Chapter 2
Chapter
Two
SANDRA
Ahandful of credits and a ridiculous rumor.
That’s what I have left to my name. Oh, and a secondhand translator chip that occasionally decides “hello” means “your mother smells of engine grease.”
Find people, Sandra. Don’t be alone.
Goren’s last words echo through my head as I crouch behind a stack of cargo crates in Docking Bay 7, watching crews load supplies onto various ships.
Three days since the old Kelvari stopped breathing.
Three days since the only person in this entire galaxy who gave a damn about me decided to up and die.
Inconsiderate, really. I could’ve used a little more warning.
I shake off the thought before the grief can settle in. Grief is a luxury I can’t afford. Neither is food, apparently, or passage on any legitimate transport. I checked. Twice. The cheapest ticket to Cardonia costs four hundred credits.
I have… nowhere near enough.
So here I am, hiding behind crates that smell faintly of engine oil, scanning the docking bay for my ticket out of here.
“There’s a hotel on Cardonia,” the Zelnorian traders had said yesterday, their tentacles gesturing wildly. “Run by a Volscian. Takes in humans. They work there, live there. Free.”
I’d almost laughed in their faces. Nothing is free. But staying here isn’t exactly a winning proposition either. Without Goren’s protection, his little dumpling stall won’t last another week.
The Zelnorian were just being helpful, even if they were shoving my state of impending financial collapse in my face. As repeat customers, they knew my situation wasn’t… ideal.
Death by starvation, or death by angry ship captain when they find me hiding in their cargo hold.
At least the second option is faster, my brain tells me in a manner that somehow inspires zero hope.
A sleek ship catches my eye, smaller than most of the cargo transports, all gleaming silver hull and obvious expense. The destination marker above its boarding ramp reads: CARDONIA.
It’s clearly a private vessel. The kind owned by someone with more money than sense. The kind that probably has security systems, surveillance, and absolutely zero tolerance for stowaways.
This is your best shot, my brain states. You’ve got to go. Now.
The loading crew has paused for what looks like a shift change. No guards visible. No movement near the entry hatch.
“Okay, Sandra.” I adjust the strap of my pathetic little bag: one change of clothes, Goren’s recipe cards, and a broken data pad I keep meaning to fix. “This is either the bravest or the stupidest thing you’ve ever done.”
I pause, considering.
Both. Let’s face it, this is definitely both.
“Shut up, brain.” I whisper, before taking off.
The distance between my hiding spot and the ship’s boarding ramp feels like a marathon. Every step screams at me to turn back, to find another way—
I stop that thought cold. Asking for help means trusting people. Trusting people means depending on them. And depending on people means getting your heart ripped out when they inevitably leave.
Everyone leaves eventually. Goren just proved that all over again. Even if he didn’t exactly plan his death, because who would? The grim reaper comes for us all eventually; in Goren’s case, too early.
I’m halfway across the open space when my foot connects with a wrench. Metal clatters against metal.
“Of course,” I hiss, dancing around it. “Throwing a wrench in my plans. Literally.”
I freeze, heart hammering.
Nothing happens. No alarms. No shouting. No angry aliens chasing me down.
The boarding ramp is right there. Empty. Waiting.
I dart up before I can talk myself out of it.
The universe’s most half-assed stowaway attempt begins now, my brain announces in its ever-helpful way.
The ship’s interior is not what I expected. I’d braced myself for utilitarian gray walls, exposed wiring, that particular smell of recycled air and sweat. You know, the classic sci-fi portrayal of a spaceship.
Instead, I find soft lighting. Plush carpet. Actual art on the walls.
“Who lives like this?” I breathe, momentarily distracted by a sculpture that probably costs more than everything I’ve ever owned combined.
Focus, Sandra. You need to hide.
I creep down a corridor, testing doors. A cargo hold would be ideal. Somewhere I can curl up and disappear.
The third door opens into what appears to be a closet.
A massive closet.
Floor-to-ceiling racks stretch before me, leather jackets in every color imaginable. Black leather. Red leather. Purple leather with silver studs. Leather with more buckles than a medieval torture device. Leather with fringe that would make a rodeo cowboy weep with envy.
“Who needs this many jackets?” I whisper, running my fingers over material softer than anything I’ve ever touched. “Is he starting a biker gang or compensating for something?”
Still, it’s perfect. Plenty of hiding spots between the ridiculous garments.
“If I’m going to die hiding in a closet,” I mutter, “at least I’ll be warm.”
I wedge myself into a corner, pulling a particularly heavy jacket over my head for good measure. It smells expensive: subtle cologne, properly cleaned leather, something warm and spiced underneath that makes my shoulders relax against my will.
It’s unfair. Even this alien’s closet is nicer than anywhere I’ve slept in the last year. Not that Goren treated me unkindly. By the end, I was practically his daughter, different species and all.
It hadn’t started that way, of course. I’d been sold cheap at the labor auction—too scrawny for dock work, too clumsy for service, too mouthy for anyone wanting a proper servant.
