She didn’t miss how his eyes followed her movement, his gaze lingering on the expanse of bare thigh between her boots and her skirt. The heat in his eyes matched the fury of the storm.

Taking the controls, Mara guided the ship forward. As they neared the outer edge of the storm, the comm line shrilled.

“Skiren, what the hell are you doing?” She recognized the voice as belonging to a fellow scavenger.

“Heading toward Ryge, Vachan.”

“Have you lost your damn mind?”

“A long time ago.”

The ship shuddered as it breached the first energy clouds. Kell kept himself remarkably still.

“If you make it through in one piece, you’ll be a legend,” Vachan said.

“If I don’t, have a drink in my honor. And charge it to Sekou. That bastard never pays for his own drinks.”

Vachan rasped his hoarse laugh. Then, quieter, “See you in the Treasure House.”

“See you.”

The comm line fuzzed out as the clouds thickened around the ship. Mara gripped the controls tighter, struggling for stability.

“Is the Treasure House a bar?” Kell asked above the rattling hull.

“Scavenger’s afterlife.”

He gave a small nod, thick with understanding, and then everything went insane.

Arcadia was a solidly-built ship. It had to be, to produce enough power to tow sizeable cargo. Mara made minor repairs from time to time on the hull, but it held together without problem, unlike some of the cheap, old ships she saw clattering through the galaxy.

Right now, flying into the energy storm around Ryge, she seriously considered that the Arcadia was going to break into tiny fragments. The ship quaked and shuddered as energy clouds buffeted it from every side. It sounded like they were being attacked by sonic hammers.

She gripped the controls until her hands ached, fighting to keep the ship steady.

Beside her, Kell stared ahead, grim and focused. The cockpit was filled with sulfurous light, painting his stern face in harsh yellow illumination.

There was no fear in his eyes, only determination. That helped stabilize her, even as the ship was knocked back and forth like a child’s mechtop.

She cursed. “The damn energy currents are shoving us all over the place.” As she said this, they were flung to the side, and only her seatbelt kept her from being thrown to the wall.

“Don’t fight them.” Kell’s voice was level, raised only to be heard above the clamor. “Use their swells to move forward.”

It sounded like a bad idea, since she had no idea where the currents would take them, but things couldn’t get worse. At this rate, she and Kell would soon be burning fragment falling to Ryge. So, instead of wrestling the ship away from the energy swells, she steered with them.

For a moment, they careened, out of control, as the swell’s momentum took hold. Mara knew a brief panic as command of the ship vanished. The Arcadia belonged to another creature. It belonged to the storm. She wanted to pull hard on the controls, seize her ship back.

“Wait,” Kell said.

She shouted above the clamor, “We’re going to be cosmic powder in a second.”

“Wait,” he said again. Then, “Trust me.”

Despite the chaos of the storm around them, she held his dark, cool gaze. Once more, she marveled that he trusted her enough to put his life in her hands.

So she waited, letting the energy current take the ship where it willed. Incredibly, the hull’s shaking subsided, and the ship’s wild trajectory evened. Mara felt the controls ease back into her command.

“How?” she asked.

“Sometimes, it’s better to let the current take you where it wants to go.”

She chuckled, then cursed when a blade of lightning shot from the clouds and clipped Arcadia’s wing. The ship screamed and bucked. Mara held tight to the controls.

Checking the energy shield’s readout, she saw that Arcadia couldn’t take many more direct hits. More lightning struck, and Mara just managed to steer away from them—barely. She used every ounce of piloting skill she possessed to weave and dodge the lightning, sweat filming her back.

Kell’s brow furrowed, and the flashes of garish light from the lightning carved the lines and hollows of his hard face.

“Does the cockpit window have viewing filters?” he asked.

“Yes—using the planetary filter now.” The filter allowed her to keep track of planetary masses, no matter what obstruction blocked her view. The shape of Ryge could be seen through the thick morass of energy clouds.

“Use the spectral resonance filter.”

She frowned. “Why?”

“No time to explain why. Do it.”

She never took kindly to having people tell her what to do, but Mara wasn’t foolish. Now was not the time to take offense. She tapped her fingers on the control panel. The filter overlaying the cockpit window shifted, switching to spectral resonance.

What she saw made her gasp. The sickly yellow clouds now appeared as multihued shapes. It took a moment for her eyes to acclimate as she learned how to read the images. With the filter engaged, she could see the patterns of energy as they shifted and formed.

Including seeing the hot blue glow that coalesced in the moments before lightning formed. Which meant she knew the areas to avoid as she steered the ship closer to Ryge’s surface.

“Brilliant,” she crowed. She knocked a fist into Kell’s solid shoulder, and he grinned at her—a mesmerizing sight.

No time to appreciate it now. She still had to get them safely to the other side of the storm. Using the spectral resonance to sidestep developing lightning, Mara guided them through a complex dance. She saw gathering energy and slipped around it, then took advantage of a swell to shoot forward. Time lost its significance as her world narrowed. All she knew was the shifting forms of energy, the narrow passages of safety. It took precision, delicacy. Her heart beat with a combination of fear and excitement.

They rose one final current of energy and then—suddenly—the clouds parted. Ryge’s surface appeared. Its grimy seas and sandy wastes, and the glittering sores of its cities. No one ever thought Ryge was a pretty planet, but at that moment, Mara had never been so glad to see the old rubbish lump.

She switched off the spectral resonance filter to better see the planet that came as close as any to home.

The comm line trilled. “Arcadia, this is Beskidt By Control. Am I drunk, or did you just fly through that son-of-a-bitch energy storm?”

“You probably are drunk,” she answered, “but, yes, I did fly through that bastard.” With one incredibly smart and daring 8th Wing flyboy beside her.

Whomever was at the other end of the comm line whistled. “Well, hell. You’re cleared to land at Dock 32-Rho.”

Mara cut the line and focused on landing. The familiar skyline of Beskidt By drew closer, spires and slums crisscrossed by small darting craft and larger shuttles ferrying people from one nefarious destination to another. Everything lay washed in tawdry light from countless signs and advertisements, and some buildings crumbled while new monstrosities rose toward the sky. The city stretched like a riddle with no answer, as though it had been designed by a mad specerij addict.

She knew her way to the docks and didn’t need the flashing lights along the landing strips to guide her there. The only thing that struck her as odd was how quiet it seemed around the docks—until she remembered that no one was coming in to or leaving Ryge while the storm continued to rage. Only she—and Kell—had managed to get through.

“Nice flying,” Kell said, and though his eyes never stopped moving, taking in everything around him, when he did glance at her, his gaze was warm with admiration.

“I did it,” she breathed. “We did it.” She started to laugh—it felt wild and freeing after the tension of the last hour.

His low, husky laugh blended with hers. “Hell of a ride.”

The atmosphere between them thickened, sultry as a heat typhoon, heavy with promise.

They finally touched down at the designated dock. The moment the landing gear contacted the ground, Mara and Kell’s gazes locked. Heat washed over her. She didn’t know who moved first, maybe him, maybe her, maybe both at the same time. But one moment they stared at one another, and the next, they undid their seatbelts and surged toward each other. Met in the space between their seats.

She felt the texture of his lips, his mouth against hers, firm, seeking. Even before their mouths opened, need slammed into her. He licked at her, then delved inside, stroking his tongue against hers. His taste intoxicated her, rough and male, and she drank him in as she did her own exploring. They had kept their hungers tightly leashed. Now the leash had broken and they had free rein, both of them fierce and demanding.

Kell’s kiss moved through her body in hot, humid waves. Her breasts grew heavy and sensitive. Her pussy dampened, a fast clench of need that wanted to be filled.

She felt his large hand cupping the back of her head, angling her to take his kiss deeper. And when she did, he groaned his praise.

Using strength gleaned from desire, Mara pushed him back so he sat in his chair. He went willingly, understanding her intent. She straddled him, her arms wrapped around the width of his shoulders. His hand still held the back of her head, while his other hand gripped her waist hard. Mara pressed her hypersensitive body to his and found that he was as tight and solid as she’d imagined. But it was better, so much better, than in her imagination. He had a fighter’s body and a fighter’s strength, and all of it, all of his strength and fire, was focused on her.

Her skirt rode up. Her hips pressed into his. Beneath the searing heat of her pussy, she felt him. The hard, thick length of his cock pressing into her. He wanted inside her. She wanted him there. She rocked her hips into him, and even through the fabric of her panties and his pants, the shaft of his cock edged between her folds. God, she was so wet. Wet for him. He had to feel it.

“Yes.” His voice rumbled into her mouth, as if in answer to her silent speculation.

The world tilted as he leaned her back, pressing her against the control panel. His thighs were hard beneath her, solid. The hand at her waist released, then she felt the blazing trails of his fingers drifting down between them. In a moment, he would touch her, and she knew with total clarity that the instant he did, she would come, and come hard. And then she wanted him to fuck her right against the control panel.

The comm line shrilled. “Who needs the sex acrobats at Folco’s Bar when we have a show right here?”

Both she and Kell froze, trapped in place. Slowly, very slowly, Mara turned her head to look out the cockpit window.

Standing outside the ship were half a dozen grinning men. One of them wore a comm headpiece. When he caught her looking at him, he gave a cheerful wave.

Mara gave him the finger.

With a groan that was part animal, part man, but all frustration, Kell’s big hands wrapped around her waist and lifted her up. He deposited her back in the captain’s seat. For a moment, all she could do was sit in dazed, thwarted wonder, her lips swollen, her pussy still extraordinarily wet and wanting.

Kell’s hands knotted into fists and pressed hard into the control panel. “I’ve got a rule,” he gritted. “I don’t fuck in front of an audience.” He eyed her. “Cover up.”

The implication being that if she sat around with her skirt bunched around her waist, revealing her damp panties, he just might break that rule. She tugged her skirt down.

She glanced over at him. He looked tight as a sonic bow, ready to snap. And the thick shape of his erection under his pants drew her gaze. Her mouth watered.

“Look somewhere else, damn it.”

She had to get away from him or else she would attack him. Just rip his clothes off and screw him in front of the dock crew and whoever else might be watching. Once she was fairly certain her legs wouldn’t collapse out from under her, Mara stood. Still, she found herself a little unstable as she tottered into the galley. A few moments later, Kell joined her, and he looked just as volatile and unsatisfied as she felt.

He stared at her, then took a deep, shuddering breath and dragged his hands through his hair. It stood up in sharp spikes, making him look even more like a blade. She knew what she must look like. Eyes glazed, mouth red. A woman on the verge of an orgasm. A woman who wanted the man who stood before her, his big body faintly shaking.

But she reminded herself of where she was and why she was here. And her white hot arousal began to slowly, slowly cool.

“This is where the mission truly begins,” she said.

He nodded, a quick, clipped movement.

She moved toward the door, placing a hand on her plasma pistol. “Be ready. Beskidt Bay is a dangerous place.”

His own hand hovered above the plasma weapon strapped to his thigh. Yet one corner of his mouth turned up, the sharp edge of a smile. “Nothing’s as dangerous as this.” He leaned close, and his nearness set alight the charged heat between them, rife with voracious hunger.

For once, Mara didn’t argue.

Chapter Five

Kell was lost.

He didn’t know the rough, mean city of Beskidt By, couldn’t say what bars watered their drinks or spiked them with something more dangerous than water. He didn’t know which sex theaters offered the best entertainment, both on stage and off. Of its many gambling dens, he didn’t know which were slightly more honest, cheating their patrons just a little rather than a lot. The tough faces staring back suspiciously at him from doorways were unknown to him, as well.

But he knew this place, knew it very well. It didn’t matter if the planet was Ryge, hidden within the Smoke Quadrant, or another planet in some other solar system. Kell knew the streets, knew the people, their avarice and need to survive. He might not have the map for this particular city soldered on the circuitry of his mind, but he understood without a doubt that, if he had to, he could find his way through this filthy maze.

Yet when it came to Mara Skiren, he felt himself wandering without guidance. Made him damn edgy.

He walked beside her through the twisted, grimy streets of Beskidt By. They dodged wasp taxis darting past, drivers bent low as the fares clutched the side bars for safety. Cries of hawkers clotted the thick air, selling everything from service drones to black market drugs to cups of steaming kahve. Overhead, glimpses of sulfurous clouds peered between the towering buildings, reminders that no one could fly in or out of Ryge until the storm dissipated. Kell and Mara had been the only ones to land in nearly twenty-four solar hours.

She led them now through the web of Beskidt By, her movements sure and confident. The city belonged to her, in its way. Kell saw this in the way she was greeted, again and again, by the various lowlifes lingering in the street. Those that didn’t seem to know her stared at her, anyway. Easy to see why. Her sleek curves, those provocative clothes, the poised, almost aristocratic way she held herself. Any male, and likely many females, would want her.

He counted himself amongst that number. Only half an hour earlier, he’d almost had her. His body still protested the loss. She’d been fire and spice and hungry, so hungry. He’d never touched a woman like her before. Now his body wanted, demanded more.

Don’t think about that now, or else you’ll be walking the streets of Beskidt By with a gigantic hard-on.

“You’re a popular character,” he noted after a one-armed woman shuffled out from a shop to pound Mara on the back.

“Yes.” She tossed the remark carelessly over her shoulder. “But now I’m legendary. Nobody else has flown through the storm.” She sent him an opaque glance. “Nobody else had the same kind of help.”

“There were two of us, but we worked as one.” Though Wraith ships could accommodate two—a pilot and a gunner—Kell usually flew alone. He hadn’t expected the seamless way he and Mara had performed together. She was a damned good pilot too. Intuitive but astute.

She also looked damned sexy with her hands on the ship’s controls. Kell couldn’t help but wonder if she might grip him with the same assured skill. An image flared in his mind—him laying back, her grasping his cock, positioning him to slide into her.

Don’t fucking think it.

“Partnership is new to me,” she said.

“Maybe you’ll grow to like it.” He certainly was.

“Doubt that.” But she smiled and edged ahead, leading the way. “Not much further.” Even if her image wasn’t already burned into him, he could find her through the thick, raucous crowds choking the streets. There weren’t many Argenti here, and her creamy white hair shone like a beacon in the grime and glare of Beskidt By. He felt the strange urge to shield her from the filth of both physical and human varieties—which was ridiculous. She was a scavenger, a dealer of stolen goods, and candidly admitted to doing what she had to in order to persevere.

She eyed the long, thin scarf he had wrapped around his neck before they had disembarked. “Do you have to wear that? Looks like your psychotic grandmother wove it on her digiloom.”

Kell fingered the garment in question. “It serves its purpose.”

“If that purpose is to cause spontaneous blindness, then I’d say it succeeded.” She stopped outside a singularly shabby door, covered in rust. It looked like it hadn’t been serviced in half a millennium. “This is the joint.”

He eyed the building dubiously. Still, she knew this world better than he did, so he nodded.

Mara stepped forward and pounded on the door. A small peephole slid open with a rasp. Two red-rimmed eyes stared back.

“Piss off,” snarled a gravelly voice.

“Stick your fist up your ass,” Mara returned.

“Skiren.”

“Yrjo.”

The red eyes glared at Kell. “What’s with tall, dark and menacing?”

“He’s with me.” When the owner of the red eyes didn’t answer right away, Mara said, “Come on, Yrjo. I’ve been coming here for years. If I say he’s with me, he’s with me. And he isn’t going to cause trouble.” This was said more for Kell’s benefit than the doorman.

“Much,” Kell added.

Mara shot him a glower, letting him know his commentary was not appreciated.

After a moment, the peephole shut. With an angry groan, the door slid open. Mara stepped inside, and, after checking the street one last time, Kell followed.

Inside, the red-eyed doorman continued to stare balefully at him. There was no doubt in his mind that the squat man had used the giant plasma shotgun strapped to his back. The weapon looked like it had been modded to cause maximum pain.

“Go on up,” the doorman grunted. He jerked his head toward an elevator bay.

The doors opened and Kell and Mara got on. At least the tech for the elevator was a little more up-to-date, only partially instead of completely rusted. The elevator shot up, whirring. He wondered if he had enough time to get her up against the wall. His hands up her skirt. Her legs around his waist.

“Leave the talking to me,” she said.

“Seems to be a common refrain.”

She shrugged, but her smile was pure devious charm. “This is my territory. 8th Wing came to me for assistance. Well, my assistance means you have to keep your mouth shut.”

“How convenient for you.”

Betraying the cunning brains that lurked beneath her gorgeous exterior, she said, “You hate not being in control.”

“It’s better for everyone when I call the shots.”

She folded her arms across her chest, and the gesture made her already lifted breasts rise just a little higher. “Anybody ever call you arrogant?”

“All the time.”

Her laughter was rueful, but admiring. Then, quietly, almost to herself, she murmured, “Don’t make me like you.”

Before he could question that statement further, the doors to the elevator slid open. Mara stepped out, he went right behind her, and they found themselves in smuggler’s paradise.

He became aware of two things at once: the noise, and the smell. Voices combined to form a discordant ocean, yelling to be heard above the pounding music. Laughter. Shouts, both jovial and angry. A table broke. Somebody screamed. The music continued.

Bodies, alcohol and sticky smoke merged into one viscous cloud of smell. Sex, too, musky and thick, scented the air. Peering into the darkness, he thought he might have seen a couple—or threesome—engaged in what should have been a private activity, except they were on a stage.

“Like it?” Mara shouted.

“It’s not the officers’ mess.”

The club, or whatever one might call such a place, spread out in an arrangement of large, smoky rooms. Tables and booths filled the rooms, and each had its own bar, tended by men and women who looked like they would sooner stick an infrared blade through your eye than take a drink order. A distant wall held a bank of windows, offering a panoramic view of Beskidt By, but no one seemed to care what was on the other side of the tinted glass.

Mara moved into the room and he trailed after her, his gaze constantly moving, assessing the situation. He didn’t like the minimal number of exits, nor the fact that they were dozens, if not a hundred, stories up, leaving too few options in case they needed to leave in a hurry. Shadows clogged every corner. They could hide any number of threats. The patrons of the club were a who’s who of wanted criminals. He recognized one slave trader, three drug dealers, and at least a dozen smugglers.

He just hoped none of them recognized him. Doubtless they’d disembowel him on one of the stages if they knew he was 8th Wing. Seemed like the kind of entertainment the crowd would enjoy.

Mara strode through the thick of it, completely comfortable yet also…regal. She called out greetings as she walked. Almost everyone knew her, and she knew them. “Giri—I haven’t seen you since that specerij lab explosion. Face is healing nicely. Edlyn—you promised me an ether processor, and I’m still waiting. Is that Qadir? Did you collect that bounty, yet? Well, you always get less when you bring them in dead. Yes, even in pieces.”

If Mara was accepted as one of their own, Kell was the subject of hundreds of wary stares. Several people actually did double takes when they saw him walking with her.

One hulking thug with a face webbed with scar tissue lumbered out of his seat, then placed himself deliberately in his path. Kell shifted to walk around Scar Face, but the man kept stepping in his way.

Kell fought a sigh. These pissing matches were annoying as hell.

“Pretty little drawing you got there.” Scar Face jabbed a meaty finger into the tattoo on Kell’s arm.

Kell only stared at him.

“What’s it mean?” Scar Face pressed.

“It—”

“Means you like sucking cock.” Scar Face laughed at his own joke.

Gods, the fucker’s brain had to be in reverse proportion to his size.

“No,” said Kell.

A few people nearby gasped. From behind Scar Face’s massive bulk, Mara shook her head. Clearly, no one contradicted this asshole.

“What?” Scar Face pushed closer to Kell, and a wave of sweat stench rolled off him. “What did you say?”

“I said, No. And don’t touch me again.”

“The fuck I won’t.” He moved to shove his finger into Kell’s arm once more.

The next moment, Scar Face was sprawled on the floor. Kell had his knee pinned to the man’s neck and his plasma pistol in his face. Scar Face’s tiny eyes widened as he went purple. Though conversation and music did not stop, they did quiet nearby.

“You want the inside of your head splattered all over this lovely club?” Kell asked conversationally.

Scar Face tried to shake his head, but Kell’s knee kept him from moving. And breathing.

“I’d like an answer,” Kell said.

“N…no.”

“Then don’t touch me or talk to me again. We clear?”

Scar Face attempted another nod, then gasped, “Clear.”

