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.