“Defective merchandise,” the auctioneer had called me.
Goren had paid a handful of credits for a human nobody else wanted, muttering something about needing help with his dumpling cart.
Turned out he hadn’t needed a slave. He’d needed family.
The ship hums to life around me. I feel the subtle vibration as engines engage, the slight pressure shift as we lift off and leave the station behind.
Wow. You actually did it.
“You know, brain, you’re supposed to be more encouraging than this.” I allow myself a small, disbelieving laugh. Somehow I’m on my way to Cardonia. Goren would be happy for me.
Find people, Sandra.
“I’m trying,” I whisper to his memory. “I’m trying.”
Time passes. My legs cramp. My stomach growls.
I reach into my bag before I can stop myself.
Old habits. Goren used to joke that I was part Gravillian, little six-armed creatures that are constantly stuffing food into their cheek pouches.
I’ve never seen the beasts, so they are either adorably cute or ugly as sin—the kind of face that only a mother could love.
I’m honestly not sure that Goren ever had good taste.
Oh, what am I saying? He loved me. Of course he had good taste!
That just means I must have a face that only a father could love—
“You eat when you’re sad,” Goren had said once, watching me demolish an entire batch of dumplings. “You eat when you’re happy. You eat when you’re nervous. Is there any time you don’t eat?”
I’d laughed then, simply stuffing another piece into my mouth and shaking my head, savoring the sweetness: both Goren’s presence and his delicious food, not at all knowing it was all going to be ripped away from me.
My fingers close around the paper-wrapped bundle at the bottom of my bag. One of the last batch I’d made before… well. Before.
I shouldn’t. I need to ration what little food I have.
My stomach growls again.
“Fine,” I mutter, unwrapping the dumpling. “But we’re having a serious conversation about impulse control later.”
The dumpling is cold and squished, but the moment the familiar sweetness hits my tongue, I could cry. It tastes like Goren’s kitchen. Like safety. Like home.
I chew slowly, focusing on the taste instead of the pinprick heat behind my eyelids.
The jacket muffles sound, but not completely. Footsteps somewhere in the ship. Voices too distant to make out.
I curl smaller, pressing into the shadows, dumpling clutched against my chest.
Just need to stay hidden until we land. That’s all. Stay hidden, don’t get caught, figure out the rest later. Story of my life, really. One impossible situation after another, strung together by sheer stubbornness and apparently a near-constant need for snacks.
I take another bite. Stress eating is a valid coping mechanism. I read that somewhere.
The footsteps are getting closer.
I freeze mid-chew.
Light floods into my expensive leather cave, and I find myself staring up at—
Oh no.
He’s tall. Massively tall, with broad shoulders that block out most of the light from the doorway. His skin is a deep crimson red, rich as sin, stretched over muscles that suggest he’s never missed a day at whatever passes for a gym in space.
Unlike the Volscians I’ve seen working the docks—scarred, battle-worn, practical—this one looks like he was designed to make women do stupid things. Sinful things.
Two dark horns curve back from his forehead, elegantly wrapped in gleaming metal that catches the light like a fallen angel’s halo.
His black hair falls in waves past his shoulders, and his eyes, solid black, no whites at all, burn into me with an intensity that makes my soul feel suddenly, uncomfortably visible.
Sharp cheekbones. Full lips curved in what might be permanent temptation. A jawline that could cut glass or break hearts, and might have done both.
His fitted black shirt clings to a chest that’s frankly obscene, and a long, thin tail flicks behind him like a demon deciding whether you’re worth corrupting. The leather pants, because of course they’re leather, fit like a second skin, emphasizing things that really don’t need emphasizing.
He’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. Also possibly the most dangerous.
The kind of beautiful that gets you into trouble. The kind of dangerous that makes you not care.
If the devil ever decided to tempt someone into damnation, he’d look exactly like this: all smoldering allure and sinful promise, the kind of face that would make you sign away your soul just to see him smile.
Only he’s not smiling. He’s giving me the look you give someone when you find a strange woman hiding in your closet.
Like I’m the one in the wrong here. Rude.
His hand slides into his front pocket—those leather pants really are unfairly tight—and emerges with a comm device.
Right. Security. Of course.
Hopefully they don’t toss stowaways into the vacuum of space.
I’m still holding half a dumpling. My mouth is still full. And my brain, apparently desperate to avoid processing reality, decides this is the perfect moment to remember everything Goren taught me about hospitality.
When in doubt, offer food. It’s harder to murder someone who’s fed you.
Because apparently that is something you’ve got to be concerned about in space.
Before I can stop myself, I extend the half-eaten dumpling toward the terrifyingly beautiful alien like some kind of deranged peace offering.
“Wmph wm?” I manage around my mouthful.
Want some?
Nailed it, Sandra. Really stuck the landing.
He stares at me. I stare at him. The dumpling hovers between us like the world’s most pathetic white flag.
Well, I think grimly, it was a good run while it lasted.
I’m so fucked.