Chapter 8
The docking clamps engaged with a dull thunk. Cait ran through the post-flight sequence on autopilot, her fingers moving across the controls. She wasn’t really thinking about what she was doing. Instead, her mind was firmly stuck back in that corridor.
The feel of Raaze’s lips on hers and his hands on her hips. The weight of him pressing her into the bulkhead. The way he’d looked at her when she’d pulled back… and the dark promise in his eyes, like he was already planning round two.
Focus.
“Docking fees transmitted,” Fred said. “Security are requesting the crew manifest and cargo declaration.”
“Standard freight run. One crew, one passenger.” She hesitated. “List him as… consulting security.”
“That’s creative.”
“You have a better idea?”
Fred didn’t answer, which meant he didn’t.
She found Raaze waiting at the cargo ramp, arms folded, looking far too composed for a male who’d had his tongue in her mouth twenty minutes ago. His hair was smoothed back, and his shirt was open to the waist again. Seriously, did he have an objection to buttons or something?
“Ready?” he asked.
“Are you?”
His lips quirked. “I was born ready.”
The ramp descended into a cramped docking bay that smelled of coolant and recycled air. Venrexx Prime’s orbital station was small… little more than a waypoint. There were a handful of berths, a customs checkpoint staffed by two bored-looking Latharian men, and beyond that, the civilian concourse.
Raaze walked in like he owned the place.
Confidence, she knew. Her father had it in spades, and her brother had inherited the worst of it. But this was a different animal entirely. This man had spent his life being watched by millions, and even exiled and wanted, he couldn’t turn it off.
The customs officers straightened as he approached, and for one horrible second, she was sure they’d recognized him from the warrant.
“Business?” the taller one asked.
“Medical consultation.” Raaze’s voice was bored. “The female requires treatment.”
Both officers looked at her. She tried to project sickly and probably just managed constipated.
“Documentation?”
“Filed with the port authority.” Raaze waved a hand. “Check your systems.”
The officer’s brow furrowed, and he turned to his console. She held her breath. Fred had fabricated the medical referral in transit—a minor procedure, nothing that would flag in the system—but if they looked too closely—
“Cleared.” The officer jerked his head toward the concourse. “Healer’s Hall is level three, section nine.”
Raaze swept past without a backward glance, and she had to scramble to keep up. The civilian area opened around them, and she stopped dead.
She’d been on stations before. Human stations, mostly, but a few alien ones as well. Generally, they were all built the same, with cramped corridors and shoebox quarters because space was at a premium.
This was… not that.
The concourse stretched three levels high, balconies overlooking a central promenade lined with merchant stalls and food vendors.
The architecture was all arches and dark metal, lit by strips of amber light that gave everything a warm, almost intimate glow.
And everywhere—everywhere—there were Latharian males.
It seemed like every flavor of Latharian male in the universe was here… all of them built like they’d been designed to make human women feel very, very small.
And all of them were staring at her.
“Why are they staring at me like that?”
“They don’t get many females here,” Raaze murmured, close enough that his breath stirred her hair. “Most haven’t seen a female in decades. Not since the plague. So try not to look like prey.”
“Helpful. Thanks.” Then she blinked. “The plague?”
“The one that killed our females.” His jaw tightened as his hand settled on the small of her back as they walked. “The Empire has been searching for compatible mates ever since. Humans are… compatible.”
Oh. Oh.
Yeah, she’d heard something about that. About some kind of mail order bride program between the Lathar and humanity.
It explained the staring. Every male they passed tracked her movement with an intensity that made her skin prickle.
Not threatening, exactly. More like she was water and they’d been wandering the desert for thirty years.
“So when you say ‘don’t look like prey’—”
“I mean, don’t look like prey.”
A male stepped into their path. Younger than Raaze, with close-cropped dark hair and the kind of expression that reminded her of a puppy. A very large, very muscular puppy who could probably bench-press her ship.
“Human.” His voice was reverent. “You are… You are so small.”
“Thanks. I get that a lot.”
He reached for her, and Raaze moved.
One second, he was by her side. The next, he’d jammed himself between them, shoulders squared, as he blocked the other male completely. Gone was the lazy charm and the calculated swagger. What replaced it was something harder and infinitely more dangerous.
