Chapter 5
Nick Corso strode down the Star Shrike’s main corridor, the sharp click of his expensive boots echoing off the polished steel bulkheads.
The ship rumbled around him, a low, powerful vibration that usually felt like an extension of his own will.
Today, it was a drumroll. Anticipation, thick and sweet as blood, coiled in his gut.
The Xena.
His. At least for the duration of the trip to Babcinq.
Maltese had been explicit:
“No touching, Corso. Not a finger. She arrives pristine, untouched, exactly as loaded.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Nick had retorted. “You think this is my first time moving delicate goods? You hired me for a reason.”
Maltese leaned forward on the desk, his thick jowls drooping like a dog’s.
“This is no ordinary job,” he said, his voice husky. “The package is destined for a high-ranking government official. These are not people you fuck with, Corso. Follow the instructions to the letter.”
Nick’s lips curled into a sneer. Maltese was grossly na?ve.
If the Xena had really been purchased by a senator or cabinet member, they were not going to complain.
They couldn’t afford to have their little secret toy be made public.
The wealthiest, most powerful UPA Senator couldn’t survive the scandal of owning a sex slave.
Maltese was a lowlife with no concept of what powerful people were willing to risk – and what they weren’t. What he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.
Because one of the keys to success was seizing opportunity when it came along. And this was the type of opportunity that would never come along again:
A Xena. Spread before him. For days.
Nick Corso wasn’t the type of man who said no to something like that. The official would never know. And Nick would never forget.
His steps quickened, the rhythm matching the pounding of his heart. He could almost taste her already – alien, exotic, designed to provoke.
He imagined peeling back that fur, finding the pale skin beneath, tasting the salt of her fear-turned-desire.
She’d be confused at first, maybe even resistant.
They always were. But his authority would do the work.
It would soften her, make her pliant. Eager, even.
He’d seen the data. She was built for this.
Built to serve. And he was made to take.
He passed a mirrored panel lining a junction box. He paused, catching his reflection. Tall, broad-shouldered, impeccably dressed in a tailored jacket over a silk shirt. Hair slicked back, not a strand out of place. The picture of control.
The image Carmen Díaz had always been too blind, too stubborn, to see. The memory of her face, twisted in disgust back on Alora, flashed in his mind.
I wouldn’t fuck you with a stolen vaj.
The laughter of the cantina crowd echoed in his ears, phantom humiliation warming his cheeks even now. That little bitch. Always spitting defiance. Always thinking she was better.
Not better, he thought, his knuckles whitening where they gripped the edge of the panel. Just stubborn. Deluded. Like all women.
They needed a firm hand. Needed to be shown their place. Díaz most of all. Her refusal, her constant rejection … it wasn’t about him. It was about her own twisted pride, her pathetic need to play captain. To pretend she wasn’t just another lost soul needing a real man to take charge.
He remembered the first time he’d made his intentions clear. Aboard The Buccaneer, years ago, before the mutiny. He’d cornered her in the starboard sensor relay alcove, a cramped space cooking with the heat of warm circuits. She’d been elbow-deep in a fried panel, grease smudged on her cheek….
“Problem, Díaz?” he asked, leaning against the doorway, blocking her exit.
He made sure to fill the space, radiate confidence. She didn’t even look up.
“Just a blown capacitor, Corso.” Her voice was flat, dismissive. “Nothing your delicate constitution needs to worry about.”
He stepped closer, lowering his voice.
“Always working so hard. Don’t you ever take a break? Let someone else take the strain?”
He reached over, intending to brush a stray lock of hair from her temple. Her hand shot out, lightning-fast, catching his wrist an inch from her skin. Her grip was surprisingly strong.
Finally, she looked up. Her dark eyes weren’t angry. They were cold. Contemptuous. Like he was something she’d scraped off her boot.
“Touch me,” she’d said, her voice low and dangerous, “and I will feed you your dick.”
He laughed, tried to play it off. But the rejection stung. Sharp and deep.
