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.

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.