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.