Chapter 3
Dragon fire was great until you were sitting in the middle of space about to face down pirate scum. Zane grimaced. One wrong move, one slightly too powerful gesture, and he'd cook the hull with all of them inside of it.
Some might be willing to take the risk, but not him. He actually wanted to live.
Was hiding an option?
The Alto wasn't built for it. Every corridor was narrow and utilitarian, designed to maximize cargo space, not provide sanctuary for wayward lords.
The few storage compartments were obvious.
His quarters held nothing but a bunk and his trunks.
The engine room would cook him alive if he tried to squeeze behind the drive units.
Even the maintenance crawlways were too exposed, with access panels that would take seconds to pop open.
No. He'd have to face this head-on. Somehow.
Damnation.
Boots thundered through the corridor outside his door.
Multiple sets, moving with purpose. Not the casual stride of people exploring—these were hunters who knew exactly what they were looking for.
Metal scraped against metal as they checked other compartments.
A woman's voice, sharp and businesslike, called out clearances. They were being thorough.
"Two more doors on this level," someone said. Male and too close.
His dragon stirred beneath his skin, threatening to surface.
The beast wanted to fight, to protect Mercy and …
he didn't know where that thought was trying to lead.
Zane forced it down. Not here. Not when his prickly captain could get caught in the crossfire.
Not when she'd just started to smile at his terrible jokes.
He couldn't use his fire. He couldn't risk himself. He couldn't risk the ship. And he certainly couldn't risk Mercy.
He wasn't sure what he'd expected from the gruff transport captain, but it wasn't her sharp smile or the curious way her eyes would flick him up and down when she thought he wasn't looking. Or the way she'd beaten him at cards with this little smirk that made him want to lose again just to see it.
She smelled like engine oil and that clean soap she used, nothing fancy, but it had started to permeate his senses.
It was in his quarters now. He'd noticed it this morning on his pillow and had spent a full minute trying to figure out how that had happened before remembering she'd helped him fix the air recycler yesterday.
They'd known each other four days. But when she'd laughed at his terrible joke about the wine last night, genuine and unguarded, something in his chest had shifted.
With a pang, Zane let it go. There was no time to get caught up in could-have-beens with the pretty captain. He had to survive this first.
At least he had an excuse for why he was going to be late for his meeting with his matchmaker-selected lady.
Zane was huffing out a laugh as the door burst open and two pirates aimed blasters right for him.
The barrels looked impossibly large from this angle, dark holes that promised nothing good.
His first instinct was to fling fire their way, but he held back.
Until he knew where Mercy was, that she was safe, he couldn't do a damned thing.
"Don't shoot!" Zane threw his hands up and let his voice go high and reedy. He added a little tremor for effect. "I'm worth more alive than dead!"
The two pirates exchanged glances. The human one snorted. His face was weathered and scarred, the kind of man who'd spent years in the worst parts of space and come out meaner for it. "Look at this one. Soft as butter."
"Please, I have money. Lots of money." Zane let his hands shake. Just a little. Enough to sell it. He'd practiced this act before. Rich, useless lordling. It wasn't even that far from the truth.
The Kellian's scales rippled with what might have been amusement. "Captain Horris wants to meet you." The human gripped his upper arm tight enough to bruise and dragged him into the hall.
They marched him out at blaster-point. Zane made sure to stumble once, catching himself on the wall with a whimper. His muttered "oh dear" made the Kellian laugh and shove him harder. The pirates relaxed their grips on their weapons.
Good. Let them think he was harmless.
Mercy stood in the cargo bay with her chin up and her hands clenched at her sides.
She looked pissed, but there was a tremor in her shoulders.
A thin line of blood ran down her left arm from a fresh cut.
The red was shockingly bright against her pale skin.
The man who must have been Captain Horris loomed over her, close enough that Zane's dragon stirred with fury.
Too close. The bastard was standing in her space, using his bulk to intimidate. Mercy hadn't backed down an inch, but Zane could see the cost of that courage in the white-knuckled grip of her fists.
"Ah, the passenger." Horris turned. His movements were casual, confident, a predator who knew his prey was already caught. "Lord Zane, according to the manifest. How fortunate."
"I can pay you," Zane said quickly. "Whatever you want. My family has extensive holdings—"
"I'm not interested in your money, boy."
Boy? Zane bit back his real response. His jaw ached from the effort of keeping his expression meek. "Then what? I'm sure we can come to an arrangement."
Horris smiled. It wasn't pleasant. "Right now, I'm interested in Captain Webb here. You're … an annoyance."
