Chapter 9
CHAPTER NINE
Bragar’s Rest was a disgusting cesspool of the worst the galaxy had to offer, and Doren couldn’t wait to get his feet on solid ground.
The docking clamp sealed with a hydraulic hiss, and he allowed himself exactly three seconds to check the corridor before stepping off the flyer.
Clear. He adjusted the hood of his cloak, pulling it low enough to shadow his features while leaving his peripheral vision unobstructed.
He didn’t let himself look back at the flyer. Couldn’t. Even though he’d set the viewports to opaque, if he thought of Emma waiting behind them he’d never be able to tear himself away.
Bragar’s Rest smelled exactly as he remembered—recycled air thick with the scent of machine oil, unwashed bodies, and something vaguely organic that he’d never been able to identify. Home, in the loosest possible definition of the word.
He moved through the private docking bay with the ease of long familiarity, skirting the pools of uncertain light cast by flickering overheads.
The bay was quiet at this hour, most of its usual occupants either sleeping off their previous night’s excesses or conducting business in the station’s shadier corners.
A Vexian trader glanced up from his cargo manifest, took one look at Doren’s face, and promptly found something fascinating on the far wall to study.
Good. His reputation still held currency here.
The main corridors were busier, a constant flow of species from across the sector going about their various mostly illegal enterprises. He kept his head down and his pace steady, neither hurrying nor dawdling. Just another smuggler with business to conduct. Nothing to see.
His mind kept drifting back to the ship. To Emma, alone with the baby, trusting him to return. To the kiss that still burned on his lips like a brand.
Focus, he told himself sharply. Deal with the immediate problem first. Obsess about the human female later.
The route to Rjmar’s shop took him through three different sectors, each progressively more disreputable than the last. He passed gambling dens and pleasure houses, black market arms dealers and information brokers, all operating in plain sight because there was no authority to stop them.
The Royal Fleet knew it existed and chose to ignore it.
Bragar’s Rest existed in the space beneath civilization, accountable to no one and beholden to nothing except profit.
He loved it. He hated it. It was the closest thing to a home he’d ever known since his mother died.
The shop appeared without fanfare—a narrow doorway wedged between a pawnbroker and something that claimed to be a restaurant but was almost certainly a front for organ trafficking.
The sign above the door read “Rjmar’s Acquisitions” in three different languages, though the Hothian script was so faded as to be nearly illegible.
He pushed through the door and was immediately enveloped in cool, clean air.
The interior of the shop was a carefully controlled chaos of shelves and display cases, each one crammed with artifacts, documents, and curiosities from across the known universe.
Holocubes flickered with advertisements for items that were definitely illegal in most systems. A collection of ceremonial blades hung on the far wall, their edges still sharp despite their obvious age.
And in the center of it all, hunched over a workbench covered in electronic components, sat the largest Hothian he had ever known.
Rjmar looked up at the sound of the door, and his massive face split into a grin that showed far too many teeth.
“Well, well.” His voice was a deep rumble that seemed to vibrate through the floor. “Look what the void dragged in.”
“Rjmar.” He pushed back his hood, allowing himself a small smile. “You’re looking well.”
“I’m looking old and fat, and we both know it.
” The Hothian hauled himself to his feet, his white fur rippling with the movement.
He stood well over seven feet tall and was almost as wide, his bulk a combination of muscle and comfortable living.
“But you—you look like death warmed over. What trouble have you found this time?”
“The usual kind.”
“The usual kind doesn’t bring you to my door wrapped in a cloak and looking like you haven’t slept in days.” Rjmar’s dark eyes narrowed. “What do you need?”
This was why he had come here, to this specific shop, to this specific Hothian. Rjmar never asked unnecessary questions. He simply asked, calculated, and, assuming the price was right, provided.
They’d met ten years ago on Hothrest, the Hothian homeworld, when Doren had been abandoned by his previous captain after an ill-advised attempt to take over his ship.
He’d been trying to steal food from a market stall when Rjmar had caught him—not by the scruff of his neck, as he’d expected, but by offering him a job.
Help me move some cargo, the Hothian had said, and I’ll feed you something better than stolen fruit.
Six months later they’d left Hothrest together, Rjmar with his newly acquired inventory and Doren with his first taste of what it meant to belong somewhere.
