“Can we make this quick?” She gazed toward the cockpit. “I’ve got a schedule.”

Annoyed that she wasn’t going to rise to the bait, the captain frowned. “You know why I’m here.”

She did? Kell resisted the urge to shoot Mara a glance. Instead, he stared impassively at the captain.

Mara sighed. “Give me a minute.” She turned and left the galley, but not before sending Kell a quick look that very clearly said, Do not beat the captain into unconsciousness.

Easier to make the request than to obey, especially when the captain openly leered at Mara’s ass as she walked away. His leer faded when he caught the murderous look on Kell’s face.

“Do I know you?” the PRAXIS bastard asked.

“You don’t want to know me.”

For a moment, the captain blanched, then he puffed out his chest as his hand rested meaningfully on the blaster at his waist. “Careful, scavenger. I could have that disrespectful mouth of yours welded shut.”

“Please try,” Kell said.

“Please don’t,” said Mara, returning. She gave the captain a vaguely apologetic shrug. “He’s new.

Doesn’t know how things operate.”

“Make sure he learns, and soon.” The captain’s voice dripped with derision. “Before he gets himself and you into trouble.”

“He’ll learn,” Mara answered. She glared at Kell.

I’m standing right here, damn it. But he clenched his teeth until they ached to keep from speaking aloud.

“The tribute?” the captain asked.

Wordlessly, Mara handed him a small metal container. The captain opened it and smiled, then his smile faded. “These had better be real Ingvarian emeralds.”

“I’m not stupid.”

The captain held up one of the stones, light catching in the deep green facets. The container was full of the gems, each the color of forest shadows, each worth more than an Ingvarian miner could earn in five solar years.

Satisfied, the captain returned the emerald to its container. He tucked the box under his arm.

“This will suffice. PRAXIS appreciates your tribute.”

“Are we done here?” Mara asked.

“For now.” The implicit threat was obvious. “You can proceed. See you again soon, scavenger.”

Mara’s lips tightened into a flat line. She clearly wanted to fire back a cutting retort. All she could do was nod, then watch as the PRAXIS captain and troops exited her ship.

Neither of them spoke until the shuttle disengaged from the Arcadia and returned to the PRAXIS cutter. They watched as the cutter flew off, presumably to collect more graft.

She sat in the cockpit and busied herself at the control panel, but Kell was still too tightly wound to just sit. He stood in the galley, staring at her back.

“I don’t want to hear it.” She hunched over the controls. “And I’m putting the cost of those emeralds on the 8th Wing’s tab.”

He couldn’t stop himself from pacing, which was the only way he could work off even a fraction of the anger and energy surging through him. He wished this ship had an exercise bay. What he wouldn’t give to go up against a combat holo, punch out his frustration.

“This is why the 8th Wing and their allies fight against PRAXIS. To stop them from taking whatever they want.” As he paced, he ricocheted like a plasma shot. “They take from everyone. Even you. But you don’t have to accept it. You can join the fight.”

She turned and stared at him. A war was waged behind those eyes of hers. Beneath the carefully wielded cynicism he saw apprehension.

“Join the fight.” Doubt weighted her words.

He battled against his own frustration. How could anyone pretend to be neutral when PRAXIS ran roughshod over everything? They would devour the galaxy unless more people took a stand.

Something shimmered through her expression, the barest hint of uncertainty, as if questioning the course she had plotted. Such a contrast from the brash scavenger.

She returned her attention to the control panel before he could be sure. “I’m just a bottom feeder.

What I do doesn’t matter.”

“Mara—”

“Drop it.” She punched buttons on the panel with unnecessary force. “The only reason I’m on this mission is because the 8th Wing blackmailed me into it, not for some greater good.”

A strange double sensation of both remorse and righteous anger pierced him. He didn’t like the fact that the 8th Wing had coerced her into cooperating. It made them little better than PRAXIS. But how could anyone insist on neutrality in a war that affected everybody?

“Your allegiances are clear.” He started pacing again, because that was all he could do.

“And if we’re drawing lines in the sand,” she added, “you’d better stay on your side.”

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning I don’t need you getting into a dick-measuring contest when PRAXIS comes calling.”

He felt the blade of her words between his ribs. “Right. Better to just play Nitikkan checkers while that PRAXIS jackass assaults you.”

“I was assaulted?” She batted her lashes with mock astonishment. “It must have happened without me noticing. Not a very good assault, then.”

He glowered at her. “Lesson learned. Next time I feel like protecting you, I’ll punch myself in the face as a reminder not to.”

The anger in her expression slowly dissolved, giving way to uncertainty. “Protecting me? Is that…Is that what you were doing?”

He didn’t answer her, but the look he shot her was answer enough.

“Protecting your way into the Smoke Quadrant,” she said. “Right?”

She saw only what she wanted to see. Nothing he said made a difference. Frustrated, he turned and kicked the little table in the galley, denting it. “No wonder you work alone.”

He stalked off, but wasn’t going to get very far. From a porthole, he saw the retreating lights of the PRAXIS ship. For now, it wasn’t a threat. PRAXIS wasn’t crazy enough to follow them into the wilds of the Smoke Quadrant.

As Mara guided them toward their destination, he looked through a front-facing porthole and saw the faintest trace of red in the distance. Before anyone could enter the Smoke, they had to breach Ilden’s Lash.

He didn’t know what was going to be more dangerous—the ring of fire encircling the quadrant,

the murderous thieves and scoundrels who lived there, or the woman piloting this ship.

They shared an awkward meal at the cramped and now-dented table in the galley. Neither Mara nor the commander spoke as they ate. She burned with questions about him—where he came from, what made him join the 8th Wing, if he liked reading or preferred watching vids—and her curiosity unsettled her. Normally, she didn’t give a damn about someone’s life story. Learning more about them made her own life too complicated.

But something about Commander Frayne spoke to her, reached her, no matter how much she wanted to preserve her isolation. And that bothered her.

She spent most of her time silent, going about her business without speaking to another person for hours, if not days. Yet the silence between her and Frayne grated, reminding her how those silent days were often more lonely than peaceful.

“Food’s not too spicy, is it? I developed a liking for Tulian peppers and put them in everything.”

Gods, could she be more banal?

“Not too spicy. I like it hot.”

Of course he did. More than the Tulian peppers made her face heat. She took a long pull from her bottled water and vowed to keep quiet.

As soon as they finished eating, they returned to the cockpit. He filled the small space, not just with his size, but his presence. A radiance of energy around him, male and potent.

She needed to get away from him.

With almost eighteen solar hours to kill before reaching the outer perimeter of the Smoke, the best use of time would be to get some rest. She had navigated Ilden’s Lash dozens, maybe hundreds of times. But it was still dangerous, no matter how familiar, and she needed to rest before threading her ship through the belt of neoplanets and magma. A tired pilot was a dead pilot.