"I told you, I don't know anything about my father," Mercy said through gritted teeth.
Her father? Zane filed that away.
"Lock them up," Horris ordered. "The aft storage closet should hold them while we search the ship properly."
Two pirates grabbed Zane. He let them, making token protests but not resisting. "Please, surely we can discuss this like civilized beings—" They shoved him and Mercy into a closet barely big enough for one person, let alone two.
The door slammed shut, and the lock engaged with a decisive click.
The space was suffocating. Zane's back pressed against shelving units that dug into his spine, while Mercy was wedged against his chest, her head barely reaching his shoulder.
He could count the individual threads in her shirt from this angle.
He could see a small scar on her collarbone, maybe two centimeters long, silvered with age.
Every breath she took pressed her more firmly against him. The emergency lighting cast everything in a sickly yellow glow that made the shadows deeper and the walls feel even closer.
He could feel her heartbeat.
Fast but steady, drumming against his ribs.
Her hair tickled his chin, and that clean soap scent was overwhelming in the confined space.
Something floral. Cheap, probably, but it worked on her.
She shifted, trying to find a position that didn't involve being plastered against him, but there was nowhere to go.
Her hip pressed into his thigh. Her hand landed on his chest for balance before she jerked it away like she'd been burned. Her palm left a warm spot on his shirt. He could feel the exact shape of it.
"Sorry," she muttered, the word ghosting across his collarbone.
"Are you hurt?" Zane asked quietly. He wanted to run his hands over her and feel for himself but resisted the urge. Barely.
"I'm fine."
She wasn't. In the dim emergency lighting, he could see the bruise darkening on her cheekbone. The cut on her arm was deeper than it had looked from across the cargo bay.
Every instinct screamed at him to tear through the door, to hunt down Horris and show him what happened to those who drew blood from his people.
The fury was volcanic, threatening to consume his facade of uselessness.
His skin felt too tight. His temperature was rising.
He wanted to blow a hole in the door and murder everyone.
His hands trembled with the effort of not shifting, of not letting his claws extend and his scales surface.
But Mercy was watching him. Even in the bad light, her sharp eyes missed nothing.
Those eyes that had catalogued every one of his tells in three days.
But he couldn't risk her getting caught up in the violence of a fight.
Pirates had backup plans. Dead man's switches.
If he killed Horris, the rest of the crew might destroy the ship out of spite.
So he kept his voice weak, let his hands shake for different reasons. Played the pampered lord while everything inside him wanted to rage.
"I can offer them more money," he said, keeping his voice weak and uncertain. "My family—"
"Your money won't help." Mercy shifted, wincing. The movement brought fresh blood welling from the cut on her arm. "They want something to do with my father. The bastard's been gone for twenty years and he's still fucking up my life."
"What about your father?"
"Nothing. He left. That's all." Her voice was flat. Final.
Despite her steady voice, he could feel the fine tremors running through her body where she pressed against him. Fear or adrenaline or both, carefully controlled but impossible to hide when they were this close. Her breathing had gone shallow.
"We need to get out of here," she said. "Can you fight?"
"I … I've had some training," Zane said carefully. "Self-defense lessons. Dancing. That sort of thing."
Mercy stared at him in the dim light. "Dancing."
"The waltz can be quite athletic."
"Get your shit together, Lord Zane. These are actual pirates. They will actually kill us."
"I'm aware of that."
"Then stop acting like a—" She cut herself off. Her eyes narrowed, studying him with an intensity that made his breath catch. "You can't actually be this useless."
His pulse jumped. She was too smart, too observant. His mind raced for a deflection, something to throw her off the scent. His hand found his cufflink. Damn it.
"I'm exactly as useful as I appear," he said.
She was quiet for a long moment. Her breath whispered across his throat as she seemed to weigh his words. Her eyes dropped to his hand, still on the cufflink. Back to his face. "Right. Of course you are."
The sounds of destruction filtered through the door.
Metal shrieked as panels were torn away.
Glass shattered, probably the few personal items Mercy had in her quarters.
That sound made her flinch. Something breakable, then.
Something that mattered. Boots stomped overhead, and something heavy crashed to the deck.
They were being thorough, systematic. This wasn't random looting.
"Check behind the nav console," Horris's voice carried through the walls. "These old ships sometimes have hidden compartments."
Mercy tensed against him. Her fingers curled into his shirt, an unconscious gesture that told him they'd find something she didn't want found. Emergency credits? Weapons? Whatever it was, the pirates were getting closer to it.
"How long before they realize you don't have whatever they're looking for?" Zane asked.
"Not long enough."