The Hothian had never pretended that their relationship was about anything other than mutual benefit—but he’d been more of a father to him than his own father had ever been.
“I need supplies and documentation,” he said, lowering his voice despite the shop’s obvious privacy measures. “For a human female and an infant. No questions asked.”
Rjmar’s eyebrows rose—an impressive feat given the amount of fur involved. “A human female.”
“Yes.”
“And an infant.”
“Also yes.”
Rjmar paused, his hand hovering over a stack of blank identity chips. “You’re playing a dangerous game, old friend.”
“I’m aware.”
“The market for human females—”
“I’m aware,” he snapped, then took a deep breath, forcing himself to calm. “She’s under my protection. That’s all you need to know.”
The Hothian studied him for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then he nodded and resumed gathering supplies.
“Species of the infant?”
He hesitated. “The scanner said Aurelian.”
Rjmar shot him a look from under those heavy brows.
“I thought the species was extinct.”
“She might be a hybrid.”
“I’ll need biometric data for both of them. Retinal scans, genetic markers, the works. Can you get them here?”
“No. The station’s too dangerous. I’ll bring the equipment to them.”
“That’ll take longer.”
“I know.”
The Hothian shook his head but kept pulling items from shelves and organizing them into a neat pile on the workbench. Identity chips, a portable biometric scanner, clothing in various sizes, ration packs, medical supplies. Everything they would need to survive and stay hidden.
“Where are you taking them?” Rjmar asked as he worked.
“I don’t know yet. Somewhere the Grorn can’t follow.”
The Hothian’s hands stilled. “The Grorn are involved?”
“They’re looking for the infant. Don’t ask me why.”
“I wasn’t going to.” But Rjmar’s expression had grown more serious, the easy camaraderie replaced by something harder. “Doren. Whatever you’ve gotten yourself into—”
“I know what I’m doing.”
“Do you?” The Hothian turned to face him, his dark eyes searching.
“Because I’ve known you for ten years, and I’ve never seen you look like this.
Not when you were running from your father’s people.
Not when you were wanted in three systems for that job on Callista Prime.
Not even when you came to me half-dead after the Syndicate caught up with you. ”
He said nothing.
“This human female,” Rjmar continued quietly. “She means something to you.”
“She’s under my protection.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
The silence stretched between them, filled with the hum of the shop’s environmental systems and the distant sounds of the station beyond.
“I don’t know what she means,” he finally admitted. “I barely know her. But when I think about something happening to her—” He stopped, unable to find the words.
Rjmar nodded slowly. “Then you’d better make sure nothing does.”
He returned to his work, and Doren sighed.
This was dangerous territory and they both knew it.
Emotional attachments were liabilities in his line of work—distractions that could get you killed.
He’d learned that lesson early and well, and he’d built his entire life around the principle of never caring too much about anything or anyone.
But Emma...
She’d slept in his arms all night. She’d kissed him like she wasn’t afraid of him. She’d looked at him with those warm brown eyes and seen someone worth trusting.
Idiot. He was a complete, hopeless idiot, and the worst part was, he didn’t even care.
“How long before you can have everything ready?” he asked.
“About an hour. I’ll need to program the identities myself. Forged documentation that will hold up to scrutiny isn’t something I can delegate. Have a drink while you wait.” Rjmar gestured toward the back room, where he kept a collection of alcoholic beverages that could probably buy a small planet.
“I can’t. Not this time.”
The Hothian nodded, his expression softening slightly. “She must be very special.”
“She is.” The admission came out more easily than he expected.
Rjmar finished packing the supplies into a large satchel and handed it over before turning back to the documentation.
Doren hesitated, torn between waiting in the shop and returning to the ship.
Even though he knew additional trips would increase his visibility, he hated that thought of Emma alone and wondering what was happening.
Before he could decide, the door to the back room burst open, and a small Tethrani female rushed in, her scales flushed purple with agitation.
“Boss!” She skidded to a halt, her eyes darting between Rjmar and Doren. “Boss, we have a problem.”
Rjmar straightened. “What kind of problem?”
“Grorn. A whole squad of them, just docked at the main port. They’re conducting searches.”
His claws sprang free before he could stop them.
“How long ago?” he demanded.