Smoothly, Kell removed his knee and rose to standing. He didn’t look behind him to watch Scar Face stumble away.

“I thought I said you wouldn’t cause trouble,” Mara said.

He shrugged. “Trouble finds me.”

She stepped close. She took his hand—even in the stifling heat of the club, he was scorched by her touch—and led him to a booth that mysteriously emptied as they approached. Once they settled in, she crooked her finger so that he bent his head to her. Lips an inch from his ear, she whispered, “8th Wing teach you that move?”

It took him a moment to focus on what she was saying, rather than how close her mouth was, the light feathering of her breath against his cheek. “Learned how to fight on Sayén.”

She frowned, pulling back. “Where?”

He gave a low, rueful chuckle. It didn’t surprise him she’d never heard of it. “My homeworld.”

“A rough place,” she deduced. “Where macskacats feed on street orphans and attack the unwary after dark.” She started. “You were one of those street orphans.”

He nodded tightly. “Sayén wasn’t always like that. So I was told. Modestly prosperous. Nothing special. Until PRAXIS heard about the deposits of sherica.”

She paled as understanding dawned. Sherica was an integral component for interstellar travel, used in countless reactors, and PRAXIS would want it for their own manufacturing.

“PRAXIS did their usual procedure.” His voice was toneless. “Swoop in, tell everybody their lives were going to get better. For a while, that was true. Lots of development—cities constructed, people buying more. The birth rate skyrocketed. All other industries fell away as everyone focused on harvesting the sherica. People forgot how to do anything but harvest. Then the sherica deposits dried up. PRAXIS left, taking with them the only source of income. And then…” He shrugged, though the movement felt stiff.

“Chaos,” Mara deduced.

“The government applied to PRAXIS for aid. Troops, loans, anything. But PRAXIS got what they wanted. The Sayén I was born on had nothing but ravaged cities and broken people.”

“And you were one of them.” She stared at him now, serious and sorry.

He didn’t know if he liked seeing that expression on her face, not directed toward him. Pity never helped anyone. It hadn’t helped him. Only determination and resolve had pushed him on, given him a new life away from the gutters of his ruined homeworld.

“How’d you leave?” she asked.

“I earned creds doing what I was good at. Street brawling, cage fights, alpha tournaments. Bribed my way onto a passing cargo ship.”

“And became a flyboy, fighting against PRAXIS.”

“Something like that.” He scanned the room, making sure that Scar Face wasn’t coming back with reinforcements. When he glanced over at Mara, he found her gaze locked to his face. She looked a little stunned. More incredibly, there was no trace of pity in her expression. Only…admiration.

He had never spoken of any of that, not to anyone outside of confidential officer assessments. When other 8th Wing personnel talked of home, Kell said nothing.

But he’d told Mara things about himself that no one had ever heard. He didn’t know why. He wasn’t certain what she might say. Part of him wondered if she would use his history to taunt him, tell him that he was nothing but street trash pretending to be an ace pilot, that his 8th Wing uniform couldn’t hide who he really was. A hot cage encircled his chest, burning his lungs, his heart.

Her opinion of him mattered. He saw this with a quick, vicious understanding.

Instead of speaking, her hand slid out from beneath the table top and wrapped around the fist he was not even aware of making. Slowly, she worked her fingers between his, until they were woven together.

The hot cage around his chest suddenly loosened.

“This is where to come for information.” She scanned the room. Her fingers were still threaded with his, so it took him a moment to understand what she was saying. “Anything happens in Beskidt By, or on Ryge, you just come to Kusa’s. Better than the latest news uploads.”

He saw how the network operated. People continuously moved from table to table, some of them speaking with heads together, others shouting across the room. Light glinted off cred chips changing hands.

“That guy in the corner.” He discretely nodded toward the man in question. “He’s got to be out of favor. No one’s approaching him.”

Mara send a quick, covert glance to where he indicated. “Runrot. He sold out his smuggling partner a few solar months ago. Been a pariah ever since.”

“Honor among thieves.”

A dark smile curved her mouth. “Something like that,” she said, echoing his earlier words.

“And if they knew you brought 8th Wing here?”

Her smile faded. “I doubt they’d let me back in Beskidt By, let alone Kusa’s.”

Guilt stabbed him. But this wasn’t the time to delve into apologies, even for necessary evils, not when two men pushed back from a table and ambled toward the booth where he and Mara sat. A throb of loss shot through him when she pulled her hand from his.

She hadn’t lied when she said smugglers and scavengers liked to dress flamboyantly. One of the men, blond and fit, wore black nyyrikki-hide pants and a red silk shirt laced up the front. The other had his head shaved and was wearing a shiny blue jumpsuit so snug, Kell sadly knew he dressed to the right.

Both men stopped to stand right in front of the booth. Their eyes gleamed when they looked at Mara. Kell contemplated how the men might appear without their heads, and decided it would be a flattering look.

“Mara,” the blond one said, pleasure in his voice. “Good to have you back.”

“Very good,” seconded the man with the shaved head.

Why? Why was it very good? Did she sleep with these preening asses, and they want a repeat performance?

“Leyon.” She tipped her head toward the man in the enlightening jumpsuit. “Bern.”

The men narrowed their eyes as they stared insolently as Kell. It was all he could do to keep from launching himself across the table and ripping out their throats.

“Who’s this?” spat Leyon.

Kell opened his mouth to speak, ready with a story that he was Mara’s new partner, but she spoke first.

“He’s my Halu pleasure slave.”

Kell barely resisted the impulse to gape at her. He had to nod and appear perfectly calm.

“Looks a bit…tough…for a pleasure slave.” Bern gazed at Kell as if he was something that should be washed off the hull of a garbage scow. “We all saw how he took down Jorgo.”

Mara gave a careless shrug. “You can get whatever kind of pleasure slave you want nowadays. Besides,” she added with a slow, hot smile, “I like them tough.”

Anger, confusion and arousal all battled inside Kell.

The two smugglers muttered their disappointment. “Damn, Mara.” Leyon grumbled. “We’ve been trying to get you into bed for years. You don’t have to buy something any of us would give for free.”

“Half the men in here would kill to fuck you,” Bern seconded. “And the other half are gay.”

Kell had no doubt the half to which these polished turds belonged. He wasn’t anticipating the rush of relief he felt when he understood that Mara hadn’t slept with any of them. He could not condemn her for having a sexual history, having one of his own, but knowing she never had sex with anyone in the club made his impulse to kill a little less demanding.

Again, Mara shrugged. “I like things uncomplicated.”

“And I keep her well satisfied.” Kell draped an arm around her shoulders.

Only he heard her stifled laugh. Then, turning imperious, she said, “Kell, get me a drink.”

His teeth ground together. She knew very well he couldn’t refuse or be riled by her haughty tone—not in public, at least. “Yes.” He started to slide from the booth.

“Yes, what?”

“Yes…Mistress.”

A flare of heat in her eyes, then she waved him off. “Make it a good one too. None of that cheap Hanako liquor like last time.”

“Yes, Mistress.” He stood and forcibly shouldered his way past the two smugglers. He felt a mild satisfaction when they stumbled a little, but it wasn’t quite enough as he stalked toward the bar.

As he approached the bar, people scattered out of his path. He scowled at anyone who had the misfortune of meeting his gaze. Mutterings and murmurings congealed around him as word already spread that not only did he take out that thug Jorgo, but he was Mara Skiren’s pleasure slave—the lucky bastard.

He reached the bar and ordered two Deianeiran whiskeys. While the bartender hurried to fill his order, he glanced back at the booth. The smugglers Leyon and Bern had made themselves pretty damned comfortable, sandwiching Mara between their large bodies, and the three of them laughed at some story. She was so beautiful in her laughter, everyone in the club turned to look at her, as if drawn by the gravity of a pearlescent moon.

He was no different. His gaze stayed firmly on her the entire time the drinks were being prepared. He hadn’t felt this tightly wound, his control at the breaking point, for a long, long time. The mission was always in his mind, but he knew the real source of his tension, and she was sitting between two overly-friendly smugglers, gleaming brightly.

The price of the whiskeys amounted to nothing less than extortion, but he paid it and walked the drinks back to the booth. When he returned, he sent Leyon a look so cutting, the smuggler leapt up and made room for him next to Mara.

“Your Deianeiran whiskey, Mistress.” He set it down in front of her before sliding in close enough so their legs pressed against each other. Just for good measure, he put a proprietary hand on her bare thigh, well in view of the smugglers. Partly it was for show, but mostly it was for himself, and he felt no shame—only pleasure—in stroking her silky, warm flesh.

She started to speak, but her voice came out a husky rasp, so she took a sip of her drink. “Let’s cut past the gossip, boys. I’m here for profit, not friendship.”

“There’s a shipment of stolen plasma rifles that needs a pilot for transport,” Bern offered.

Kell could only wonder from whom the rifles had been stolen.

Mara, however, looked unimpressed. “What else?”

“Three tons of sherica looking for a buyer,” said Leyron.

That amount of sherica could power a fleet of PRAXIS patrol cutters—and Kell couldn’t do anything to keep it out of their hands if someone wanted to provide it to them.

“That’s all small shit.” Mara sighed. “I’m looking for genuine profit. Really top-of-the-line tech to move.” She glanced over at Kell, her expression sultry. “Had my eye on a lunar villa for a while. Someplace nice and private.”

He slid his hand further up her thigh until it brushed the hem of her very short skirt. She trembled slightly beneath his fingers. He rationalized that a pleasure slave wouldn’t be very interested in black market tech, but would certainly care about keeping his mistress physically gratified.

If Mara’s accelerated breathing was any indicator, she was indeed physically gratified.

“You want a big score then you can’t do better than what Gavra’s offering,” said Leyron.

“Make it interesting,” Mara drawled.

“Listen to this.” Bern started to edge closer to Mara, but a warning glance from Kell kept the smuggler from getting too close. “Gavra got hold of a genuine 8th Wing Wraith ship. And the pilot.”

Mara winced slightly, and Kell belatedly realized he’d gripped her thigh too tight. After he loosened his hold, he gave her an apologetic caress, all the while forcing his expression to neutrality.

“She’s going to have an auction,” Bern continued. “Doesn’t care if the storm’s cleared or not. The tech and the pilot are too hot to hold.”

“Why not just sell them both to PRAXIS?” Mara frowned. “They’d be the biggest buyer.”

“Gavra’s twitchy,” said Leyron. “Doesn’t want to deal with PRAXIS directly.”

She nodded. “That leaves the lion’s share of the profit to whomever buys the ship and the pilot.”

“Might be able to negotiate a separate deal for the pilot,” Bern leered. “Heard she’s a tight piece of ass. Ow!” He rubbed his knee and glared at Kell. “You fucking kicked me. Almost hit my goods.”

Kell’s expression didn’t change. “I get jumpy if I sit still too long.”

“Where’s the auction?” Mara asked quickly before Kell and the smuggler started trading punches.

“Gavra’s being cagy about the whole situation,” said Leyron. “She’s posting the location here at the club, tomorrow morning.”

As Bern and Leyron speculated who would be attending the auction, Kell and Mara shared a quick, meaningful look. His heart beat a little faster. His muscles tensed. Before they could move on to the next stage of their mission, they needed to survive a night in this wild, dangerous city. Yet nothing was as wild and dangerous as the desire smoldering between them. One stray spark, and everything—including Kell and Mara themselves—would turn to ash.

Chapter Six

She needed to get Kell out of the club. He looked like a man on the verge of turning dangerous. A simmering, dark intensity charged the air around him. As soon as they had learned about the auction, he hummed with tension beside her. Pressed close to him in the booth, she knew every shift of his body, every tightening of his muscles, and the sensation resonated in her own.

After a little more smuggler and scavenger shop talk, she managed to shoo away Bern and Leyron. The two men sent her one last look, fraught with longing and disbelief that she’d bought herself a pleasure slave, before they melted back into the seething crowd.

“We have to discuss strategy,” As Kell spoke, his breath curled warmly against her neck.

“Not here.” She slid out of the booth, and he followed. Normally, she enjoyed coming to Kura’s, but today the atmosphere felt both oppressive and empty, as if everyone here was trying desperately to pretend they were having a good time, but not fully succeeding. The word she heard most often at Kura’s was profit.

No one ever talked of home, or fighting for a cause they believed in. Not like Kell.

She cast a quick look behind her. He moved through the crowd like a shadow knife, carving his way. People skittered from his path. Even here, in the thieves’ den, he commanded respect and generated a fair amount of fear.

And no wonder. He’d literally fought his way off a ruined planet. From a street brawler to an expert pilot in the 8th Wing’s most elite squadron. He made himself into the man he was now through his own force of will.

It was a stunning revelation, and yet, somehow, it all made perfect sense. Everything she’d seen of him indicated that he was a man who took nothing for granted, who forged his way through the galaxy using his strength and brains.

Damn him for making her want him even more.

She and Kell had almost reached the elevator bay to take them back down to street level, when a man stepped in front of him. The man had a blocky body but small eyes. She didn’t recognize him but scavengers came and went all the time.

Kell glowered at the man, but either the stranger could not or refused to take the hint. He stood in Kell’s path.

“Don’t I know you?” the man asked.

“No,” came the low, quick answer.

The man frowned. “Could’ve sworn we met somewhere. You seem familiar.”

But Kell was already shouldering past him. “I’m just a pleasure slave.”

The notion that Kell could be “just” anything was almost laughable. Still, the block man didn’t try to stop him as he and Mara got onto the elevator.

They did not speak, not for the ride down, nor did either of them say a word until they were spat back out onto the crowded, gritty street.

“No one is selling Lieutenant Jur.” He glared at the street as if it was somehow responsible for his comrade’s capture. “And no one gets their hands on that Wraith.”

“We’ll find out the location of the auction tomorrow, then make our move.”

Until then, she needed rest. The taxing day had left her feeling strangely raw.

In short order, she found them a nearby lodging that looked relatively decent. As she and Kell approached the desk, the manager smirked at them.

“A room for you and your pleasure slave?” the manager cackled.

She nearly rolled her eyes. Of course, word about her would spread through the streets of Beskidt By faster than an olej spill. Gossip and rumor were prime sources of information here, everyone wanting to know everyone else’s business to find an exploitable angle.

“There’s extra cred for you if it has a nice, big shower.” She fixed the manager with a piercing glower. “A real shower, with water. Not a UV stall.” She had enough of that on her ship, and, though she loved being on the Arcadia, some planet-bound delights were too good and rare to pass up.

The manager’s thick eyebrows rose. “Gonna cost you.”

“Give her what she wants.” Kell’s voice edged with the possibility of violence if he wasn’t obeyed.

She shivered with awareness.

The manager gulped. “For the night, or by the hour?”

“The night.” Her words were heavy, ripe with possibility. She resisted looking at Kell, knowing that if she did, he’d read her intent plainly. Too plainly. Her desire for him scared her a little. She couldn’t remember being so hungry for a particular man, and she wondered if that meant she was weak or vulnerable. Both qualities she tried to avoid.

The manager finished checking them in, not without receiving a substantial deposit first. He slid the key chip across the battered counter, and she scooped it up.

“Take the lift to the top.” He smirked again. “Nuptial Suite.”

As if anyone on Ryge ever made the mate commitment. Maybe some had multiple wives or husbands. That seemed more likely.

The room itself wasn’t palatial, despite its grand name. Kell prowled it, studying everything. Someone, presumably not the manager, had make token gestures toward decoration, with wide swaths of warm-hued silks hanging on the walls and from the ceiling. Suspended lamps in jewel tones cast flickering light, illuminated by simucandles that turned on when they entered the room. Neither she nor Kell missed the enormous bed that took up most of the room. She turned away from it to continue her examination of the suite. True to the manager’s word, the hygiene chamber had an actual water shower. Definitely worth the expense.

“Why—” Kell began, but stopped when she held up a hand.

She moved toward a ventilation grate. “I suppose this room will do. Don’t forget to turn down the bed the way I like. I’ll want extra pillows.” She spoke loudly as she removed the grate. Inside the ventilation shaft, she found exactly what she expected, and held it up to show him.

He scowled at the tiny surveillance bot. “Yes, Mistress.”

With a few quick adjustments, she powered the bot down before replacing it in the vent. “And I want my kahve hot first thing in the morning. Black. No sweetener.”

“I know, Mistress.” He stalked the room, then plucked up another surveillance bot from beneath a lamp. Instead of shutting the bot down, he crushed it between his fingers.

They found one more bot, this one hidden in the hygiene chamber, and deactivated it.

Back in the main room, he turned to face her. “Everything clear?”

“That should be it.”

“Good.” He prowled closer, darkly intent. “You could’ve told those idiots I was your partner, not your pleasure slave.”

“They know me too well. If I said I had a partner, it would have set off all kinds of alarms.”

He kept coming nearer, shoulders wide, arms tight and hewn, and she found herself backing up, caught in the strange net of desire and apprehension.

“I could have been your mate.” He looked dangerous, a man on the verge of losing control. “Not your slave.”

She couldn’t tear her gaze from his lips, watching in fascination as he shaped the suggestive words.

“They’d believe that even less.” She sounded breathless, and, indeed, her lungs struggled to take in air as the wall came up to meet her. Trapped. “I’m too…strong willed…to be anyone’s mate.”

He stopped his pursuit, yet left only a few inches between their bodies. Heat surged from both of them. His face was all hard angles and shadows, his eyes dark and burning. He planted his hands on the wall, one on each side of her head. Caging her. Yet she knew with absolute certainty that if she pushed him away, or ducked under his arms to break free, he would let her go. Giving her the choice.

“Not smart. Buying a pleasure slave without sampling the merchandise.”

“What do you suggest?”

“A test flight.” Then he lowered his head, his mouth met hers, and she went up in flames.

The kiss they’d shared in the cockpit had been the barest hint at the desire that blazed between them now. Kell took her mouth, as she took his, and they consumed each other. An incendiary, shared devouring. He had firm but supple lips, audaciously confident in the way he tasted her, shaped her, as if her mouth, and everything else she had, belonged to him and him alone.

But the kiss didn’t belong to just him. Mara stroked the inside of his mouth with her tongue, and his flavors of whiskey and potent male intoxicated. Gods, she wanted to crawl inside him, claim his strength completely.

Even though his hands remained splayed on the wall behind her, she felt the kiss everywhere, as if he caressed her body with hot demand. Against the silky fabric of her blouse, her nipples tightened, and a sweet ache sounded in her pussy. She pressed her thighs together, determined to take this as far as it could go.

Finally, she broke the kiss long enough to gasp, “So far, I’m pleased with my purchase.”

“We haven’t even started.” He peeled one of his hands from the wall, and she held herself still, waiting for his to either go straight for her breasts or between her legs. Instead, he stroked down her hair and rumbled with approval. “So goddamn soft. Hair like moonlight. Like dreams.”

Her heart fluttered. In his aching, beautiful words, she almost believed that there was more between them than desire. Yet that could not be true. They had this, a visceral need and attraction—and that’s all they could ever have. 8th Wing and scavengers didn’t mix unless blackmail was involved.

She didn’t want to think any of that. All she wanted was him, and the pleasure he offered. She tilted her head back so he could touch her hair even more and to give him better access to her mouth. He took advantage of both. She purred as he threaded his fingers through her hair, pressing his broad-tipped fingers into her scalp with exquisite pressure, and kissed her deeply.

A little pang of loss trilled some time later when he took his hand from her hair. Pleasure replaced loss as he trailed his fingers along her neck, feeling the speeding of her pulse, then caressed the bared, sensitive flesh of her chest before—oh, yes—cupping her breast.

She had small breasts, and his large palm covered her completely. The thin fabric of her blouse offered hardly any barrier between her flesh and his. His heat seared her, the rough skin of his hand rubbing against her beaded nipple. Silk gently abraded, and she arched into the sensation. He swallowed her gasp as he tugged the fabric down, baring her, and he gently but firmly took her nipple between his calloused fingers.

The energy and concentration she had grown to admire over the past few days was now solely directed at her—and it would have been frightening, if she hadn’t reveled in it.

He pulled back from the kiss just enough to stare down at her with smoldering eyes. With her breasts bared, pressed above the fabric of her corset, her mouth swollen from kissing, she probably resembled an Auroran courtesan. And she didn’t care. Delighted in it, to see the answering hunger in his face and his barely leashed body.