“Feisty,” he drawled. “I like that. But you don’t have to play tough with me, sweetheart. I see you underneath all that posturing.”
She released his wrist with a shove that sent him back half a step. Fire blazed in those sexy, brown eyes.
“The only thing you see, Corso, is your own reflection. Now get the hell out of my workspace before I dock you a day’s pay for interfering with critical repairs.”
The memory burned. The humiliation of it. Her absolute certainty that she was beyond him. That she didn’t need him. That she was somehow … superior.
But she isn’t, he thought, pushing off the mirror, his reflection distorting as he moved.
The Xena was proof. Proof that even the most exotic, the most desired creatures, understood their true place. Understood the natural order.
Díaz would learn. One day, he would crack that stubborn pride. He would show her what she’d been missing. What she’d been denying herself.
He reached the heavy blast door leading to the main cargo bay and keyed the access code.
The massive door rumbled aside with a hydraulic sigh, revealing the cavernous space beyond.
Rows of secured cargo containers lined the decking, bathed in the harsh, white glare of overhead work lights.
His eyes scanned immediately, searching for the specific container.
His gaze swept past pallets of salvaged tech, crates of illicit pharmaceuticals, barrels of unrefined ore. Where was it? Near the back, where they’d stowed the high-value items. He strode forward, boots ringing on the deck, the delicious anticipation growing stronger.
There. Section Gamma-7. The designated spot.
A crate sat there. A standard, unremarkable cargo crate – dark metal, totally mundane. But inside …
Nick’s lips curled in a smile. His pants suddenly fit uncomfortably.
He closed the remaining distance slowly, savoring the wait, letting the darkest thoughts build in the back of his mind. He stretched out a hand. The metal was cool to his touch, nothing like the blazing heat in his loins. With careful deliberation, he pulled the latch, broke the pressure seal.
A heavy, familiar scent hissed from the edges. It was organic, heady, rich. He pulled the hatch fully aside as he drank it in.
And found himself staring at crates of coffee beans.
He blinked in confusion. Fucking coffee?
The realization slammed into him. Not the Xena. Coffee. Illegal, yes. Valuable, marginally.
But utterly, insultingly common. Worthless compared to the fortune he’d been promised. Compared to the power he’d anticipated wielding.
A low growl started deep in his chest. It built, fueled by disbelief, then outrage, then a cold, consuming fury.
Maltese.
That fat, double-crossing sack of shit. He’d switched the cargo. He’d sent the Xena somewhere else. Probably to another buyer. A higher bidder. No wonder he’d instructed Nick not to touch the merchandise. Couldn’t have him finding out he’d been played for a fool.
He spun around, his vision tinged with red. His fist slammed against the nearest bulkhead, the impact vibrating up his arm.
“MALTESE!” The name ripped from his throat, a raw snarl that bounced off the cargo containers.
That bloated leech. That backstabbing weasel. He’d dared. He’d dared to screw over Nick Corso. To steal from him. To humiliate him. After all the business he’d thrown Maltese’s way? After the risks he’d taken?
The cold fury crystallized into something harder, sharper: vengeance, pure and simple.
Maltese thought he was clever. He thought wrong.
Corso turned on his heel, striding back towards the bay entrance. His movements were rigid, controlled, every step radiating suppressed violence. He stabbed the comm button on his wrist unit.
“James.” His voice was a snarl, devoid of its usual smooth menace. Pure, icy command.
“Captain?” Hadley James’s voice came back instantly, alert. She’d heard the fury.
“Reverse course. Now. Maximum thrust. Set coordinates for Waystation Alora.”
A fractional pause.
“Alora, sir? But the rendezvous at Babcinq—”
“Scrap it!” Corso snarled. “Maltese backstabbed us. We’re going to correct that.”
He cut the comm before she could respond. He didn’t need questions. He needed action, speed.
Maltese had made a fatal error. He’d crossed Nick Corso. And now, he was going to learn exactly what that cost.