“She’s mine.”
The younger male’s eyes widened. He stepped back, hands raised. “I meant no offense, brother. I only wished to—”
“I know what you wished.” Raaze’s voice dropped to a growl. “Find it elsewhere.”
For a moment, nobody moved. The noise of the concourse faded, other conversations dying as everyone turned to watch. She could feel the weight of their attention like a physical pressure.
Then the younger male ducked his head, muttered something in Latharian, and retreated into the crowd.
Raaze turned back to her. His expression smoothed, the predator sliding back beneath the performer’s mask. “Problem solved.”
She’s mine.
The words echoed in her mind, wrapping around something warm and stupid in her chest. She should be annoyed… hell, she was annoyed. She wasn’t property. She wasn’t anyone’s anything.
But her traitorous brain had already skipped back to that corridor and the way his mouth had crushed hers. His hands pulling her close and the feel of his larger, harder body against hers. The way he’d said it later, like it was a promise and a threat rolled into one.
Stop it.
“You could have just said I was your passenger,” she managed, trotting to keep up with him.
“Could have.” His hand found the small of her back again as he steered her toward the lift. “Didn’t.”
“Why not?”
He looked down at her, and his red eyes held an expression she couldn’t quite read. “Because it wouldn’t have been true.”
Her heart lurched in her chest.
He’s using you, she reminded herself. This is the con. The charm, the possessiveness, the way he looks at you like you’re the only person in the room—it’s just part of the play.
Except he’d looked genuinely angry when that male had reached for her. No, not angry, furious.
The lift doors opened, and he guided her inside, his hand never leaving her back. The doors closed, cutting off the stares, and she let out a breath.
“Level three. Section nine,” Raaze ordered and the lift hummed to life.
In the sudden quiet, she became acutely aware of how small the space was and how close he was standing. The way his thumb was tracing small circles against her spine through her flight jacket.
“Stop that.”
“Stop what?”
“You know what.”
His lips curved. “Make me.”
She didn’t deign that with an answer as the lift doors slid open at their level. She stepped out, putting distance between them, his low chuckle following her into the corridor.
Section nine was quieter than the main concourse. Fewer people were wandering around, and there were more closed doors.
It didn’t take them long to find the Healer’s Hall. A wide archway with Latharian script carved into the lintel, flanked by two empty reception alcoves.
And another locked door.
Raaze stopped, frowned.
“That’s wrong,” he said quietly.
“What is?”
“Healer’s Halls don’t close.” He was scanning the corridor now. “Not ever. They’re always open.”
Well, that wasn’t ominous at all. “So where’s the healer?”
He didn’t answer. Instead, he turned to a terminal built into the smooth metal of the wall. His fingers flew across the interface.
“Quarters are on level four. Section twelve.”
They took the stairs. Raaze didn’t suggest it, just headed for the emergency access without asking. She followed, her hand drifting toward the small blade she kept tucked in the back of her waistband. Not much of a weapon against Latharian males, but it was better than nothing.
The corridor on level four was narrower than the ones below, the walls closer together, and the ceiling lower.
It was residential space, clearly built for living rather than commerce.
The lighting had dimmed to something warmer and the air carried a faint trace of recycled atmosphere…
the smell and slightly stale quality that no filtration system could ever quite eliminate.
Section twelve was three turns from the stairwell.
Raaze stayed beside her, his stance protective and possessive, as if he expected random men to leap out and accost her.
She counted doors as they passed. Each one was identical, smooth metal panels set flush with the walls, numbered in Latharian script she couldn’t read.
He stopped at one that looked exactly like all the others and hit the notification panel. Nothing.
“What the draanth?” he muttered. “If the healer isn’t in the hall, then where the draanthing hell is he?”
He turned to her, frustration tight in his jaw. “We need to get in.”
His gaze swept the corridor, landing on a fire suppression unit mounted on the wall. An emergency axe sat in a case beside it. He grinned and headed for it.
Shaking her head, she stepped closer to the door, studying the lock. She hadn’t seen one quite the same as this before, but it was familiar. Tilting her head, she studied it.