“You devastate me.” He sounded like a beast straining at its leash.

“Good,” she answered, because he did the same to her.

He stared at her, only just holding himself back. “Tell me what you want, Mara.”

“If I said I wanted you to stop, would you?”

“Yes.” The word was a guttural scrape, and he looked tortured by the thought. Yet she understood that he would honor her wishes. “Don’t tell me to stop.”

She not only trusted him, she trusted herself. She had the strength to yield control. It was hers to bestow or take away.

“Don’t stop.”

His mouth twisted, almost savage, then he bent and took her breast into his mouth. She barely held back a cry as she clutched his head to her. His tongue swirled over her nipple, teasing it into even greater sensitivity. The bristle on his cheeks rubbed against her flesh. The same ritual was repeated for her other breast, and soon she writhed against the wall.

“More.” She pushed him back just enough to peel the shirt from him, and he stood, gleaming and taut, a celestial map of male glory etched in muscle and bone. She couldn’t stop herself. She ran her hands over his gorgeous body, feeling his power at the same time that he shuddered beneath her touch.

She finally understood the scars that marked his flesh. A pilot wouldn’t have sustained wounds like these, but a street brawler, determined to fight his way to a better life, would. So she stroked and caressed him everywhere, silken muscle and knotted scars, and everything that he was felt beautiful.

She ran her hand down the corrugations of his abdomen, and his hand captured hers before she could go lower, to the straining length of his cock pressing against the front of his pants.

“You deserve to get all the mileage you can.” He held her tightly, almost brutally. “Don’t want this test flight over too soon.”

He moved her hand so that she clutched at the ridges of his back, then he laughed darkly when she moved her hand down to seized the tight muscles of his ass.

“I like what I feel,” she murmured. “Up to now.”

He took that as the challenge it was, and, with a growl, he kissed her once again. No choice but to fall into it, a reckless, headlong plunge into desire.

A moan escaped her as she felt the rough pads of his fingers on her bare thighs. He’d teased her with gentle strokes in the club. Now his touch was bold, seeking. Both assertive and sensitive, he stroked her shaking muscles, until she felt on the verge of going mad from need.

His fingers delved under the hem of her skirt, then higher. When he brushed the outside of her panties and found them damp, he growled at the same time that she whimpered. He stroked the fabric before dipping beneath to touch her flushed, wet sex. She surged at the contact, and when he rubbed against her clit, she bit him.

But even with her skirt bunching around her waist, he fought to get the best angle to touch her. Finally, with a frustrated growl, he tore her panties. The ripped fabric drifted to the floor. Then his hand covered her fully, his fingers stroking between her lips, his thumb on her clit. His other hand gripped her waist, holding her to the wall, otherwise she would have collapsed in a heap of ecstasy.

He held her that way, pinning her as he worked her relentlessly. Sensation overwhelmed as she felt herself gleam with pleasure, crazy with desire. She clawed at his back.

“Gods, Kell.” She panted into his mouth. “Yes. Just like that. Yes.”

The orgasm tore through her like a supernova, heat and light and release. She would have fallen to the ground if he hadn’t held her in place against the wall. Her cry could have been heard from one end of the solar system to the other, but she didn’t care. It was so good.

When she could open her eyes, she saw him staring at her, licking his fingers. Watching his tongue lap up her juices set her body aflame, and she wanted him so badly she shook with the force of it.

“I’m going to fuck you, Mara.” His gaze burned her. “Here. Now.”

“You’d better,” she managed to gasp, and was rewarded with his low laughter.

“All 8th Wing get the xalina vaccine.” Which meant that he couldn’t carry or transmit any of the social diseases that once plagued soldiers.

“And I have the Tawaret chip implant.” No children for her, thank you very much.

Their gazes locked, both understanding at the same moment that there would be nothing between them, only his skin to her skin.

They both tangled with the button and zipper on his pants, and he moaned in relief as his cock sprang free. She licked her lips. His cock was thick, curved and perfect. She reached for it, but he batted her hand away.

“I’m in command here.”

“Are you sure about that?” Deliberately taunting, she leaned against the wall and angled her hips up so he could see her slick pussy.

He cursed, something crude and raw, and she loved it. This was the man without control, and she was the woman who made him lose it. Power coursed through her.

His hands gripped her thighs, lifting her up. She felt the slight raised square on one of his palms—the chip that allowed him to fly a Black Wraith ship. That detail fluttered away as he braced her against the wall, his strength taking all of her weight. Then he drove into her. Gods. He filled her almost to the point of pain, but that gave the sensation an extra edge, and already she found herself at the very beginnings of another climax. When he started to move, thrusting with deep, hard strokes, the orgasm broke in long, liquid waves.

“Can’t…stop…coming.”

“Won’t let you stop.” He spoke through clenched teeth. His hips drew back and then surged forward.

She moaned, the wall hard at her back, Kell hard against and within her. Her legs wrapped around him. She barely noticed that she was almost completely dressed, from her gauntlets to her boots, but what consciousness she could spare for this element pushed her orgasm even further, longer. It felt as if pleasure burned her from the inside out, until nothing would be left but a charred shell—and she didn’t mind that at all. This was the best way to meet eternity.

He was fierce and relentless, his strong body moving, words of praise and demand tumbling from him as he fucked her with brutal, tender purpose. No one had made her feel this way before. No one touched her as he did now, knowing what she needed and what she craved without having to say anything.

“Come.” She dug her nails into his shoulders. “Come inside me. I want that, Kell.”

“Yes…Mistress.”

She almost laughed, but the sound was lost as he groaned out his release. She felt it, the heat of him spilling within her, shockwaves moving through him, through her.

For some time, they remained as they were: panting, sweat-slick, Kell still deep inside her, holding her tightly to the wall as her arms and legs wrapped around him. Clasping him to her as if she feared letting him go.

They draped across the bed, still partially dressed. Neither had the strength to adjust their clothes or take them off, so all they could do was lie there, temporarily sated, as evening began to fall.

She lay on her stomach, he on his back. Their hands drifted, brushing against each other, creating little fires of sensation. It was warm and comfortable and intimate.

“I was a princess,” she said.

He turned his head to gaze at her, expression opaque. “On Argenti.”

“The Skirens are one of Argenti’s finest and oldest families.” Faint ridicule shaded her words. She had heard that phrase most of her life, and almost believed it was inscribed upon the family’s crest. “Involved in all levels of the government. Upstanding citizens. One of my great-great-grandmothers is on a cred card. Our annual Solstice Gathering is broadcast to every corner of the planet.”

The cameras had always been there, as the Skirens made offerings to the Goddess, as they danced. Years went by before she realized other children did not have cameras at their Solstice Gatherings. For them, it had been about family and celebration, not presenting an image of honor to an avid public.

“From the moment of my birth, I was groomed to create alliances. That’s what children are to the first families of Argenti. Pawns used to further ambition. It was no different for my siblings and me. Before I learned how to speak, my future mate had been selected.”

He shifted on the bed, but said nothing. The idle brush of his hands had stopped. She had no idea what he was thinking, but she couldn’t stop the words that came from her now, too long held inside.

“A good match. Even I knew that. Piers was a Gavril. An alliance with his family would have profited everyone. And he was growing up to be a decent-looking man. A little quiet, a little easily manipulated, but there was nothing terrible about him. He and I were supposed to join in the mating ceremony the day after my sixteenth birthday. The planning of the event began two years earlier. ”

Kell touched her then. He picked up her right hand and examined her wrist. “No mating band.”

“About six months before the mating ceremony, I went to my mother. Told her I couldn’t go through with it. I needed to make my own decisions, chart my own course.” A rusty laugh scraped from her. “That wasn’t well received. My family tried everything to get me to change my mind. Pleas, bribes. Threats. Punishment.” She still had the marks on the soles of her feet.

His grip on her wrist tightened, the slightest increase of pressure.

“Finally, my father said I did not have to mate Piers.”

His grasp eased until he released her.

“But if I didn’t, I would be cast out. Not just from the family, but from Argenti. The Skirens have enough influence to have someone banished.”

He rolled over onto his side and stared at her. She couldn’t meet his gaze, just kept staring at the silk-draped walls, dappled with colored light from the lamps. Shabby attempts to make the room elegant, so different from the jewel-encrusted columns and lavish tapestries that hung on the walls of her ancestral home. Her home that wasn’t her home. It never had been. Everything had belonged to her family, even her.

“I spent my sixteenth birthday on a freighter heading off-world. Didn’t know where I was going. Didn’t know anyone. I knew nothing about how to live on my own—being a princess does that to a girl. All I knew was that I could never go back, or else face execution.”

“You must have been terrified.”

That was a mild way of putting it. She had never felt fear like that, not before and not since. Instead of saying this to Kell, though, she made a dismissive wave of her hand. “Found myself in the Makell System.”

“That’s a rough solar system.” Surprise tightened his words. “Another place ‘liberated’ by PRAXIS, with predictably appalling results.”

“It was definitely different from palace life.” Understatement, again. The anarchy and brutality of the Makell System had burned lessons into her, lessons she could never forget. “I learned, eventually. How to take care of myself. How to…protect myself.”

“Mara—”

But she shook her head, determined to banish the memories of those horrible months, and what she’d had to endure. It had taken years before she could sleep with the lights off. “I talked my way onto a scavenger ship, becoming one of the crew. Eventually, I became owner and pilot of my own ship.” Thoughts of the Arcadia helped push away the memories, and she knew there was pride in her voice when she spoke of the ship. “It’s not a plush life.”

“But it’s yours. It all belongs to you, and only you. Your life, your ship.”

She did look at him then. He stared back, and the understanding in his dark eyes rocked her. No one had ever given her as much. She felt something inside her break and fall away. Leaving her open. Raw. She could only manage a nod.

A wry smile shaped his mouth. “Expectations don’t last, not where we’re concerned.”

Oh, he had the truth of it. Neither of them who they were supposed to be. Exiled royalty turned scavenger and a former street brawler turned 8th Wing hero.

He rose up from the bed, sleek and strong. Their gazes held as he stripped out of his remaining clothes. She allowed herself the pleasure of looking at his nude body, the shapes and surfaces of his muscles, and the play of jewel-colored light over his skin. He was wondrous to look upon.

When he held out a hand, she could not refuse, and he gently pulled her up to standing.

He kept silent as he slowly, carefully began to remove her clothing. She started to help, but he shooed her hands away, so she could only stand, motionless, as he divested her of everything. He unbuckled her gauntlets and placed them on a nearby table. His long, blunt fingers undid her corset with surprising dexterity, and this, too, he placed on the table. The same for her blouse, her skirt, until she stood before him entirely nude, save for her boots.

She shook with desire.

He knelt before her and undid her boots, taking his time as each buckle slid free, his concentration total. Her heart threatened to tear from her body, to see this powerful warrior kneeling before her, tending to her so carefully, as if she was someone precious. Not a scavenger. Not a pawn. A woman who deserved to be cherished.

It was all an illusion, she knew. The same illusion she’d felt briefly as they’d made love earlier. Their time together was fleeting. If they survived this mission, they would never see each other again. They were too different, their lives completely opposed. But for now, in this place, at this time, he gave her the momentary gift of being treasured.

At last, she was as naked as he. And he was as aroused as she, if the upright, thick stance of his cock was any indicator. Yet he did not take her back to the bed. Instead, he led her into the hygiene chamber, and she watched as he turned on the shower, adjusting the temperature until it met his standards.

He stepped into the shower and drew her in with him. “Let me clean you, princess.”

Water sluiced over their bodies. She did not know if her eyes clouded from the steam or something else, but she gave him a regal nod and he began.

He washed her thoroughly, tenderly, his big hands stroking over her slick body until she moaned. He saw to himself with much more speed, clearly impatient to touch her again. As soon as he was satisfied with her cleanliness and his own, he shut off the shower and toweled them both off.

He adjusted the lights in the room to low, then led her back to the bed. Still, he spoke not a word, not even when he lay back and opened his arms to her. The silence felt deep, profound, and she preserved it. As silent as he, she came onto the bed and straddled him.

She held herself poised above him, the smooth, wide head of his cock just at her entrance. For a moment, they simply stared at one another, lost in each other’s eyes. Tension rolled from him, and she knew it took every microgram of his control to keep from surging up into her. Instead, he lay back, his hands on her waist, and waited.

If he had controlled their last bout of making love, this was hers to command. He was hers to command. A giddy, vast sensation that she prolonged as long as she could endure.

She could not endure much, wanting him too badly. She sank down onto him and gasped. He felt exactly right.

They went slowly, as slow as they had been fast before. Learning each other. Feeling the slide of skin to skin. His hardness. Her pliancy. Without intending to, their breathing synched, so they moaned together, drew air together. She felt herself floating, in her own orbit of sensation and pleasure.

This was new. This was different. She usually liked her sex fast and rough. Here, she and Kell created new worlds through deliberate, languorous movement. She wanted it to go on forever.

Her body had other demands. She could not stop herself from moving faster, taking him deeper and harder into her. His hips rose to meet hers, and his eyes closed as he became forged metal beneath her. Their gentle breaths changed to ragged panting.

She shifted so that her clit ground against him with each thrust. Fire shot through her, and then, arching back, she came in a dizzying, obliterating storm.

Groaning, he surged upward with his release. She watched him, feeling him empty into her, and through the haze of her own satiation, she saw that he was tough and beautiful.

They fell asleep this way, with her atop him, his body still within hers. Peace and safety cloaked them. Yet here was another illusion. Everything was danger, chance—the mission, the feelings between her and Kell. Questions and risks. Sleep was a temporary balm, yet nothing could ever truly withstand the perilous uncertainty that loomed like encroaching shadow.

Chapter Seven

He’d expected she would be beautiful in sleep. He was correct. Ambient light from the restless, lurid city filtered into the room. It traced the curves of her body, the angles of her face, finding a kind of poetry. He watched her sleep and wondered what she dreamed about—lost palaces, maybe, or sheltered courtyards. But she mumbled and stirred, her brow creased, her hands tightening into fists. If she dreamed of her former life as a princess, the dreams were not pleasant.

A remembrance lingered darkly in his mind. Once, an 8th Wing pilot had been captured by PRAXIS. Kell had led the rescue mission. By the time they’d gotten to the pilot, the man had been tortured—Telemian leeches. Black Wraith Squad brought him back to base, but his torment hadn’t ended with the rescue. Months went by before the rescued pilot could sleep without being restrained. Without the restraints, the pilot would have torn the skin from his body. Every psych protocol was used to finally cleanse him of the memories.

Mara did not have to be restrained, yet, as she slept, she wrestled with memories painful enough to make her gasp and writhe. Her hands knotted into protective fists, warding off unseen enemies.

“What have you endured, Mara?” he whispered.

She did not answer, mired deeply in sleep.

He hated to think about it. Hated to think how brutal her education had been.

As she twisted and muttered, Kell drew her into his arms. “Come here, princess.”

At once, she quieted. But his thoughts did not. He dozed, briefly. Most of the night, he kept a watchful vigil over her. The locks on the door to their room gave him no confidence. Even though they’d deactivated or destroyed all the listening bots, he felt he needed to be ready for anything. Beskidt By roused the animal of vigilance that had been an integral part of him on Sayén. Instead of safeguarding himself, now he safeguarded Mara. Cautious. He had to be cautious, his motive greater than ever before.

The odds she had survived…She could take care of herself. Of this, he had no doubt. Yet she incited in him a fierce protectiveness despite, or because of, her own ferocious will to persevere.

They were both feral, but usually his uniform hid the nature of his beast. Now he lay in a bed on a smuggler’s planet, holding Mara close to the protection of his mind and body. Stripped of his gray uniform, stripped of everything. His nakedness revealed a truth he’d never known; only with her was he truly himself.

The thought wove like smoke in his mind as he held her throughout the night.

They stood outside the lodging, squinting in the glare.

“Morning doesn’t flatter Beskidt By,” he murmured.

“Nothing does. Only unconsciousness.”

Yellowish light cast by the storm bathed the city and threw the dirt-streaked buildings and streets into high relief. The streets themselves held fewer people. Most of them were likely still passed out somewhere. A few vendors stood with their vend-pods, moodily selling kahve and rolls to red-eyed citizens. Everyone seemed to be nursing a hangover.

Except Kell and Mara. They moved through the maze of the city, the only two people with clear eyes and sharp minds. He couldn’t remember feeling this energized and alert in some time. He never gave the 8th Wing less than everything, yet somehow, this morning, he felt sharp as a laser, ready to meet or cut down any obstacle in his path.

Strange. He hadn’t even slept very well.

As he and Mara walked, she cast quick glances toward him—guarded, contemplative—the same glances she’d been giving him all morning. Something had changed between them. Neither spoke of it, yet it was there. The air was fraught with this change, the biggest uncertainty in the midst of the mission.

He growled to himself, fighting the jumble of his thoughts. He needed to focus on the goal: find Lieutenant Jur and her ship. Get them both unharmed to the 8th Wing base. He added another objective: keep Mara safe. Nothing else mattered. Once he set a goal for himself, the only thing that could keep him from fulfilling it was death.

He hoped like hell it didn’t come to that.

People thronged in the elevator bay leading up to the club. Most were bleary, and surly, elbowing each other as they jostled into the waiting elevator.

“Seems it’s worth crawling out of the gutter for this merch,” Mara said under her breath.

He found himself wedged tightly into a corner, but didn’t mind so much since Mara was pressed against him, chest-to-chest. Her body felt as delicious and sleek as it had last night. And his hunger for her hadn’t decreased. Knowing the sharp little sounds she made when climaxing, the hot silk of her surrounding him, only fueled his need.

Something had to be wrong with him, because, during the long, crowded elevator ride up to the club, he seriously considered hiking up her skirt and stroking her to completion, feeling her come against his hand.

I’ve gone mental. Over a dozen people in here with us, and I want to seduce her.

Despite his attempts to control himself, he hardened, his cock pressing into Mara’s belly.

The damn witch felt it and smiled at him, wicked provocation in her eyes and lips. She even wriggled against him, teasing him into aching need.

“What did I say about provoking the wild animals?” His low words were for her ears alone.

“Didn’t learn my lesson.”

“I’ll teach you again—later.”

Her eyes gleamed. “Never been a good student. Some one-on-one tutoring—that will get the job done.”

Finally, the elevator reached the club. Everyone rowdily filed out, and he wished he had a coat or missile silo to cover his giant erection, but he didn’t, so he slowly, stiffly made his way into the club. Fortunately, everyone was too preoccupied with the impending announcement to notice his state of arousal. Only Mara saw, and gave him a heavy-lidded stare that nearly set him off. It had been decades since he’d come without being touched, but she lit him like a plasma charge.

He did eventually get control of himself and took in the scene. Today, in the morning, the club lacked the desperately carnival atmosphere. Tinted glass in the windows muted the daylight, yet the details of the place—its grime and disrepair—still appeared. Same with the people. These smugglers and scavengers lived hard, and it showed in their hard faces, their tense, weary bodies and greedy eyes. Dangerous people who would do anything to survive.

Would Mara look the same in five, ten years? Embittered and callous? Assuming she was still alive.

He drew close to her, wrapped a protective arm around her shoulder. At her raised eyebrow, he murmured an explanation. “Pleasure slaves see to the protection of their mistresses.”

Maybe she believed him, or maybe she saw this as the justification it truly was. Pleasure slaves weren’t bodyguards. Still, she nestled closer against him, her own arm circling his waist. Slim and warm, she felt precisely right, and he tried without success not to imagine future days with her exactly the same way—tucked against him, taking his strength, but having her own too.

He met the gazes of Bern and Leyon, who stood on the opposite side of the club. He stared back, tightening his grip on Mara’s shoulders. Staking his claim. The two smugglers at last gave barely noticeable nods, conceding. She was not theirs, and never would be. And if, some day, she did decide to take them to her bed, he didn’t ever want to know. Her life in the future belonged to her alone, and she could take as many lovers as she wanted, but that didn’t mean he needed to revel in it.

A dark-haired woman sauntered toward them. She wore a skin-tight jumpsuit—obviously the preferred garment here on Ryge—revealing lavish curves. Heads turned as she approached. He noted the plasma pistol on her hip, the knife on her boot, but other than her potential threat, little else about her caught his notice.

