“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.