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?”