Mara stiffened beneath his arm.

“So, this is your new Halu pleasure slave.” The woman ran a finger down Kell’s chest.

Mara knocked the woman’s hand away. “No touching my property, Delayna.”

The woman affected a pout. “Not fair to hoard your toys.” She stared at him with blatant interest. “You know I like to play.”

He felt like a piece of raw meat dangling in front of a macskacat—not a pleasant sensation.

“Go play with Leyon and Bern,” snapped Mara. “Kell is mine.”

All at once, he hardened again.

“You never used to be this selfish.” Delayna sulked. “Remember that time we shared those Makarios triplets?”

What?

Mara’s scowl matched his own. “Get the hell out of here, Delayna, before I cut your tits off.”

“Fine,” she sniffed. “I’m here for the merch, not a bedroom tussle.” With a huff, the woman stomped away. Leaving a web of tension between him and Mara.

“Triplets?”

She actually blushed. “A lot of Hanako liquor was drunk that night.”

But what she did in the past, or future, was none of his concern. He had to keep reminding himself of that. Difficult, when she said things like, “Kell is mine.” He understood it was part of the mission, and it wouldn’t be safe if she loaned out her pleasure slave—who was, in fact, an 8th Wing fighter pilot—but he couldn’t stop the rush of satisfaction he felt hearing her claim him for herself.

A stocky man shoved his way through the crowd and climbed on top of a table. “Everybody, shut the hell up.”

The crowd, amazingly, quieted.

“The transmission from Gavra’s going to come in a minute. After that, I expect each and every one of you fucks to buy a drink, and then get out of my bar. Got me?”

“Screw you, Kusa,” somebody shouted.

Kusa grabbed a knife from his belt and threw it at the shouter. His aim was good, because the knife hit the intended target right in the bicep. The man yelped in pain as blood spurted from the wound, staining his shirt. A roar of laughter went up from the crowd.

“Buy a goddamn drink, then leave. Got me?”

“Yes,” the crowd muttered.

“You keep refined company,” Kell murmured into Mara’s ear.

She gazed up at him through eyelashes pale as clouds. “My taste is improving.”

He burned with the need to kiss her, savor her again after too many hours without. Hesitation lasted only a moment. He was a pleasure slave, after all. What he knew was giving pleasure—hers. So he took her mouth, and she responded immediately, opening for him. Her fingers curled over his shoulders, gripping tightly, as he pulled her closer. She was spice and sweetness, more potent and addicting than specerij.

The withdrawal was going to be hell. He couldn’t make himself care.

It was she who broke the kiss, reluctantly. “The transmission. About to start.”

He shook his head, clearing it. Gods, she was dangerous, especially now that he knew what it was to kiss her, to make love to her.

Forcing himself to focus, he noticed that the club owner, Kusa, had set up a holo transmitter atop a table. Kusa punched a few buttons on the transmitter, and then an image flickered to life. It showed a red-haired woman of middle years, with a polished Jereian ruby where her right eye had once been.

“Listen up, trash,” the woman said without preamble. “I’ve got prime merch to sell to the highest bidder. A Black Wraith ship and an 8th Wing pilot, both in excellent shape. The pilot puts up a fight, but that’ll make things interesting for whoever gets her.”

A coarse chuckle rose up from the mob. Kell struggled to keep his breathing even. Like hell would he let anyone lay a hand on Lieutenant Jur. He could only hope she was largely untouched at this point.

“How do we know you’ve got the merch?” someone yelled.

“Yeah—you could be pulling a bait and switch,” seconded another.

The woman, Gavra, sighed, and rolled her one eye. “Proof.”

The holo image flickered again, and then the crowd gasped collectively as the sleek, dark lines of a Black Wraith ship appeared.

He swore under his breath. 8th Wing protected even the images of Black Wraiths, ensuring that PRAXIS didn’t get enough visual information to make educated guesses about the ships’ construction. But this scavenger clearly cared less about 8th Wing security.

“That satisfy you pieces of shit?” sneered Gavra.

“Show us the pilot,” a barrel-chested man shouted.

Lieutenant Jur appeared in the holo image. Except for a fading bruise on her jaw, she looked relatively unharmed. Kell was expecting the crude catcalls, the vulgar suggestions—Celene Jur, with her long, dark hair and silver eyes, was a beautiful woman in addition to being an excellent pilot. She glared defiantly at the camera. The crowd reacted to her appearance just as he anticipated they would, but it still made him want to bash people’s heads in with a barstool.

“She’s stunning,” Mara murmured beside him. “Gavra could net a lot of creds for her.”

He made a noncommittal noise, not trusting himself to speak.

“If all 8th Wing pilots are that fuckable,” Barrel-chest hooted, “I’m gonna join up tomorrow.”

Kell didn’t realize he was growling until people nearby started edging away, glancing nervously in his direction.

Mara stretched up on her toes to whisper in his ear. “Throttle down, Kell. We’ll need that fury, later.” She held his gaze meaningfully.

He nodded, and took a deep breath. Later. Save it for Lieutenant Jur’s rescue. And recovering the Black Wraith ship.

The face of Gavra reappeared in the holo image. “That’s all you galactic asses get for free. Both the ship and the woman will be on display at the auction site.” She glanced down, presumably at a keyboard, because suddenly numbers began to scroll at the bottom of the holo. “These are the coordinates for the auction location. I’m holding the auction in five solar hours—energy storm or no. If you aren’t here by the time bidding starts, you’re screwed. We clear?”

The mob grumbled its assent.

“Bring your creds.” Gavra smiled unpleasantly. Then the transmission winked out.

More muttering from the crowd before it began to disperse. To the annoyance of Kura, few bought drinks as people drifted toward the waiting elevator.

Kell led Mara to an unoccupied corner. “Can we make it to the auction site in five solar hours?”

“Without the storm blocking us in, I’d say no problem.” She planted her hands on her hips, considering. “Just fly up, out of the atmosphere, and fly back down. A quick, straight shot. Storm hasn’t let up, though. Meaning we’re going to have to stay under it, adjust our speed accordingly.”

“We’ll make it.”

“Yes—but it’s going to be a squeaker, time-wise.”

“So we need to get the hell out of here. Every minute costs us.” He glanced over toward the crowd, thick around the elevator. It was going to take an hour just to get out of the damned club. “The crowd’s moving as slow as a drunk laiskasloth.” He looked around, eyes alert, attentive. “There’s got to be another way out of here.”

“Wouldn’t be much of a smuggler’s club if there wasn’t.”

“Somehow, out of everyone here, I figured you would be the one to know the location of this hidden exit.”

She grinned wickedly at him. “Very sharp, pleasure slave. I made a good purchase—more to you besides muscles and a pretty face.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Pretty is the least of my qualities.”

“True.”

He wasn’t vain, but that stung a little.

“Never seen a more gorgeous man.” She said this softly, almost too softly to be heard, with a kind of shyness he never would have anticipated.

Their gazes held, and he was lost in the crystal green of her eyes, the depth there. She showed him a rare fragility—and he understood how privileged he was to be given this extraordinary insight. It took strength to show her vulnerability, much more so than bluster and bravado. It was humbling. Precious.

There wasn’t time to explore this further. They had to get to her ship and reach the auction site before the bidding began.

“You’re our guidance system. Take us to that secret exit.”

She nodded, taking his hand. Yet he couldn’t help but feel as though he had squandered a rare opportunity.

Mara guided them through the club, away from the crowds waiting to leave. She slipped into one of the smaller side rooms, empty except for a cleaning bot listlessly circling the floor. Booths and tables stood waiting for the next round of patrons eager to drink themselves into nothingness. The performance platform in the center of the room seemed bereft without people writhing atop it in the throes of impersonal pleasure.

“Never been here in the morning.” Mara glanced around and grimaced. “Shabby. Sad. This place was a kind of…home. Emphasis on was.” She strode toward a booth in the corner.

“That’s a shame,” he muttered without remorse. She deserved better than this pit.

Once they reached the booth in the corner, Mara braced her hands on the round table. She turned it like a giant wheel. It stuck for a moment, so he stepped beside her and lent his strength to rotating the table. There was a hissing sound, and then a panel in the wall beside the booth slid open, revealing a passageway.

“How did you find out about this?”

“Charmed it out of Kura one night. And by ‘charmed,’ I mean I poured Girilal brandy down his throat until he gave up every one of the club’s secrets. Then he gave up the rindroast he’d eaten—all over my new boots.” She smiled wryly. “Disgusting, but worth it.”

They stepped into the passage. It was an unadorned, dimly lit corridor lined with pipes, the floor mottled with stagnant puddles. Scuttling sounds revealed that at least one szemét rat called the passage home.

“This leads to a cargo lift.” Mara’s voice echoed in the corridor. “That takes us to the ground level.”

She headed down the passage, but something prickled Kell’s awareness. He turned around, plasma pistol in hand, just in time to see a man also stepping into the corridor. The panel slid shut behind the stranger, closing all of them in. Kell recognized him as the blocky man from the night before, the one who thought he remembered Kell.

“I know who you are.” Blocky had two plasma pistols out, one trained on Kell, the other pointed at Mara. “And you aren’t a Halu pleasure slave.”

“Turn around.” Mara had her own weapon aimed at the interloper. “Then get the hell out.”

But the man didn’t listen. “Got to thinking last night, about that move you used to take down Jorgo. Seen it only once before—by a street brawler on Sayén. Dangerous fucker. Killed at least two men in the ring.” He stepped closer, and the dimness turned his eyes to small, sharp beads. “Can’t forget someone like that. He disappeared, though. Then word got out that he’d joined the 8th Wing.”

Cold heat tightened Kell’s muscles, yet he felt perfectly calm, focused.

“Think of what I could buy, selling that intel,” Blocky continued. “A nice villa on Merane. A half dozen Halu pleasure slaves of my own. But I’m a businessman, so I’m willing to deal. I take creds. Or I can be creative when it comes to payment.” His gaze flicked to Mara, and that was when Kell’s anger roared to life.

Blocky was an idiot. He’d gotten too close, within striking distance. Kell kicked a plasma pistol out of his hand. As the man yelped in pain, Kell grabbed his other arm and broke it with a swift movement. A louder scream of pain. The second weapon landed on the ground with a clatter. Kell had the barrel of his own plasma pistol lodged tight against the underside of Blocky’s jaw.

The would-be blackmailer’s small eyes widened as much as they were able. He shook with the combination of fear and pain.

Mara hurried forward and collected the fallen weapons. “Going to stamp out his miserable life?”

Blocky whimpered.

Breath and rage pushed through Kell’s body. The fucker had threatened Mara. Kell demanded blood.

But, as Blocky had helpfully reminded him, Kell was 8th Wing. They had a code, a sense of honor that had to be preserved. Cold-blooded murder was PRAXIS’s way.

“I want to.”

Blocky whimpered again.

He slammed a fist into the side of Blocky’s head. The man collapsed to the ground, splashing in the greasy puddles.

Mara gazed down at the unconscious man. She nudged him, not gently, with her boot. “Why not?”

“I shed that skin when I left Sayén.” He hefted Blocky’s substantial bulk over his shoulder. Gods, the man was heavy, but Kell didn’t stagger under his weight. “A killer’s skin.”

She gave him a look, and he distinguished the gleam of respect in her eyes. It nourished him, far more than killing ever had or could.

He turned and strode down the passageway.

She followed. “We’re not taking on any passengers. Especially not this ass.”

“Only room for two on the Arcadia.” They reached the cargo lift, and, in silence, rode it down to ground level. The lift spit them out into an alley. Garbage rested in moldering heaps, and Kell kicked the heaps apart to find precisely what he needed. Lengths of touw cord, used to bind pallets for shipping.

Mara knew exactly what to do. She wrapped the touw cord tightly around the unconscious man’s wrists and ankles, then, for good measure, she gagged him with a scrap of coarse cloth—without brushing off the dirtroaches skittering through its folds.

A largely-empty waste drum proved an excellent location for hiding the would-be interloper. There was just enough room to cram him inside and replace the lid. Didn’t look like the alley got much foot traffic, so the location was secure. It wasn’t a death sentence, but it would take a lot of effort and determination for Blocky, with his broken arm, to fight his way free.

“That ought to hold him. Ten solar hours, at least.” She glanced around the alley. “Appropriate he should wind up here, with all the garbage. One regret, though.”

He glanced at her, curious.

“I didn’t get to punch him.” She kicked the drum. “The shit tried to hurt you.”

The only people who defended him were other Black Wraith squad members. She was the first civilian who gave a damn about him.

He didn’t care that they were standing in a grimy alley. He kissed her, hot and demanding. Her hands gripped his biceps, her hips cupped his. He wanted her against the wall—just like last night.

With a growl, he finally tore away from the kiss. This wasn’t the time, and definitely not the place.

“You keep promising a banquet.” She struggled for breath. “But all I’m getting are snacks.”

“I’ll give you a feast. But our appetites are going to be unsatisfied for a while.”

“I’m not good with delayed gratification.”

“We’re both hungry.”

“Wish that gave me some comfort.”

Hand-in-hand, they ran from the alley. Time kept moving onward, slipping away. Lieutenant Jur would be sold into slavery in a few hours. He readied himself for any threat, considering all the possibilities, all the hazards. Not just hazards to himself, but to Mara. Nothing would hurt her.

As they headed toward the docks and her ship, understanding hit him. He’d never been a covetous man. He deliberately kept his needs simple—street life had taught him that. But now he burned with greed. Each time he kissed Mara, each time they touched it only made him want more and more of her. Until he had everything. Until she was entirely his.

Chapter Eight

Saying goodbye to Beskidt By wasn’t a hardship. The place reminded Kell too much of what he had left behind on Sayén, what had been lost when PRAXIS used then abandoned his homeworld. He’d never known Sayén before it had been ruined, but he knew it after, as an animal that had devoured itself.

Even Mara, piloting her ship out of the city, looked faintly disgusted by what she saw, the same as when she’d taken a long look at the club’s daylit interior. Long-held beliefs falling away to reveal something raw and new beneath.

“Good to shake off that dump’s grime,” she murmured. She guided the ship above the skyline, through the columns of greasy smoke and between the soundskiffs blaring pop songs and advertisements. Thick storm clouds formed a roiling, lightning-lashed boundary above them. “It’s time to start looking for a new place to roost.”

“Because of me.” A flat statement of fact that nevertheless cut deep. PRAXIS had ultimately cost him his home, but the 8th Wing had taken Mara’s by forcing her involvement, turning her traitor.

“Because of me.” She glanced over at him sitting beside her, and her eyes were the crystal green of distant oceans.

She didn’t blame him, though she had every right to. This day alone, she had given him unexpected gifts—protection, absolution. All he knew of honor and friendship was from the 8th Wing. Mara owed him nothing. She was not a fellow soldier adhering to a shared code of conduct. What she gave him came from herself, her own will, her own strength.

He felt a change within his own self. Yet he did not feel diffused. Rather, he’d never been so sharp—she was the stone that honed him into a razor edge.

“Plausible deniability,” said Kell. “Tell everyone you didn’t know I was 8th Wing. That I was working undercover as a pleasure slave, and I forced you to cooperate.” Which wasn’t far from the truth.

“And lose my scavenger rep.” Her mouth quirked.

“Maybe your pride will get knocked down a little,” he acknowledged, “but you’ll come out clean.”

“As clean as anyone can be in the Smoke Quadrant.” She guided the ship through the heavy traffic above Beskidt By.

“You need cover, and I’m giving it to you.”

“And you don’t have to. I’ve got some thinking to do. Maybe after this is over, I’ll have to chart some new paths.”

The idea that she might want to be anything other than a scavenger startled him. She seemed to cling fiercely to the life she had made for herself. Yet it made sense. She was wasted as a scavenger. He hated to see anything, anyone, squandered.

“I feel like I should apologize,” he said, “but I can’t apologize for something I don’t regret.”

“The damn problem,” she answered, turning away to look out the cockpit window, “is that regret’s in short supply for me too.”

A silence that wasn’t exactly comfortable, yet not completely strained, fell between them as Mara flew them out of the boundaries of the city. They both seemed to sense that they had strayed into unknown territory, where delineations of allies and antagonists, partner and lover, blurred. He understood only three things with absolute clarity. The first is that he would find and rescue Lieutenant Jur. Second, he would keep Mara safe. And thirdly, but just as important, he would have her. Nothing else held relevance.

Beskidt By disappeared behind them, giving way to stretches of scrubby plains blotched with signs of habitation. He thought he spotted a few private compounds nestled in the sides of hills and ringed with plasma fences that doubtless incinerated anyone stupid enough to try and breach them. Smugglers’ lairs. Gods knew what kind of contraband or illegally-gotten merch was being stored down there.

It was a planet populated entirely by criminals. On his homeworld, he had also been a criminal, doing whatever he needed to stay alive. He had killed, he had stolen. Nothing he was proud of. But he survived, just as Mara survived.

Cool and sleek as Almirian winter, she entered the coordinates for the auction site into the auto pilot. “At the speed we have to travel, we’ll just make the cut-off time.”

He burned with impatience to get to Lieutenant Jur, but revving his engine for the next few hours would accomplish nothing except burning fuel. “Give me as much intel as you’ve got about these auctions.”

“Can’t tell you much. Not my game. I’m a scavenger, not a merch go-between.”

“A woman in charge.”

Her smile was pure, wicked temptation, sending thick heat straight to his groin. “I’m very good at it too.”

Oh, he knew, recalling with blistering lucidity how she looked, how she felt, as she rode him. Like the sweetest torture, too good to be endured. It had been just last night, yet too long ago. He wanted inside her, not just physically, but in every way, and that want grew ever stronger the closer they came to completing the mission. To her, their time together had a finite beginning and end. She would slip away from him, elusive, likely to disavow anything to do with him, both to anyone who asked and to herself.

A dark, primitive need uncoiled within him. On his homeworld, there had been no law or no magistrates to conduct the mating rite. When a Sayén man claimed his mate, he dug his teeth into the back of her neck, actually breaking the skin and drawing blood. The man staking his claim would rub ash into the wound, resulting in an indelible marking on his mate. It was savage and coarse, something he’d gladly left behind. Only now did he understand and feel its purpose.

He needed to mark Mara, claim her, so that she could never fully distance herself from him. She would know, in the depths of space and night, he had been inside her, had made her his own. The need was primal, and he yielded to it without a struggle. Mara was his.

His cock hardened, pressing tight against the fly of his pants, but he forced himself to stay exactly where he was instead of pouncing on her. He had hours to formulate a plan for the rescue, but now, in this brief window of time, he wanted only Mara. To brand her however he could.

“You’re good at being in charge?” He eyed her up and down, a deliberate provocation. “Prove it.”

She naturally rose to his goading, even as she sent him a look that said she knew exactly what he was doing. “The flyboy wants substantiation? That, I can provide.” After locking the autopilot, she rose from the captain’s seat.

Kell watched with hooded eyes as she slipped between him and the control panel. A change came over her, so subtly that he felt more than saw it. A freeing of herself, the deliberate choice to be as physical and unrestrained as she wanted. This was different from what had happened between them at the lodging in Beskidt By. Then, she had succumbed to the desire between them. Now, her choice to go wild was deliberate. His arousal burned hotter.

She bent down, placed her hands on his knees and pressed them apart, giving her more room and giving him an incredible view of the soft shadows between her breasts. Her nipples beaded against her blouse, tight points beneath the silk. She leaned close, keeping her mouth a bare inch from his own.

“This feels like proof.” She reached out and cupped him through the front of his pants. “And this.” Her whispered words were punctuated by the movement of her hand, grasping his shaft and running up its length.

He thought he might lose his mind when she unfastened his pants and took his cock into her hand. Her slim fingers wrapped around him, stroking him, bare flesh to bare flesh. She caressed him as if he was more than a means to pleasure. As if he truly meant something to her.

Then she sank down to kneel between his legs. Kell’s breath ripped out of him as he stared down at her. The sight of her grasping his cock as she licked her lips made him fight for reserves of discipline—otherwise, this would be over far too soon.

“This,” she murmured.

“Yes.”

She lowered her head. Ran her tongue around the ridge of his cock. Around and around. And then she took him into her mouth, as much as she could fit. What she could not get into her mouth, she grasped with her hand, so that no part of him went unattended.

He lost the ability to form rational thought. Words, impressions, spun through his mind and body as Mara sucked him. Hot. Wet. Ruthless. Clever. Perfect.

The ship continued on its course, and he saw through slitted eyes the land passing beneath them. The distant landscape rolled away, and no one below had any idea what went on in the ship flying overhead.

This was about her control, but he couldn’t stop himself from threading his fingers into her creamy hair, both guiding and being guided as she moved. Her eyes met his for a moment before closing in satisfaction. To give him pleasure gave her pleasure, aroused her.

When her free hand came up to stroke her nipple through her blouse, he groaned.

It was good. Too good.

“Stop, me luna. Before I—fuck, yes.”

She sucked at him harder, moving faster. His hand dropped from her head, and he grasped the edges of his seat, his grip steel-tight, as his hips surged.

He came with a harsh groan. On and on it went, his orgasm streaming from him in bolts stronger than the lightning above. His climax felt drawn from every part of his body. She swallowed him, her cheeks flushed, her eyes closed, as if wanting to know only the taste of him.

Wrung dry, he collapsed back against his seat, panting.

“See? Command comes naturally to me.” Though her words were a taunt, her expression was tender. She had selflessly given him ecstasy—something a casual fuck would never do.

“Sometimes it’s better to let someone else take control.”

Before she could say another word, he had her up against the control panel. This time, he knelt between her legs, his hands on her thighs. Her calves pressed against his shoulders as her feet braced on the chair behind him. The look on her face was one of shock and fierce arousal. And gratitude. She did not expect him to return the favor.

“Beginning to see the wisdom in that,” she gasped.

He hiked up her skirt, then growled when he noticed that she wore no panties. All he saw was her bare skin, her slick, swollen pussy. Gods, she was beautiful. He had to taste her, brand her with his body by giving her the most intense pleasure possible, as she had done for him.

At the first touch of his tongue to her folds, they both moaned. He teased her at first, tracing her, playing lightly along her sensitive flesh, circling her entrance. She writhed beneath him like living energy, gasping wordless demands. He knew what she wanted, and he wanted to give it to her. His strokes deepened as he licked her.

“I’ve been wanting to do this since forever. The moment I saw you.”

Spice and sweetness. Nothing more delicious. He swirled around her clit. She thrashed at the sensation, yet held him closer. Two of his fingers plunged into her, and he felt her clinging heat pulling on him.

His lips fastened on the bud of her clit, and he sucked as he worked his fingers in and out. Coiling tension vibrated through her body, her thighs on either side of him.

“Kell…yes…gods…” She came with a scream, flinging her arms out, pushing up from the control panel. Her taste flooded his mouth, the primal fire of her essence. He needed to give her this—pleasure that was hers alone, that showed she meant more to him than simple physical gratification, that even when they parted ways, he would never be apart from her.

He would not relent. Not until he licked and sucked her through two more climaxes, his fingers deep within her. Rather than diminishing, her releases built atop one another, lasting longer each time, her cries filling the cockpit and the whole ship with sounds of pleasure.

Sprawled and gasping, she barely had strength to open her eyes and gaze down at him kneeling before her. “We’re both very good at being in charge.”

“A good commander knows when to quit, but an even better commander knows when to hold firm.”

She shifted and her eyes widened when she saw that his cock had hardened again, standing up thick and ready for more of her. Pleasuring her, marking her, had done that to him.

“Flattering.”

Relaxed as she was, she didn’t protest as he sat her in the captain’s chair long enough for him to strip. They both fumbled with her clothing, and by the time they’d removed everything but her gauntlets, he was tight with need. When those, too, fell to the cockpit floor and she was entirely naked, he gathered her sleekness up in his arms and carried her the short distance to the galley.

“The bed might feel slighted,” she noted when he sat her on the galley table.

“Too far.” Even the few yards away to her quarters seemed an insurmountable distance when he needed inside her so badly.

He positioned her at the edge of the table, her legs surrounding him as he stood. Instead of thrusting into her, he found himself slowing, giving himself time to touch her. And he did. He ran his hands over her, relearning the shape and feel of her, the textures of her satiny skin. She sighed and purred beneath his touch, her own hands roaming over his body. Everywhere she touched became bright with awareness and need. He plucked at her dusky nipples and she arched into his hands with a cry.

Within moments, they both shook. Their eyes met and held. Her gaze went straight through him, sharp as an energy blade, but the wound felt good and he would not look away. She knew who he was and what he’d done, and, in exchange, had given him secret, guarded parts of herself. They saw each other at that moment, removed from their demarcated roles of 8th Wing pilot and scavenger. Street brawler and outcast princess. Kell and Mara. Themselves alone.

Emotion shone in her gaze. Yet she did not turn away. Instead, she wrapped her arms around his taut shoulders, her legs around his waist, and held him tightly.

“Be inside me now,” she said, her words soft and hot against his mouth.

He slid into her. Deliberate, slow, feeling every silken inch of her take every thick inch of him until he was fully within her, hips cradling hips. Their gasps of pleasure mingled. For a few heartbeats, neither moved. They stared into each other’s eyes. Intimacy wove between them. Stillness could not last, not when she felt so good and her cheeks flushed and her lids lowered and he had to move now or else explode. He dragged his hips back, nearly pulling out entirely, before sinking back into her. Again and again. Her eyes closed, her head tipped back.

“Kell.” Her movements matched his, sleek and hungry.

His intent to take this slow burned away. He could not stop himself, his pace increasing, until the sounds of flesh meeting flesh joined with her gasps and his groans.

She was so tight, so flawless. Liquid and flame. It had never been this good, not with anyone but her.

He reached between them, finding her clit with the pads of his fingers, then stroking, rubbing. Her legs clasped him as she bowed up to scream her release. Control shattered. His climax tore through him, a fiery annihilation that scoured him from the inside out. At the moment of his release, he bit her neck. Mine.

Her quick yelp of pained shock turned to a moan of pleasure.

They stayed like that for a long while, even as his legs, boneless after release, demanded he lie down. He refused to heed them. All he wanted was to savor this moment as he and Mara twined together, shuddering, sweat-dampened, complete.

He felt demolished. And rebuilt.

The ship sped on.

Mara stood in the UV stall, cleansing light streaming over her body. She’d been in here longer than she needed to be, but she wanted time alone. Everything felt sensitive, tender. Not merely her body, but her heart. She’d thought her heart had grown protective calluses over the years, yet they seemed to have disappeared, worn away by Kell.

Gods, simply thinking his name made her tremble. He hadn’t just fucked her, he had made love to her. The look in his eyes as he made her come, as he released into her—no one had looked at her like that, not a soul. She never experienced any of this before. It made everything she’d done prior to meeting him resemble empty, crude movement, basic and thoughtless as single-celled organisms dividing.

Making love with Kell wasn’t about division, but union. She rested her head against the wall as light poured over her. In a short span of time, everything had changed, including what she knew about Mara Skiren. After her banishment from Argenti, and the harrowing months that had followed, she’d created one goal—to need and answer to only herself.

He had changed all that. Direct and ruthless, yet somehow respectful of who she was. And that devastated her most of all. She could have shouldered him aside, or used him for mere physical gratification, if he had attempted to defeat or change her. Instead, he accepted. Even seemed to…cherish her. No one had ever done that, not even Mara, herself.

Gently, her fingers probed the tender spot on her neck where he’d bitten her. It might leave a mark—she discovered she wanted that. If only there was a way to ensure it stayed.

She stepped from the UV stall and slowly began to dress. Instead of her flashy Beskidt By clothing, she opted for her typical uniform: tank top, cargo pants, boots. It felt more genuine, and just now she hadn’t the heart for pretending.

As she dressed, she tried to beat down the flutter of hope rising in her chest. No future existed for her and Kell. When the mission was over, they would part ways, as they had to. An ace 8th Wing pilot and a scavenger could not be together. He had his fight against PRAXIS, she wanted only to be left in peace as she sold black market merch across the galaxy. They were two comets briefly crossing paths, flaring brightly, never to meet again.

Well, she couldn’t hide in her quarters. Straightening her shoulders, she walked out into the galley. Kell leaned against the table—she would always remember it as the site of their intense lovemaking—wearing only his pants. Her breath caught at the sight of him, but, even more stunning was the way he looked at her, as if nothing else existed, not the ship, not the planet, the quadrant nor the galaxy.

A woman could get very used to being looked at that way. A woman could—but she could not.

She didn’t know what to say to him. So she chose something mundane and meaningless. “Cleaning stall is all yours.”

Wordlessly he rose and moved toward the hygiene chamber. But he stopped directly beside her. He put a fingertip to her chin and raised it, then bent to kiss her. A gentle kiss, laden with tenderness, soft but confident.

Her heart fractured, almost to breaking.

He ended the kiss, and continued on toward the hygiene chamber. The UV stall hummed as he started it up. She pictured him nude, gilded in light, and forced herself to step into the cockpit and check to make sure they were headed in the right direction. They were.

If only there was autopilot for my heart.

She returned to the galley. It was impossible to sit at the table. To busy herself and keep her mind and body occupied, she ran the Arcadia through several diagnostic protocols. Unsurprisingly, given the amount of attention she lavished on it, the ship ran perfectly. Which left her with far too much time to think about things—about Kell—that she shouldn’t.

He emerged a few minutes later, clean and, thankfully, completely dressed, down to his boots and that horrible long, thin scarf wrapped around his neck. She would yield to temptation if even a single fastener on his clothing or lace on his boot was undone.

They stared at each other for a long, fraught moment. All she wanted to do was cross the small space of the galley and wrap her arms around him, feel his solidness, his warmth.

Instead, she crossed her arms over her chest, leaning against the wall. “There’s something you should know.”

He tensed slightly. “Tell me.”

“No one is permitted to bring weapons into the auction.”

He released a breath, easing. “That, I can handle.”

She couldn’t resist asking, “What did you think I was going to say?”

“That you were mated to someone.”

“I couldn’t mate anybody.” But, gods, within the hour, she had started to entertain thoughts that frightened her with their seriousness. Her hand strayed to her other wrist, feeling for the band that wasn’t, and never would be, there. Finding her wrist empty, her fingers reached up to trace over the already fading bite mark.

Following her gesture, his eyes flared. “Mara—”

“Time to plan the rescue,” she said, overlapping him.

He allowed her a brief reprieve. “Already on top of it. I figured that no one could be armed at the auction. They’ll likely confiscate all weapons and keep them in a guarded chamber.”

“Which will leave us unarmed, as well. Making for a difficult rescue.” Impossible, actually.

“I’ve got a plan.” He said this with confident authority. He went to his duffle and began pulling out items, which he set on the galley table. Then he outlined for her what he intended to do, their respective roles and how the rescue of the lieutenant and her ship would be effected. As he spoke, her admiration for him grew. Gods curse it.

“Quite an ingenious operation you have planned for us,” she murmured. “Provided it succeeds.”

“It will. I have faith in us both.”

Damn him. He kept demolishing her defenses.

“Mara.” His voice gleaming and dark, his eyes the same. He was fierce, burning, and she could no more turn away from him than she could escape the fatal gravity of a sun.

“Be ready,” he said. “Because, when this is over, I’m not letting you go.”

Her heart squeezed tightly. “You’re assuming we will still be alive when this is over.”

“We’ll make it.” Again, that unshakable, quiet confidence.

“Not everything is going to survive this mission.” She gestured to the space between them. “This won’t.”

His expression darkened. “Nothing is certain.”

“Some things are.” She turned away, unable to look at him. “8th Wing and scavenger scum don’t mix.”

His boots pounded the metal floor. Large and strong, his hands covered her shoulders and turned her around to face him. Anger tightened his features. “Neither of us fit into shiny little boxes.”

“So tell me,” she fired back, “what’s the flight plan, Commander? You fly missions for 8th Wing while I wait at the base, weaving plasma pistol cozies and hoping you make it back alive? Or maybe you keep the Arcadia clean while I do scavenging runs? Or, how about this,” she pressed on, relentless, “we live for brief windows when we can meet up, maybe on some resort planet for a few solar days, fuck like crazy before it’s time to go, time for goodbyes, never knowing when we’d get another chance to see each other.” Her mouth firmed. “All of those scenarios are punishment.”

Frustration hardened his jaw. “You’d rather have emptiness. The ache, here.” He dug his fist into the center of his chest.

She felt that ache now. “I already see it, see what I become. Thinking about how much time we have left together, or worrying that you’ll find some nice 8th Wing medical officer and send me a Dear Jane comm.”

“Join 8th Wing.”

Longing flared within her, but she crushed it as ruthlessly as she had once crushed hope of returning home. “They’d laugh me out of the station. Or throw me in the brig.”

“You keep seeing things that aren’t going to happen.”

“And you don’t know they won’t.” She twisted away from him. “Just—can’t we have this? There’s so little time. And then…when the mission is over…if we’re still alive…we just…” She hated that she couldn’t even complete the sentence, let alone the thought.

Yet he knew where she was heading. “We walk away,” he finished, hollow. “No.”

“We have to.”

For a long while, he said nothing. Then, “You continue to surprise me, Mara Skiren.”

“Surprise?”

“I made my judgment early. Scavenger. Then I learned. You were so much more than that. But never, until now, did I think you were a coward.”

She couldn’t speak, not even when he sat at the table and began to work on assembling the necessary components to the rescue mission. He worked silently as she stood nearby, frozen with hurt.

After several moments, she went to the cockpit and sat, staring out the window. It had always been her place of refuge, where she had complete control, complete safety. She felt none of that now. For the first time in many solar years, tears welled in her eyes, and she let them fall noiselessly down her cheeks as the world passed by below.

Chapter Nine

Gavra’s compound sprawled in the middle of the Kueng Steppe, an uninviting stretch of scrub and stunted trees. Cold western winds scraped across the Steppe, making it inhospitable to any but the most dedicated recluse. Settlements were sparse, so that the compound was the only notable feature for kilometers, and that was precisely the point. Nowhere to hide out here. No surprise attacks.

As Mara piloted her ship toward the compound, she directed Kell’s attention to the patrol drones circling. “Gavra likes a show of force. Getting past them on the way out is going to be a difficult dance.” Assuming she, Kell and the lieutenant lived long enough to attempt an escape.

“Programming can’t match a good pilot’s instincts.” He barely gave the patrol drones a glance, instead focusing on the nearing compound. Nearly fifty ships of different sizes and makes filled a stretch of plain just outside the compound. “Popular ticket.”

“The lure of profit.” She recognized most of the ships, though some were unknown to her, newcomers in the business of disreputable trade. “That belongs to Nalren.” She pointed toward a large frigate bristling with guns. “Slaver.”

Kell’s jaw hardened. “Celene won’t see the inside of that ship.”

Mara wondered at his use of the lieutenant’s first name, but occupied herself with following the queue of ships to the designated landing area. More patrol drones here, and even some piloted guard skiffs. Manned quad-barreled plasma cannons ringed the compound. Only PRAXIS installations were better guarded. The beginnings of apprehension tightened her nerves as the danger of what she and Kell were about to attempt truly sunk in.

A tough call, deciding what she feared most—the upcoming rescue operation, or facing the tension that snapped and splintered between her and Kell. His anger was a palpable thing, sharp-edged and ferocious, and it slashed to tatters whatever tenuous connection had existed between them. He wanted more than she could give. His words had cut, and the pain continued to throb long after they had been said.

She brought the Arcadia down, engaging the landing gear, knowing full well that the feel of the ship touching the ground marked the end of her time alone with Kell. Once they set foot off the ship, the mission would take over. She would not feel his arms around her, his mouth on hers, his body within her own. Never again. Her throat tightened.

You’re not a lost sixteen-year-old kid fleeing Argenti any more. Take your hits. Fly on.

For a moment, they both sat in the cockpit, the silence thick. Several times during the flight, they had gone over and reviewed the plan. Which left them nothing else to talk about.

She drew in a breath, released it. She rubbed her palms on her pants to dry them, then began to rise from the captain’s chair. Kell’s hand on her wrist stopped her.

“I fought my way off Sayén.” His gaze fixed her just as surely as his grip. “I fought my way into the 8th Wing. I’m tenacious.”

“Obstinate.” Still, his words sent a dark thrill through her.

He released her, his expression opaque. In the galley she watched him arm himself not just with plasma weapons, but with his soldier’s bearing and vigilance. His other face, his other self, hard as terasian armor. She almost believed that the man he had been with her—the fierce, tender lover—had never been, so complete was his transformation. He handled his plasma pistol comfortably, yet with the same hand that had touched her and brought her the most extreme pleasure she had ever experienced.

Warrior, lover. Which was he?

She needed the warrior now, to fight and win the oncoming battle, and then she and the lover would never see one another again.

Kell wrapped his scarf loosely around his neck and finished gearing up. At his nod, the ship’s door opened, and they stepped out to face the impending dangers, leaving behind unwinnable battles.

They followed the jostling crowds heading toward a security checkpoint. In addition to the manned cannons surrounding the compound, the structure’s borders were demarcated by towers transmitting a plasma signal. Anyone foolish enough to walk between the towers would be vaporized. The only entry in and out of the compound, as far as Mara could see, was through the security checkpoint, guarded by half a dozen armed sentries. Mercenaries.

As she and Kell stepped through the gate, a stiff-faced guard aimed the barrel of a plasma rifle at them.

“Remove all weapons!”

Wordlessly, she and Kell did as they were told, unholstering their plasma pistols and handing them to a waiting sentry. They watched as the sentry carried their weapons to a nearby outbuilding. The door to the outbuilding opened, and she caught a glimpse of tables loaded down with firearms and weaponry of every variety.

“That was my favorite plasma pistol,” she said.

“You’ll get it back after the auction is over.” Another guard handed her a chit as if she had just checked her coat at a nightclub. “Walk through the scanner.”

She recognized the scanner as a plasma-detection instrument. If anyone tried to smuggle in a plasma energy-generating device, the guards would be alerted. She complied, and Kell did the same, impassive. He seemed utterly unperturbed. Reminding herself that a person’s attitude was the biggest giveaway, she forced herself to relax and look like any other smuggler trying to land good merch. It was tough, though, knowing how vulnerable she was without weapons, and what she and Kell had planned.

When he sent her the tiniest wink, she let out a shaky but relieved breath. She wasn’t doing this alone.

They started to walk toward the large structure at the center of the compound, but a commotion behind them had everyone turning to see what was happening. It wasn’t a pretty sight.

Two guards held a man while two more guards mercilessly pummeled him. Blood splashed down his shirt and into the dust, along with some teeth.

“I swear,” he panted, his mouth ruined, “I didn’t know I had it!”

It, Mara guessed, was the plasma pistol another sentry now held.

“Someone tried to bring an advantage to the party,” Kell murmured.

It did not take long before the man lolled between the two guards holding him. They dragged him back through the gate and threw him to the ground like rubbish. As he lay in the dust, groaning, the guards gave him several kicks to the ribs and legs for good measure. Even from a distance of dozens of meters, Mara heard the crack of bones shattering.

She winced. Displays of merciless violence were nothing new to her, but Gavra seemed to be paying her mercenaries extra to ensure they inflicted the maximum amount of damage.

“I’m shocked they didn’t kill him,” she whispered to Kell.

“Sends a stronger message if they don’t. A walking cautionary tale.”

“A crawling cautionary tale.” She watched the man trying unsuccessfully to drag himself away.

“Everyone keep moving,” one of the sentries yelled.

Putting aside the image of the brutalized man, Mara fell in step beside Kell as they continued on to the main building. She didn’t want to think of herself, or Kell, lying bloody and broken in the dirt.

The main building was a filthy warehouse, rusted and grimy, empty of anything except throngs of people and a dais at the far end. A short flight of steps led to the top of the dais. As she and Kell pushed their way through the crowd, Gavra climbed the steps, her stocky body making her resemble a red-headed sarvikpotemus.

“Fifteen solar minutes until the auction, swine,” she bellowed. “Fifteen more minutes to check out the Black Wraith before it gets locked up.”

Kell and Mara exchanged a look. Adhering to their plan, they followed the crowd through a side door to an alley between storage buildings. Armed mercenaries lined the alley, which led to a hangar that had doors wide enough to accommodate a light ship. Security panels kept the doors sealed, and people could only go inside through a small entry, monitored by cameras and sentries. She had never seen so many security precautions in her life, not even in Skiren Palace.

Once inside, she understood why. Her first glimpse of a real Black Wraith ship. Kell clenched his jaw as if just barely holding in a curse, but she gave a soft gasp of amazement. “It’s beautiful.”

A sleek, dark knife of a ship, the Black Wraith gleamed beneath the sodium lights. It seemed formed of a single piece of seamless metal, even the guns projecting from beneath its curved wings. Another gun sat mounted on the back, presumably to be used when being pursued. A window indicated the cockpit, yet Mara could find no way to actually get inside the ship.

Kell whispered the answer to her unspoken question. “Only Black Wraith Squad has access to the interior.”

“Then it’ll be worthless to PRAXIS or anyone else.”

“A precisely calibrated plasma saw could breach its shields and split it open. The ship would be ruined, but they could pull it apart and learn how to make more.”

That definitely should not happen. The Black Wraith radiated deadly potential, sleek and lethal, not unlike Kell. He had mentioned that the ship’s pilot had a unique way of interacting and communicating with the vessel, making them an almost unbeatable force. A fleet of these ships could wreak devastation from one end of the galaxy to the other.

Kell spoke tightly. “PRAXIS already greatly outnumbers 8th Wing. Black Wraiths help, but it’s never enough.”

Gods only knew how many more worlds PRAXIS would conquer if they had such power at their disposal. She fought a shudder.

She made sure they were at a distance from the people milling around the ship before she spoke. “It takes more than the chip to fly a Black Wraith.”

“Years of training, depending on the pilot.”

“You probably learned in a year.”

“Ten solar months,” he answered.

“Always a fighter.”

Pride flickered in his eyes. “Celene was quick too. Took her sixteen solar months. The second fastest record in the squad.”

Something in his tone told her more than his actual words. “You were lovers.”

When a hint of flush darkened his tanned face, a hot blast of pure anger cleaved through her. She wanted to grab a plasma rifle from one of the guards and start shooting out the sodium lights, maybe even club a few people with the butt of the gun.

“Or maybe you still are,” she said, her voice like broken glass in her throat.

“Were, not are.” He stepped closer.

She turned away to feign interest in the Black Wraith. Damn it, she was jealous. She had never experienced that emotion before, but now she wanted to find Lieutenant Jur. Hurt her as Mara hurt now.

She did not recognize herself—the scavenger with attachments to nothing and no one. The idea of Kell making love to someone, to anyone who wasn’t her, felt like the bitterest betrayal. No matter how long ago it had happened. How would she face it in the future, knowing that he wasn’t in her bed but someone else’s because of a choice she’d made?

“Fifteen minutes are up,” Gavra’s voice over a comm announced. “Get the hell out and make your way to the main warehouse. Now.”

Armed sentries herded those attempting to linger toward the door. No one but Mara saw the microbot hidden in the cuff of Kell’s pants scuttle away. Two more of the tiny bots clung to the cuff, but if someone noticed all he would see were a couple of dustbeetles hitching a ride. Kell moved with the crowd exiting the building, betraying no signs that he directed the movements of the microbots using his tech implants. She could only marvel at his control. His engineering ability was damn impressive too. He’d built the little bots out of spare parts en route, hunched over the table in Arcadia’s galley.

Torn between admiration and anger, Mara walked silently beside him as they returned to the main warehouse. Her timing was worse than a sipkaswine accidentally wandering into a Joppian cookout. This was not the moment to stew over Kell and the lieutenant’s affair. But hard as she tried, she couldn’t get the images out of her head, envisioning Lieutenant Jur’s hands—and other things—all over his hard, solid body. Him kissing her with the same hunger he’d shown for Mara. Biting the lieutenant’s neck.

Gods, she was going to lose her mind, and the real danger hadn’t even begun.

“You have to stay with me, Mara.”

She nodded, feeling ridiculous. The only way they could survive the next hour was to stay alert.

“I’m here.” She would make herself focus.

They entered the main building and saw that the crowd had thickened. Scavengers, smugglers and other assorted criminals from all over Ryge filled the warehouse. Mara knew most of them, and she traded nods of reserved greeting. The atmosphere held no friendliness, not even good-natured rivalry. Profit was all that mattered this day. The air droned with collective anticipation at the prospect of bidding on both an 8th Wing ship and an 8th Wing pilot.

A beautiful pilot. Who once shared a bed with Kell.

Stop it.

He paused to lean against the wall. As he did, the remaining microbots scurried off of him and up the wall, blending in with the other dustbeetles and grimespiders darting back and forth. She made certain not to follow the progress of the bots, lest she draw anyone’s attention to them. Aside from the subtle twitching of his fingers, no one would suspect that Kell controlled the tiny machines.

“Everything in place?” she murmured.

“Positioned and ready.”

He cleaved a path through the mob. Or, rather, people stepped aside to let him through, including some of the toughest and most ruthless lawbreakers she knew, men and women who would trample their aged grandparents to steal an aurelia nugget. Yet these coldblooded thieves gave Kell a wide berth.

Mara stayed close, drifting in his wake, and she, too, felt the strength of him, his energy and ferocity. Intoxicating, dangerously alluring. And targeted toward a single goal. Soon, Kell had crossed the length of the warehouse to stand right in front of the dais. She positioned herself beside him, both because it was part of the plan, as well as in response to an instinct that told her it was the safest place.

“We need to find out where they’re keeping Lieutenant Jur.” He spoke low enough so that only Mara could hear. “Following the guards will take us to her, then it’s a matter of overpowering them and decoding the locked chamber they’re most likely keeping her in. Then we—”

She laid her hand on Kell’s arm. “I’ve been thinking about how Gavra operates. We won’t need an elaborate plan.” At his frown, she added, “Trust me.”

She wondered if he would, after everything. Yet, incredibly, he nodded, then turned his attention to the platform.

Gavra stood on the dais, flanked by four armed mercenaries. She eyed the crowd with a strange mixture of disgust and eagerness, as if she despised them but loved what they could do for her cred values. A voice amplifier attached to her shirt threw her voice across the warehouse. “Want to see what you’re bidding on?”

The mob roared its assent, raucous and eager.

Gavra motioned and two mercenaries stepped down from the platform, only to return a minute later. They held a woman between them, their grips tight on her arms as she twisted and struggled. She wore a grimy 8th Wing uniform, torn in places, and her dark hair spilled over her shoulders.

“For your buying pleasure,” Gavra shouted, “I offer you Lieutenant Celene Jur of the 8th Wing’s Black Wraith Squad.”

Another roar from the throng. The sound grew rowdy, avid, as the guards tried to tug the lieutenant up the steps to the dais, and she managed to kick one of the mercenaries in his upper thigh. She took advantage of the moment, tugging her arm free from his grip. Her punch landed on the second guard’s jaw, but he did not release her. Three more guards surged toward her. She tried to fight them, but in a moment they had her up on the platform and completely subdued. One guard for each arm, and guards pinning her feet to the floor.

She glared at the mob.

The crowd loved it, bellowing its approval. Her silver eyes scanned the crowd, contempt plain in her lovely, bruised face. Mara tensed when the lieutenant’s gaze moved over Kell, worried that Jur would make some sign of recognition and give them away. A needless worry—the lieutenant’s expression did not alter. Neither did Kell’s.

Whatever Mara felt about Jur, there was no denying the lieutenant was both intelligent and a skilled fighter—just like Kell. Not much of a surprise that he had chosen her.

“Plenty of fire in this bitch,” Gavra crowed. She strutted over and stroked a proprietary hand down Jur’s face. The lieutenant jerked her head away, but the guards held her in place.

Gavra chuckled. “Whoever’s lucky enough to buy her is in for a great ride. Provided you can keep hold of your balls.”

Harsh laughter filled the warehouse. Only Mara was aware that Kell’s hands knotted into fists.

“Let’s start the bidding for the woman,” Gavra continued. “Opening at fifty thousand creds.”

The amount astonished Mara—even top-of-the-line Halu pleasure slaves cost only twenty thousand creds. It didn’t appear that Lieutenant Jur felt flattered, though. Her mouth curled into a sneer.

Despite the astronomical figure, someone immediately yelled out, “Fifty.”

“Fifty-five,” another shouted.

“Sixty.” This from Nalren, the slaver.

Soon, the warehouse shook from the bids flying quick and frenetic, like animals caught in a feeding frenzy.

Gavra looked euphoric, allowing the bids to pile higher and higher. A blissful chaos of rising profit.

Kell adjusted the folds of his scarf, and Mara knew the time had come. She braced herself. Tension tightened her skin as she waited. In a moment, hell was about to break loose.

Sound and percussion rocked the warehouse as one of the walls exploded. Debris, smoke, everywhere, and the panicked shouts of the mob.

“We’re under attack!” Gavra shrieked. “Guards!” Gun drawn, firing wildly, she fled the dais and disappeared through a small door. On her way out, she slammed her fist into a panel by the door, filling the compound with the shrill of an alarm.

No one knew that the explosions had been triggered by Kell as he detonated the microbots scuttling across the wall. Instead, believing themselves under siege and unarmed, people shoved at each other, trying desperately to flee. Mara fought to keep from being swept away by the terrified crowd. It wasn’t a surprise to see that all the smugglers and scavengers fled. Only the mercenaries stayed, their continued presence ensured by the promise of creds. Profit made men brave.

These mercenaries fanned out to meet the assumed threat. As one of the mercenaries stood at the edge of the platform, Kell pulled the scarf from around his throat and whipped it toward the guard. It struck the sentry across the face, leaving a bleeding, angry welt. The scarf snapped again with a sharp crack. The guard lost his grip on his gun, and Mara grabbed it before the firearm could hit the floor.

It wasn’t a damned ugly scarf after all, but a weapon. A lash, with a jagged, cutting edge that deployed only when in motion. And Kell wielded it masterfully, beating back mercenaries charging across the floor toward him. She wanted to watch his fluid, deadly grace, but other things needed attention. Like the half dozen guards headed in her direction.

She ran to the side of the platform and took cover. Then, careful to draw fire away from Kell, shot at the advancing guards. Three went down, and Mara kept up her assault. As she continued her cover, Kell leapt up onto the dais. With brutal efficiency, he used both his whip and his fists to mow down the mercenaries trying to take him down. She had witnessed fights both sanctioned and spontaneous from one end of the galaxy to the other. Nothing and no one ever fought as beautifully, as capably as Kell. He was action and purpose, a blur she could barely track. Something primal within her heated to see him transform fully into a lethal warrior.

Mara continued to hold back advancing mercenaries, giving Kell the time he needed to free the lieutenant. Though, she confirmed with a quick glance, Jur seemed to have the situation in hand—she took advantage of the confusion to kick free of most of the mercenaries holding her. Nobody could match Kell for fighting skill, but Jur made an impressive sight as she grappled with the last guard holding her.

As the guards fell back to regroup, Mara sprang up onto the platform. She picked up another dropped weapon so she held two pistols. She fired a plasma round into a mercenary lunging for Kell, then slipped behind the guard still struggling with Jur.

One gun barrel pressed to the back of the guard’s head, the other jammed up between his legs. The mercenary froze.

“Good boy.” Mara nudged the pistol she held between his legs. “Let go of your shiny toy.”

His hand opened, releasing his grip on Jur’s arm. The moment he did, the lieutenant punched him in the jaw and he slid to the ground, out cold.

Shaking out her hand, Jur said, “I’m not complaining, but who are you?”

“A friend of Kell’s,” seemed the easiest, and shortest, explanation.

“Thank you, Kell’s friend.” Jur looked toward where Kell fought three guards. “Let’s give him a hand.”

Gods curse it, she really didn’t want to respect the lieutenant, but it was a challenge. She and Jur shared a nod, then sprang into the fray. Between Mara, Lieutenant Jur and Kell, they cleared the platform in less than a minute.

Kell turned to Mara and Jur. “Appreciate it.” His dark gaze moved over Mara, quick and attentive. “Hurt?”

She shook her head. “You?”

“Feels like old times.” He grinned, and her chest constricted at the sight. His smile dimmed a little when he looked at Jur, finally acknowledging her torn and dirty uniform, the bruises on her face. “Which of these fuckers hurt you?”

“Just a few knocks, Commander.” She waved off his concern, but said, more gently, “The next time we meet, it should be under better circumstances. Maybe at the mess hall on base. Though the food’s better here.”

The contraction in Mara’s chest tightened. Kell and Jur bantered easily with each other, revealing a long history—far longer than Mara could claim. It doesn’t matter now.

Kell seemed satisfied that they were all in one piece, then leapt off the dais. “Weapons,” he said over his shoulder.

They followed him out of the warehouse, darting through the chaos of the panicking crowd outside. Smugglers, scavengers and slavers were trying to cram themselves through the gate to get to their ships. A small, smoldering pile of debris indicated that at least one hysterical smuggler tried to run through the plasma fence rather than go through the gate.

No one ever said a scared smuggler was a smart smuggler, Mara thought.

She and Jur caught up with Kell as he took down the guards outside the weapons storage structure. Kell grabbed the decoder from an unconscious guard’s belt and pressed it to the control panel beside the door. It opened with a hiss, and then he, Mara and Jur stepped inside.

All three of them smiled.

“It’s like Solstice Morning.” Mara sighed.

“And Lunar New Year, and Birth Celebration all rolled into one.” Kell’s smile widened into a grin.

Weapons of every size, shape and variety were lined up on tables and hung in cases on the walls. Pistols, rifles, plasma shredders, heavy and light guns. Plasma grenades. Ion muskets. Even a surface-to-air blaster.

“Smugglers and scavengers aren’t always smart.” Mara stroked a plasma shredder. “But they are well-armed.”

Kell threw her another devastating grin, before he made his way up and down the rows of firearms, loading himself down with as many weapons as he could carry. She and the Lieutenant followed his example, and soon they bristled like a very small, very dangerous army. Even so, there were only three of them and dozens of mercenaries waiting outside.

“How’s my Wraith?” Jur asked.

“Unbreached, for now.” Kell checked the power supply for a long-barreled plasma rifle before slinging it over his shoulder. He tucked a few grenades into his belt for extra measure. “Let’s not keep her waiting.”

They stepped outside the storage structure, then flattened against the wall as a volley of plasma fire erupted around them. Mara cursed when she saw the mercenaries positioned in the alley between the weapons structure and the building that contained the Black Wraith. Clearly the guards had been ordered to protect the ship. The alley was a long, vulnerable dash, hemmed in on every side.

Though the route to the Black Wraith was heavily guarded, none of the mercenaries were focused on the way out of the compound, and the ships docked there. Provided one could push through the still teeming, frenzied mob, all that remained was a fairly straight shot to an escape.

More plasma fire burst around Mara, Kell and Jur. They crouched low and shot back.

Kell’s mouth flattened into a determined line. “Mara, you and Celene head back to the Arcadia. Blend in with the others and you can get through. Take off immediately.”

“What about you?” Mara demanded.

“I’ll go for the Wraith.” He glanced at the treacherous path leading toward the ship. “If I can’t fly it, I’ll be sure to destroy it.”

Jur’s eyes widened, but she nodded with understanding.

Mara was less understanding. “You’ll be stranded.”

He fired off several rounds at the mercenaries. “There are other ships.”

“If you can reach them.” Mara gritted her teeth. What Kell proposed meant his death. He was beyond capable, but the odds against him were monumental. It would take more than skill and brains to survive. Only the intervention of the gods could keep him alive.

She wasn’t certain if she believed in the gods. But there was something she did believe in.

“I’m staying with you.”

Chapter Ten

The explosions had been loud, but not loud enough to damage Kell’s hearing. Still, it took him a moment to realize he hadn’t misheard Mara.

“Someone’s got to fly Celene out of here,” he said above the plasma fire hammering around them.

Mara threw Celene a quick glance. “How are you at piloting modified trawlers?”

“If it has wings,” she answered, “I can fly it.”

Turning back to him, Mara said, “Your odds go up if you’re not alone, but you can’t risk two Wraith pilots on this mission. Jur gets to safety first. She flies herself out of here and I give you backup.”

“She’ll pilot the Arcadia.” He couldn’t keep the disbelief out of his voice.

“And I help get us to the Black Wraith.” Mara held his stare coolly, almost defiantly.

He felt gut-punched. She’d made it abundantly clear on many occasions that she’d suffer no one but herself to take the Arcadia’s controls. The ship meant everything to her, weighted with her sense of freedom and self. She hadn’t even allowed him to pilot the ship through the dangers of Ilden’s Lash or the energy storm. Now, she was poised to hand off control of the Arcadia to someone she had met just minutes ago. Someone she didn’t like very much.

To help him.

He relied on other members of the squad. They watched each other’s backs, trusted each other. But that was part of being in Black Wraith Squad. Unquestioning loyalty to one another. Mara owed him nothing—less than nothing, actually. But the enormity of what she proposed stole his breath and made his heart pump as if he’d run a dozen geomiles.

Now wasn’t the time to wonder at it, or her. If they survived this mission, then, and only then, could he sit down with a bottle of Deianeiran whiskey and figure out what it all meant.

“Any way I can talk you out of this?” The route to the hangar was a dangerous one. He wasn’t even certain that he’d make it, not without taking some hits. The thought of Mara being hurt, or worse, felt like ice in his veins.

“Not a damn chance. The likelihood of your getting to the Black Wraith is much better if you aren’t alone.” She raised a brow. “You do want the mission to be a success, don’t you? Think of the consequences if it fails.”

Fuck. She knew his weakness and exploited it ruthlessly. He’d admire her for it, if he didn’t want to throttle her. And, unfortunately, what she proposed made sense. The possibility of reaching the Black Wraith went up if he had additional eyes and firepower. He just wished it wasn’t her providing them.

There wasn’t a choice. He nodded. Something like happiness flared briefly in her eyes before she hid it behind cool detachment.

Quickly, Mara explained the security code to get into and operate the ship. Mara also advised Celene on how to navigate the energy storm using the spectral resonance filter.

“That sounds fun.” Celene grinned, then winced from the bruising on her face.

“It is.” Mara drew a breath. “Take good care of her.”

“I will,” Celene answered, solemn now, understanding right away the attachment Mara felt toward her ship. “Take good care of him.”

“I will.” The gravity in Mara’s voice heated Kell more than a plasma burst.

“Next round at the officers’ club is on me,” Celene said to him.

“Lieutenants aren’t allowed in the officers’ club. Senior officers only.”

“In my case, they’ll make an exception.” She glanced toward Mara. “You’ve got some good firepower in your corner, Commander.” With that, she sprinted toward the gate, blending in with the fleeing crowd.

He watched Mara’s expression as she stared after Celene, the slight tension in the corners of her mouth that betrayed how much it cost her to let anyone fly the Arcadia. He wanted to reach for her, but knew that if he did, he’d lose his concentration. So he kept his hands to himself, and when she looked back at him, signaling her readiness, he was ready too.

“Reconnaissance first,” he said. “Then we move.”

“Agreed.”

They both peered around the corner of the weapons containment structure. Four mercs guarded the alley that led to the hangar. They crouched behind storage crates, ready to take on whoever was stupid or brave enough to charge the alley. An intersection lay beyond this, full of unknown variables, such as more hired guns or something more dangerous. After the intersection, the next building on the left was the hangar. To reach the hangar meant passing through that gauntlet. A cheerful stroll through the hydrogarden it wasn’t.

“We need to flush those mercs out,” he said.

Mara glanced toward the grenades hanging from his belt, and grinned. “Got a few ideas about that.”

Incredibly, he felt himself smile in response. Yes, the fight ahead was dangerous and dirty, but he couldn’t think of another person he wanted beside him or watching his back. Only her.

Screw it. He leaned close and kissed her, hard. She responded at once, meeting his fierce hunger with her own, and it was like a taste of forbidden nectar, fleeting and sweet.

Then, all too soon, it was time to jump into the conflagration.

At his nod, Mara lobbed grenades. She had a good throwing arm and tossed them right behind mercs staked out in the alley. Explosions shook the alley. One merc went down with a scream. The others managed to avoid the blasts, but in order to do that, they jumped out from behind their cover into the open.

Kell went to work. He dropped the mercs with kill shots to the chest and head. Mara provided additional firepower, finishing off anyone who tried to shoot back.

In moments, the first section of the alley was clear. He sent Mara an approving nod—she’d been fast and efficient, as unflappable as any 8th Wing senior officer.

Weapon drawn, he eased into the alley. His gaze never halted, assessing every position, gauging all possibilities. Mara, sleek as a silver cat, moved beside him, plasma pistols in both her hands. They both fired at and took out a merc peering around the corner of the intersection. Hard to know whose shot did the trick, but all that mattered was neutralizing another threat.

The intersection ahead bothered him. He and Mara had decent cover between the buildings now, but they would be exposed and at risk in the junction.

“We go through back-to-back,” he said. “Guard every angle.”

In wordless agreement, she turned and pressed her back to his. Even this brief contact felt damn good, regardless of the circumstances. Which meant he needed to stay particularly sharp, to keep her safe. He recognized, too, her unprecedented trust in him, giving him her back.

They made a strange but fitting creature, edging sideways into the intersection. His fears were well-founded. Knots of mercs hid there, around the corners. Kell fired into the group he faced, feeling Mara do the same behind him. He couldn’t turn to check on her progress. A moment’s distraction meant a moment’s vulnerability, so he kept up his barrage. Mercs went down. He didn’t hiss or wince when one guard’s shot grazed his thigh. He simply shot back, and the merc fell to the ground, motionless.

The moment happened quickly. It happened slowly. He was aware of himself and Mara working in perfect accord, clearing out the threats, trusting one another. It was a dance—fluid motion, synchronicity. It seemed, unexpectedly, the most intimate thing in the world, to fight alongside Mara.

Past the intersection, and both still alive. Now they only needed to sprint toward the hangar door ahead. Mara followed his unspoken command, and together they ran.

They were yards from the door when a new contingent of mercs appeared from around a nearby building, firing.

“Hold them off long enough for me to get us inside,” he shouted above the blasts.

“Done!”

Using his tech implants, he triggered the microbot he’d planted inside earlier. He helped her hold back the mercs, firing into the group, while simultaneously guiding the bot into the hangar’s defense system. The system was complex—clearly a heap of creds had been spent on getting the latest and most secure tech—but it took less than a second for him to breach it. A satisfying hiss and sizzle as the bot overrode the protocols.

The door slid open, and just in time. Fresh reinforcements joined the fray, adding a whole new barrage of plasma fire to an already tight situation.

Kell pushed her through the open door, stepped inside the hangar, and sealed the door shut behind them.

Gunfire met them inside too. He took out the two guards before either of them could fire another shot.

Red filmed his gaze when he saw the wound on her shoulder. “I’ll fucking kill them.”

“Nothing some Lulani rum can’t fix.” She scowled, though, when she noticed his blood darkening his pants. “Or maybe we both can kill those bastards.”

“Sounds satisfying. I’d rather just get us the hell out of here.”

“I like that flight plan.”

They jogged up to the Black Wraith. He used his implants to activate the ship. A hand-shaped indentation appeared in its side, and he placed his hand within it, synching his thoughts with the ship’s systems. He ran a quick diagnostic and was gratified to find that no one had been able to tamper with or breach the Black Wraith while it had been in the smuggler’s custody. Once, long ago, he had been disturbed by the idea of aligning his mind with a machine, becoming part of its matrix, just as it permeated his consciousness. But soon he had come to learn the process, even welcome it. Elegant and streamlined, without the divide between pilot and ship.

The hatch opened, revealing the narrow cockpit. Mara eyed the ship cautiously.

“Am I supposed to sit on your lap?”

He concentrated, and couldn’t help but smile when Mara gave a startled yelp. The ship responded to his mental commands, actually shifting and reconfiguring its interior. A process both liquid and mechanical as components altered, remade themselves. No longer did the ship seat just one person. At his directive, the Black Wraith could now accommodate a pilot and a gunner in a rotating turret, and all within a few seconds’ work, rather than losing days on making modifications.

“No wonder PRAXIS wants its claws on these ships” Mara reverently touched the ship’s hull.

He disengaged from the exterior control panel. The door to the hangar shook with the force of heavy plasma gunfire. It wouldn’t be long before the mercs breached the door.

Mara didn’t complain when he boosted her into the gunner’s position, then slid himself into the pilot’s seat. It felt familiar, exactly right. He hadn’t been in the cockpit of a Black Wraith in almost a week, and he missed it.

Before he grasped the controls, he drew his pistol and shot the security panel beside the wide hangar doors. They slid open, giving the ship a way out.

Almost as soon as the doors open, mercs came pouring in. He fitted his hands to the ship’s controls, and the cockpit and gunner position closed, sealing him and Mara within the Black Wraith’s protective shield. Plasma fire bounced off the ship’s exterior. But he had more than just plasma pistols and rifles.

He and Mara blasted the mercs with the Black Wraith’s guns. The controls of the turret were intuitive for someone as skilled as Mara, and the result was a pile of debris where mercs used to be. But the damn slime kept coming. He saw mercs running for small, armed ships. It was going to be a fight the whole way.

“Buckled up?”

“All in.”

“Hold on to your balls, Skiren.”

They took off to the sound of her husky laughter.

Kell loved the pitch, deep in his gut, that arose from overcoming gravity’s hold. It didn’t matter if he was on patrol, training, or on a mission—the sensation of flight, of breaking free never stopped delighting him. Even now, with mercs on his tail and an energy storm to navigate, he savored the sense of forcing his way to freedom.

Mara felt the same. He heard it in her continued laugh as they shot into the sky.

“Damn. These Wraiths have a kick to them.”

“Best fucking propulsion systems in the galaxy.” He patted the control panel.

“No wonder you 8th Wing hotshots are so eager to fly them. A thrust like this is better than sex.”

“Better?”

“Close second. With one exception.”

He wanted to ask who that exception might be, but the mercs were closing in and the Black Wraith neared the bottom edge of the storm. The mercs fired. He avoided the pursuers’ blasts, guiding his ship in quick, tight evasive patterns.

“Gods.” He took a deep breath. “Feels good to fly again.”

“Feels good to be flown,” Mara replied, then cursed as she squeezed off several rounds at pursuing mercs. Two went down, but more kept coming. And only a handful turned around when they saw that Kell headed straight for the storm. The lure of profit overrode their sense of self-preservation.

The ship bucked as it pierced the thick energy clouds. He engaged the filters and rode the storm. What had been a painful, shuddering trek in Mara’s larger, less advanced scavenger ship felt far more sinuous and fluid in the Black Wraith. He had only to think where he needed his ship to be, and it slid perfectly into place.

But it wasn’t an easy glide. Lightning and plasma fire streaked around them as mercs kept up their pursuit. He did not flinch when a bolt of lightning struck a close-flying merc ship. Hunks of metal went everywhere as the ship tore apart. Mara cursed at the explosion, then cursed once more, this time in exultation, as more pursuers dropped back, daunted by the storm.

Two mercs jostled their ships into position ahead of the Black Wraith. Through his ship’s sensors, he noted that the mercs were powering up their magnetic tow nets. Clearly, they wanted to keep the Black Wraith intact so Gavra could try and sell it—and him and Mara.

Like hell.

He timed it exactly. He saw the coalescing energy that presaged a lightning strike, and guided the ship close. Pushing the mercs right where he wanted them to be.

A boom as lightning obliterated one merc ship. Mara’s gunfire from the turret took care of the other.

The mercs that remained finally grew some brains. They peeled off in retreat.

Mara shouted her jubilation. “If we had time, I’d kiss you.”

His blood, already hot from the thrill of combat, turned incendiary at her casually thrown words. It was primitive and brutal, his need. They had fought together, fought well, and now his body demanded that he claim her. Now. But that was impossible. He had to get them through the storm, through the Smoke Quadrant, Ilden’s Lash, and then make it back the rest of the way to base. Danger at every stage. No time for giving in to his hunger for her.

And the Black Wraith was advanced, but not advanced enough to suddenly accommodate two people making love in the cockpit.

For the first time Kell cursed his ship.

He piloted the Black Wraith through the remainder of the storm, riding the tempest’s swells and pulses. Abruptly, the thick clouds gave way. The ship broke through to the dark quiet of space.

The Arcadia waited for them.

“Gods, I wasn’t sure I would see you two again,” Celene said over the comm.

“Don’t insult me,” Kell replied.

“I forgot my rescuer was the indestructible Commander Frayne.”

“With help,” Mara added. “How’s my baby?” Concern threaded her voice.

“She took the storm like a champion slange wrestler. No damage to the hull.”

Mara let out a sigh of relief. “Thanks for taking care of her.”

“A friend of Kell’s…”

Friend. He wondered if Mara considered herself his friend. Gods knew, he thought of her as that, and more. He didn’t just desire Mara. He admired her. Liked her. He wondered if what she felt for him was strong enough, if she could alter her flight plan to bring him into her life.

He couldn’t consider any of this. Not until he’d gotten everyone safely back to base. Only then could he allow himself to think about the future.

As they flew in a two-ship convoy, Celene told them over the comm about her capture and confinement.

“It was my own fault.” Harsh self-recrimination edged her voice. “I was tricked by a false distress call, and when I got close, the pirates used some variety of electro-pulse device on me. It knocked my ship’s systems off line, temporarily disabling it, and that’s when the…ambush happened.”

There was more to her story. He heard it in her minute hesitation. Something had happened to her during her captivity, but he knew Celene well enough to understand than now wasn’t the time to delve deeper.

He stuck to the details she had offered. “8th Wing hasn’t heard anything about an electro-pulse device. Not one that could temporarily disable a Black Wraith.” He frowned, troubled by the idea. A squad of Black Wraiths could be taken out of commission in a moment, leaving a dozen vulnerable pilots floating in space. They, and their ships, would be fair game, just as Celene had been.

“Where did it come from?” asked Mara.

“Ask the gods.” Celene couldn’t keep the bitterness from her voice. “Whoever built it, 8th Wing needs to hear about it. Maybe track down its origin. I know I’ll fly easier once that thing is out of the equation.”

“Agreed.” Kell held the controls tighter. The Black Wraiths were one of the few assets 8th Wing had in the ongoing war with PRAXIS, and they needed to hang on to every advantage.

Spotting the telltale red glow of Ilden’s Lash, he added, “The plasma storm was the undercard. Ready for the title fight?”

Mara chuckled as Celene’s cursing filtered over the comm. “I didn’t have to navigate that on my way in.”

“Want me to take over for you?” Mara clearly wanted her ship back.

“Not a chance,” Celene answered. “I might enjoy this.” She cut the comm line.

“Damn Black Wraith hotshots,” Mara grumbled. “A bunch of danger-loving lunatics.”

“You’d fit right in.” It made a strange kind of sense. She had the flying skill, the courage, and, yes, some of the recklessness that made for an ace pilot.

Mara, fighting beside him. Flying beside him. Visualizing it, he felt a sharp, brilliant contraction in his chest.

Did she even have a choice? The life she knew was over—every smuggler and scavenger would soon know that she had fought on the side of the 8th Wing. She would be hunted through the galaxy, an outcast. Again. Because of him.

He cursed the fact that he couldn’t see Mara’s face, wondering what her reaction might be. Anger? Derision? Flat-out rejection?

Finally, she laughed. The sound was hard, forced. “8th Wing standards would have to be lowered to let in a scavenger like me.”

Gods, she really had no idea of her worth.

“Raised, not lowered. They’d be damn lucky to have you.” I would be lucky to have you. “And, Mara, it was over between Celene and me a long time ago.”

He was actually grateful to enter the hazards of Ilden’s Lash, demanding his full attention. In this round, he finally had the controls, and it was a hell of a lot more interesting than being a passive passenger. Light and nimble, the Black Wraith slipped through the gaps between the protoplanets. It felt as natural as breathing, as quick as life, and Kell couldn’t keep the smile off his face.

“Black Wraith Squad should use Ilden’s Lash for training.” He slid the ship through a narrow passage. Molten rock ribboned around the wings like streamers of fire.

“Wish I could take the controls.” Yearning filled Mara’s voice.

“Join the squad and you can.”

“Stop tempting me.”

He tried a little diversionary tactic. “Celene’s handling the Lash well.”

The tactic worked, for he heard Mara shifting in her seat. She let out a series of impressed curses as she watched another pilot fly her ship through the deadly band. The Arcadia was larger and much less maneuverable than a Black Wraith, yet even Mara couldn’t deny that Celene took the Lash expertly, flying the scavenger ship with almost as much skill as herself.

“I don’t know if I hate her or admire her for being so good,” Mara said. “As long as she keeps my ship in one piece, I think I’ll like her. Maybe.”

He knew that professional envy well—it kept him and the other squad pilots sharp, trying to outdo each other, trying to be the best. Right now he was the best, but he’d never let himself grow complacent. Complacency killed on Sayén, and it rendered a pilot obsolete in the Black Wraith Squad.

When they broke free from Ilden’s Lash, Kell felt a stab of disappointment. It was over too quickly. Yet his disappointment lasted less than a heartbeat, replaced by cold anger and readiness.

Just on the other side of the Lash, a PRAXIS battlecruiser waited for them.

The battlecruiser immediately opened fire. Kell took evasive maneuvers as he shot back. Fighting PRAXIS was his job, yet he always felt the same hard gleam of rage whenever he engaged the enemy, thinking of his ruined homeworld and all the other homes destroyed by PRAXIS’s greed. He burned for the time when the corporate monster lay in smoldering ruins. He would be the sonic hammer that smashed them apart.

A host of drones shot from the side of the battlecruiser, and these, too, fired on the Black Wraith.

“This is turning into a very long day.” Mara turned the turret to return fire.

Celene came through on the comm line. “Suggestions, Commander?”

“We can’t outrun them,” Kell answered, dodging a volley of plasma fire. “Can’t outshoot them. Unless…What kind of weapons does the Arcadia have?”

“One plasma gun,” said Mara. “And the shields can’t take many hits. I’m a scavenger, not a soldier. The magnetic tow is her best feature.”

That caught Kell’s attention. “Towing capacity?”

Mara seemed to understand immediately. “Definitely something as large as, say, a battlecruiser.”

Over the secured comm, Celene chuckled. “I like the direction this conversation is heading.”

He sniped at the battlecruiser, darting close and then peeling back. As he hoped, the PRAXIS ship kept its attention on the Black Wraith, directing all its firepower at him. He swerved, dodged and shot, with Mara providing backup with her rotating gun. She took out half a dozen drones, their small, metal bodies exploding around the Black Wraith’s hull.

He gritted his teeth as one shot from the battlecruiser nearly clipped his wing. Gunfire streamed around them.

As he hoped, the PRAXIS ship ignored the Arcadia. It was just a scavenger trawler. Nothing to attract their attention. The Black Wraith was the prize.

“Celene, fly to the aft of the cruiser,” Kell directed.

“Copy that.” A moment later, she announced, “In position.”

Mara understood his plan, then got on the comm line and quickly explained to Celene how to deploy the magnetic tow. “Make sense?”

“Absolutely.”

“Do it,” Kell commanded.

“Aye, sir.”

The battlecruiser suddenly listed as Arcadia’s magnetic tow net fastened onto part of its aft fuselage. It tried to fight the net, but Mara’s words proved true. Arcadia had its hooks into the PRAXIS ship, hauling the much larger vessel around like a child pulling a toy.

“That’s it, baby,” Mara whispered, viciously gleeful. “Show those bastards what a scavenger can do.”

The battlecruiser attempted to fire back, but Celene had positioned the Arcadia in the enemy ship’s small area of lowered defense, where fewer guns were located. She towed the battlecruiser up, exposing its vulnerable underside. As drones rushed toward the scavenger ship, Mara unleashed a barrage of gunfire, picking them off like digiskeet.

Kell kept his guns occupied. He raced toward the PRAXIS ship, searching its hull. The battlecruiser tried to shift in space to line its guns up on him, but the Arcadia held it in place. Yes, there. He bared his teeth in a brutal smile. And unleashed the Black Wraith’s plasma guns, hammering into the battlecruiser’s side.

A bulwark collapsed beneath the onslaught. After a moment, the PRAXIS guns stopped. He’d damaged the main power to the weapons systems, and the enemy had no choice but to shut their weapons down.

But he wasn’t finished. He was the sonic hammer. As drones swarmed around the Black Wraith, he targeted the battlecruiser’s propulsion system. Mara held the drones back long enough for Kell to decimate the engines. The moment he destroyed them, he turned his weapons on the remaining drones, and soon, there was nothing left of the bots but debris.

Celene disengaged the tow net. The battlecruiser now drifted like a blind, declawed macskacat, unable to move. Defenseless.

Part of Kell demanded he blast the battlecruiser into atoms, but a single Black Wraith didn’t have enough firepower to destroy the PRAXIS ship with one hit—only prolonged bombardment would do the job. Much as he wanted to wipe the damn battlecruiser off the star charts, he needed to get Mara, Celene and the Black Wraith to safety. And the fighter in him rebelled at the notion of attacking a powerless opponent. No honor in it.

The Arcadia came alongside the Black Wraith as he forced his blood to cool.

“You’ve earned yourself a few medals today, ladies.”

“Medals for everyone,” agreed Celene.

“And drinks.” Mara had her own strong opinions. “More valuable than medals.”

“Let’s go home,” said Kell.

“Home.” Mara spoke the word as if it was in another language. One she didn’t understand.

He wondered if he could teach her its meaning. Would his home be hers? He could fly and win a hundred combat missions, yet he understood that there were some battles he could never win by force.

Chapter Eleven

An 8th Wing carrier ship met them a few solar hours after they left the Smoke Quadrant and collected them like stray birds. Smiling 8th Wing troops and officers waited for them in the docking bay. Applause echoed as she, Kell and Lieutenant Jur emerged from their ships—a far different experience from Mara’s last encounter with 8th Wing. She felt uncharacteristically shy at being the object of so much celebratory attention.

As she stood beside the Black Wraith with Kell and Jur, people thronged around them in a sea of gray uniforms. The silence of space made their clapping jarring and loud, their eager faces too bright, too demanding. She felt herself shrink away, seeking peace. Kell’s arm curved around her shoulders. Immediately, she felt the chaos within her calm, a sense of anchoring when she would have floated away.

He knew this, instinctively, knew what she needed. She looked at him as applause and shouts of congratulations thundered. He did not revel in the attention, but he didn’t shun it, either. He looked like a man who expected to get the job done, and did exactly that. Tough, assured, and, to her eyes, achingly handsome. Familiar, yet wondrous.

How had he become so necessary to her in such a short amount of time? Planets formed over millions of years, yet her own system had changed tremendously within a few days. No wonder her gravity was out of alignment.

Kell saw her looking at him, and bent close. “Welcome home,” he murmured for her ears alone.

A confused flush spread through her. Home. Hers, if she wanted it to be.

Gods, she needed time alone to think.

8th Wing officers came forward, trying to look stern but largely failing.

“You look shocked to see me, sirs.” Kell drew himself up so he seemed, if possible, even taller.

“Only surprised to have you back so quickly, Commander,” a captain answered.

“We placed bets,” said another commander.

Kell raised a brow. “Who won?”

“Ensign Neta.”

A young woman with an ensign’s single stripe hooted. “That’s five hundred creds and Lieutenant Orji has to clean my bunk for a solar month.”

Someone, presumably Lieutenant Orji, groaned. “She’s messier than that sipkaswine Ensign Garek smuggled aboard.”

“Status, Lieutenant Jur,” said a captain.

Jur, looking tired but relieved, answered, “A little weary and bruised, ma’am, but I’m in fighting form.” She eyed the medical personnel working their way toward her. “I don’t think the doctors are necessary.”

“Standard procedure following a rescue mission. Go, Lieutenant.”

Jur saluted and made to follow the medical personnel. Before she departed, she turned to Mara and stuck out her hand.

“They strong-armed me into the mission,” Mara said. “Thanks aren’t necessary.”

But the lieutenant smiled. “What I saw weren’t the actions of someone being coerced. You had your own stake in the mission.” Her gaze slid toward Kell, talking with an officer.

“And you?” Mara struggled to keep the tension from her voice.

Jur’s smile turned melancholy at the edges. “That ship has flown. It flew away years ago.” Then she left with the medical team, with a volley of new applause following her as she departed the docking bay.

The captain noticed Kell’s arm still wrapped around Mara’s shoulders, but said only, “You two must be exhausted and,” she added, eyeing their wounds, “you need treating, as well. Commander Rigg, escort the commander and our honored guest to the medical bay.”

“Honored guest?” Mara repeated.

“That you are.” Kell’s gaze was a warm caress. “The 8th Wing is honored by your presence. As they should be.”

Shouts of agreement rose up from the assembled crowd.

She had no answer to that, to them. She felt herself dropped into someone else’s life—someone who did not run with criminals, who was not an exile. Someone who belonged. A similar feeling to whenever she had set foot in that tawdry bar on Ryge. But here, the currency was honor, not cunning. That life was lost to her now.

Her chest tightened with panic. She belonged to no one, and no one would have her.

She told herself that again, when Commander Rigg escorted her and Kell from the docking bay and more cheers sounded from the throng. Disturbing, to walk through the 8th Wing ship and see not suspicion or curiosity in the faces that passed her, but welcoming smiles.

It did not take long for her wounds to be cleaned and mended. The medical team worked quickly, with a minimum of fussing, which she appreciated. She remembered the hovering nurses and nannies from her childhood, the oppressive atmosphere that barred her from playing outside like other children, lest she hurt herself. Of course, that had made her desire to sneak off and roughhouse with the groundskeeper’s children all the stronger.

She sat on an exam table, watched from across the room as medics treated Kell’s leg. His pants had been cut open, exposing the hard muscles of his calf and thigh and the burned flesh surrounding the plasma pistol wound. Even though the treatment required a bit of probing and some heat sutures, he bore it all with stoicism, talking the entire time with Commander Rigg and giving no notice to the painful work being done on his leg. Yet in the middle of all this, he caught her staring at him and sent her a look of searing, carnal intent. It was a wonder the medical team crossing between them didn’t burst into flames.

Her pulse hammered, and her body responded immediately, growing sensitive and aware. She wriggled on the examining table as she glanced away. It had been too long since she touched Kell, felt his body against and within hers. Her need for him frightened her. Somehow, she would have to acclimate herself to this new paradigm: life without Kell.

But what new life awaited her?

“Ms. Skiren.” A fresh-faced lieutenant stood beside the exam table. “Do you think you have the energy for a debriefing?”

“I’m not 8th Wing. I can’t be debriefed.” She raised an eyebrow. “Unless it’s mandatory, and I’m being taken into custody.”

“What’s the problem, Lieutenant?” Kell, against the protests of the medical tech, stood and crossed the bay, scowling.

“No problem, sir,” said the lieutenant at once. “Command just wants to get Ms. Skiren’s statement about the mission, and then she’s free to go.”

“Am I not free now?”

The lieutenant, clearly not expecting this kind of hostility, stammered. “Of…of course you’re free. But it would be…very helpful for future missions if we could get your statement about what happened on this one.” He shot a nervous glance toward Kell. “If that’s acceptable, sir.”

Kell held Mara’s gaze, and the concern and protectiveness in his eyes threatened to shatter her heart. “You don’t have to.”

“Where will you be?”

“Doing the exact same thing. Talking myself hoarse to a debriefing panel.”

She turned to the lieutenant. “Let’s get this over with.” She hopped down from the examining table and, even though all she wanted to do was wrap her arms around Kell’s long, solid body, she made herself walk toward the medical bay doors.

“Mara.”

She turned at Kell’s voice. He stood next to the exam table, with medical staff busily milling around, and yet all he saw was her, and all she saw was him.

“Think about what I said.” His voice was graveled, low. “It’s here if you want it.”

If I want it. What was it? Life with him? Joining 8th Wing? As she left the medical bay, his words resonated over and over within her, like the tolling of an ancient bell announcing either celebration or disaster.

She didn’t see Kell again. The next few hours were spent in a small room with two 8th Wing officers, recounting every detail of the past few days. Mara left out some details, namely the times she and Kell made love. Those memories belonged to her and Kell. No one else. She hoarded them like gems, to be guarded jealously, possessively.

The 8th Wing officers listened and recorded her statements, asking her questions or requesting clarification of certain details. She had initially braced herself for antagonism, or sneering condescension. She was a scavenger. They were 8th Wing. Her clothes were grimy from battle. Their uniforms and insignias gleamed.

Yet no one made snide remarks. No one treated her poorly. If anything, she felt embarrassed to be the recipient of the officers’ unadorned praise. They marveled at her piloting ability, and how she fought side-by-side with Kell and Lieutenant Jur.

“You distinguished yourself, Ms. Skiren,” said a commander. “And your actions went far beyond what any of us had anticipated.”

“Commander Frayne has also had nothing but praise for your contribution to the mission,” a captain added.

At the mention of Kell, her cheeks heated. “What did Kell…I mean, what did Commander Frayne say?”

“He’s still being debriefed. We can’t discuss that.” The captain studied a digitablet. “But I can tell you that he’s pushing hard for a special commendation for you.”

“Commander Frayne overstates my involvement.” She didn’t want that commendation, not if it meant she’d earned it with her body rather than her skill.

“Lieutenant Jur is seconding that commendation,” said the commander. “Do you disagree with them both?”

“I…no.” Breath left her. She wondered briefly if the ship’s gravitational mechanism had gone off line, then realized it was her own equilibrium being unsettled. Rules and certainties as she’d known them did not exist, leaving her to find new truths. About the world as she knew it. About herself.

After the interview concluded, Mara wandered around the ship, searching. She found neither Kell nor even Lieutenant Jur. When the ship landed at the 8th Wing base, she oversaw the unloading of the Arcadia, checked her ship for any damages, but even after she found everything to be in good condition, she lingered. Still no sign of Kell. He hadn’t come out of the carrier ship.

“We’ve prepared special quarters for you, ma’am,” an ensign informed her.

“I’ve got quarters on my ship.”

“These are a little more spacious. Besides, they come equipped with a water shower.”

A water shower sounded like the Starfields of Eternal Bliss. Yet, even with this temptation, she was reluctant to stray far from the docked carrier.

The ensign saw her gaze straying toward the ship. “Commander Frayne was escorted off the ship as soon as it docked.”

Alarm prickled the back of her neck. “Escorted off? Is he in trouble?” Mara began to stride away—exactly where she was heading, she didn’t know, but if Kell needed help, she would provide it, however she could.

“No trouble at all, ma’am,” the ensign said, trotting quickly after her. “But a mission like this, complicated and important as it was, requires a long debriefing before a panel of admirals. Standard operating procedure.”

Her pace slowed as some of her righteous anger and determination evaporated. “I see. How long do these panels last?”

“Could be hours, or longer. More than enough time to rest and clean up. Ma’am.”

She glanced down at herself, seeing the blood and dirt covering her clothes. She probably did not smell particularly pleasant, either.

A water shower. A bed. Solitude. Time to think. She wanted and needed all of this.

Summoning her years of training, she gave the ensign a regal nod. “Escort me to my quarters, Ensign.” However, she was no longer a princess, so she added, “Please.”

The junior officer led her through the base, and she found herself accepting congratulations and handshakes from many 8th Wing personnel. She felt inundated by faces and voices. Reaching her quarters was a relief.

They were, indeed, much more spacious that her cramped quarters on the Arcadia, and a decided contrast from the seedy lodging room she had shared with Kell. Though, what she and Kell had done in that lodging room hadn’t been seedy at all. It had been…breathtaking.

Needing to be alone with her thoughts and memories, she dismissed the ensign. The grime of Ryge needed to come off. She remembered her purification ritual after her first menses. At dawn, she had been bathed by priestesses, symbolically marking the transformation from childhood to adulthood, one life ended, another begun.

After stripping, she stepped beneath the water. The drain carried away the final relics of her life as a scavenger. Who was she now? There were millions of paths to take—cargo pilot, merchant, or, hell, mercenary. She now possessed what she had been denied on Argenti—choice.

She finished and wrapped a towel around herself, then staggered toward the bed as weariness overwhelmed her. Mara collapsed onto the bed. She would just rest her eyes a moment before getting dressed and going in search of Kell. Against her will, she fell asleep in seconds. And found herself adrift in dreams.

She woke later to a fleeting sensation of panic. An unfamiliar room, unfamiliar bed. Voices outside in the corridor discussed a training session, griping to each other about a tough warrant officer.

I’m at 8th Wing base. Kell’s home.

And hers, if she wanted it. Considering the praise she’d been given from the 8th officers, his offer might very well be genuine. The question was, what did she want?

Him. She wanted him. A palpable ache in the center of her chest. Lying on her back, staring at the ceiling, Mara pressed the heel of her hand against her chest, trying to contain the need that threatened to open her from the inside out. She had to see Kell. Needed to see his face and hear his voice and touch him, everywhere. He alone would understand what it was she felt to be on the 8th Wing base, the strange conflict of emotions to become, suddenly, a hero. He would know the curious emptiness that came with one life ending and another waiting to begin.

Gods, he had become her friend.

She checked the time. Three solar hours had passed since she had fallen into bed. He had to be finished with the debriefing by now. He would come to see her. The idea of waiting for him in nothing but a towel appealed, but just in case someone other than Kell showed up at her door, she ought to get dressed.

Her grimy clothes held little charm after getting herself clean. Rummaging around a storage locker, Mara found a woman’s 8th Wing uniform. No identification, no markers of rank. Unclaimed, clearly. Feeling a little strange, as though putting on someone else’s identity, Mara donned the jumpsuit. Looking into the mirror, her self-mocking smile died before it fully formed. She’d thought she would appear ridiculous, a criminal pretending to be a defender of the law. A fraud.

But no. She had her own dignity, and the uniform only highlighted what was already there. It felt surprisingly good, purposeful. As though she was part of something bigger than herself, yet contributed her own strength. And, she thought with an inward smile, the gray fabric flattered her cream-colored hair.

She stuck her tongue out at herself and moved away from the mirror. It was just a uniform. Some fabric woven on a digiloom and stitched together by a sewing bot.

An unwelcome thought crept into her mind. Perhaps Kell had finished the debriefing long ago and chose not to see her. Perhaps, now that he was back in his home territory, he realized how foolish he’d been—treating a casual fuck like someone he truly cared about. She was a scavenger, after all, no longer a princess. Perhaps he hoped she would read the unspoken message in his absence, that he wanted her gone, and what they had shared was forgettable and momentary.

“To hell with that.” If he wanted her to quietly, meekly disappear, he was mistaken. Scavenger she may be, but she had pride too.

She marched from her quarters but stopped short of accosting the first 8th Wing ensign she saw. No need to broadcast to the whole base that she was looking for Kell. So she used her own internal guidance as she roamed the base, righteous fury pushing her on with every step.

Her strides halted on a catwalk when she heard Kell’s angry voice one story below her.

“I’m not giving you any more,” he snapped.

“But we still need to review the captured Wraith’s data collectors.” This, from an unknown voice.

Mara peered over the railing. She saw Kell standing in the open doorway of what appeared to be a conference room, with a group of 8th Wing senior officers gathered behind him. Seeing him again, muscular and lean, handsome beyond reckoning, she felt her heart contract, even after an absence of merely half a solar day. He was still dressed in his smuggler’s clothes, though they were torn and dirty. She realized abruptly that, while she had enjoyed a shower and rest after the long ordeal of the mission, he had not.

“And I’ll go over the damn data collectors.” He planted his hands on his hips. “Later. She doesn’t know anyone on base, doesn’t know where I am. I have to go to her.”

Me. He’s talking about me. So much for her anger. It shorted like a fuse, leaving her with energy that had no outlet. Speeches and declarations died on her lips. She could only manage one word, the most important word she knew.

“Kell.”

He spun around, quick as a whipstrike, and looked up at her. For a moment, she and Kell just stared at each other, him standing below, her on the catwalk a story above.

More officers’ voices sounded behind him, but he paid them no attention. Instead, holding her gaze with his own, Kell sprinted toward the catwalk. Her breath snagged as he leapt up, beautiful motion, dark and dangerous. He caught the bottom edge of the catwalk with his hands, then, arm muscles tightening and flexing, pulled himself up enough to grab the bars of the railing. Sinuous and quick, he vaulted over the rail to stand in front of her.

“Mara.”

His voice sounded raw, as if he’d been speaking nonstop for a long time. He stepped close, and she saw the strain of weariness in his face. He had been going solidly for over a day without a single moment’s respite—yet all he saw or cared about was her.

When he reached for her, she could not stop herself from going to him.

His arms surrounded her, holding her tightly against the warm, hard contours of his chest. She lost herself in his embrace, wrapping her arms around him as they pressed closely together. The hollowness inside her filled with his presence, his strength and soul.

“We can resume the debriefing tomorrow, Commander,” someone said below.

“Doesn’t look like they’ll be available for a few solar days,” another said wryly.

“Or weeks.”

Kell threaded his fingers with hers and stepped back. His gaze burned her. Without speaking, he led her away. Her heart pounded with every step as they moved quickly, purposefully through the base. She paid no attention to where they were going, seeing only him. Within moments, she found herself in a barracks corridor. And then she was inside his quarters.

His quarters were larger than hers, but just as impersonally utilitarian, scrupulously neat. No holoimages of friends or family. If she wanted to find indications of the inner man, she would not find them here. The absence of personal touches revealed only that he lived for his work. His quarters were not a haven, nor a place of retreat, only somewhere to sleep between missions. Home that wasn’t home, not truly.

Immediately, he pulled her close. She felt the tough, hard strength of him, and the warmth too. “If anyone treated you poorly, tell me. I’ll have them thrown into the brig. After I beat them senseless.”

“I can’t fault 8th Wing for its hospitality. Not this time. Everyone acts like I’m some sort of hero.”

“They aren’t mistaken.”

“Only doing what I was obliged to do.”

“Now you’re mistaken.” He brushed his fingertips over her face, and she fought to keep her eyes open. “Don’t forget, Mara. I know you now. You handed the controls of the Arcadia over to Celene to stay with me. Nothing obligated about that.”

It had been exactly the right thing to do, an instinct she’d had to obey, yet she felt herself blush. She could not have made her feelings more plain, not even if she had written and recited a thousand-stanza epospoem.

“Brash princess.” A corner of his mouth turned up. He glanced at her uniform, and his smile turned puzzled. Pleased, but puzzled. “They inducted you already?”

“This is borrowed glory.”

A flicker of disappointment in his dark eyes. “No. You make it shine.”

Ah, there went another piece of her heart. “I do flatter the uniform.”

“It doesn’t have to be borrowed.”

“Will they have me, then?”

“There are a few tests you will have to take, but I have every confidence that you’ll not only pass, but set new records. You aren’t the average cadet.”

She gave a wry laugh. “How many cadets have ‘exiled princess’ and ‘former scavenger’ on their credentials?”

He did not laugh. In fact, Mara had never seen him look so solemn, so focused. “Former scavenger.”

“I changed my life once before.” It amazed her that her voice did not quaver, yet she felt herself gathering strength. “It’s mine to change again.” She drew in a breath. “I’m ready to fight for more than myself.”

“The fight against PRAXIS isn’t easy,” he cautioned.

“Nothing worthwhile is easy. I’ve seen what PRAXIS does to worlds, to people. It has to stop, and I want to help stop it. Are you trying to convince me to say no?”

In response, he kissed her. A demanding, assertive kiss that was also vivid with yearning. He cupped her head with his broad hands to claim better access to her mouth. Her body responded at once. Kell kissed with every part of his being, as though nothing mattered more.

“I thought I knew fear. Living like an animal on Sayén. It was fear that kept me alive, that made me win every fight. But that fear was nothing compared to what I felt when I thought about you leaving.”

“Would you have let me go?”

He closed his eyes, as if the idea physically pained him. “It would have killed me. But, yes, I would have. Better that than cage you.”

“I can’t stay away from you, Kell. My heart won’t let me.”

“You don’t need to become 8th Wing to have me. Wherever you are, I’ll find a way to you.”

“I want everything,” she whispered. “To join the fight against PRAXIS, to believe in something beyond myself. And you. I want you.”

He was dark and bright as he gazed down at her. Intent. Hungry. “All that I am or ever will be is yours.”

Mara found herself falling back onto the bed with Kell coming down to lie partially atop her. His weight was welcome, needed. She indulged herself by running her hands all over his body. He was hers. This fighter was hers, his body and his heart. A gift she’d never expected.

He used his hands, too, caressing her as if committing her to memory. His touch was possessive but tender, and as he stroked her legs, her belly, her arms, radiance filled her, the twin suns of arousal and emotion. He palmed her breasts, and she writhed at his touch, yet it wasn’t enough.

“Too much between us.” His large hands unfastened her uniform, and he growled like a feral creature when the fabric parted, revealing that she was nude beneath her borrowed clothing.

“Do something for me.” He devoured her with his gaze.

“Anything.”

“Always have underwear on beneath your uniform.”

She raised her brows. “I would think you’d want me naked.”

“I do. Gods, I do. But,” he added as he ran his fingertips down the shallow valley between her breasts, “I could never concentrate on a mission, or anything else, knowing you were bare under your uniform.” He bent his head and licked a tight circle around her nipple, causing her to shudder with need.

“Don’t want to distract you.” She gasped, arching up.

“Distract me, Mara.” He licked her other nipple, then kissed his way up to her throat, his mouth hot and ravenous. “Distract me for the rest of my life.”

She started to pull at his clothing, but realization made her give a husky laugh. “Seems we switched roles. You’re dressed like a smuggler, and I’m 8th Wing.”

“We can be whoever we damn well want to be.” He glanced down at himself. “What I am for certain is filthy. I’ll shower and then join you.”

“We can shower together. Later. First, I need you.”

He wasted no more time on words, hungrily kissing her throat. She felt the sweet pain of his teeth on her neck.

“You like to bite me.”

“I do. It’s how we claim our mates on Sayén.” He bit her again.

She shifted, keeping his teeth upon her, then she sunk her own teeth into his neck. He growled. A deep, resounding joy thrilled her as they claimed each other.

“I love you, Kell.” She released him, feeling primitive satisfaction to see the marks she left upon his flesh. And satisfaction to know that he marked her, as well.

“I love you, me luna.” He brushed kisses across her cheeks, her lips, kisses she met with her own. “I want to fight beside you during the day, and make love to you all night.”

“My wants are the same as yours,” she whispered, “though I wouldn’t mind making love all day too.”

He smiled. “Just this once, I’ll obey your orders.”

Mara fought to reclaim some of her imperial demeanor, though it was a struggle when his hands and mouth worked magic. “Only this once?”

“Other times too. But not always. I am a commander, after all.”

“Thank the gods for that.”

Before he lowered his head to take her mouth, he glanced around his quarters. “This place never felt like mine before. I slept here, ate here sometimes, but it was just a room, nothing else.” He gazed back down at her. “You’ve made it into a home. My home.”

They stopped speaking then. He peeled off the rest of her uniform, and she removed his smuggler’s clothes. Then they were both naked, their limbs intertwined, bound together by a force greater than gravity.

About the Author

Zoë Archer is an award-winning romance author who loves adventure—both on Earth and amongst the stars. As a child, she never dreamed about being the rescued princess, but wanted to kick butt right beside the hero. She now applies her master’s degrees in literature and fiction to creating butt-kicking heroines and daring heroes. Her Blades of the Rose series—featuring dashing men and fearless women—is available now. Zoe and her husband live in Los Angeles. She often tweets about boots and baking. Visit her on the web at www.zoearcherbooks.com and on Twitter @Zoe_Archer.

Where no great story goes untold.

The variety you want to read, the stories authors have always wanted to write.

With new releases every week, your next great read is just a download away!

Keep in touch with Carina Press:

Read our blog: www.CarinaPress.com/blog

Follow us on Twitter: www.twitter.com/CarinaPress

Become a fan on Facebook: www.facebook.com/CarinaPress

ISBN: 978-1-4268-9145-8

Copyright © 2011 by Ami Silber

All rights reserved. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher, Harlequin Enterprises Limited, 225 Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, Ontario, Canada M3B 3K9.

All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.

This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

® and ™ are trademarks of the publisher. Trademarks indicated with ® are registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office, the Canadian Trade Marks Office and in other countries.

www.CarinaPress.com

Table of Contents

Letter to Reader

Dedication

Contents

Copyright

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

About the Author