If Mara was accepted as one of their own, Kell was the subject of hundreds of wary stares.

Several people actually did double takes when they saw him walking with her.

One hulking thug with a face webbed with scar tissue lumbered out of his seat, then placed himself deliberately in his path. Kell shifted to walk around Scar Face, but the man kept stepping in his way.

Kell fought a sigh. These pissing matches were annoying as hell.

“Pretty little drawing you got there.” Scar Face jabbed a meaty finger into the tattoo on Kell’s arm.

Kell only stared at him.

“What’s it mean?” Scar Face pressed.

“It—”

“Means you like sucking cock.” Scar Face laughed at his own joke.

Gods, the fucker’s brain had to be in reverse proportion to his size.

“No,” said Kell.

A few people nearby gasped. From behind Scar Face’s massive bulk, Mara shook her head.

Clearly, no one contradicted this asshole.

“What?” Scar Face pushed closer to Kell, and a wave of sweat stench rolled off him. “What did you say?”

“I said, No. And don’t touch me again.”

“The fuck I won’t.” He moved to shove his finger into Kell’s arm once more.

The next moment, Scar Face was sprawled on the floor. Kell had his knee pinned to the man’s neck and his plasma pistol in his face. Scar Face’s tiny eyes widened as he went purple. Though conversation and music did not stop, they did quiet nearby.

“You want the inside of your head splattered all over this lovely club?” Kell asked conversationally.

Scar Face tried to shake his head, but Kell’s knee kept him from moving. And breathing.

“I’d like an answer,” Kell said.

“N…no.”

“Then don’t touch me or talk to me again. We clear?”

Scar Face attempted another nod, then gasped, “Clear.”

Smoothly, Kell removed his knee and rose to standing. He didn’t look behind him to watch Scar Face stumble away.

“I thought I said you wouldn’t cause trouble,” Mara said.

He shrugged. “Trouble finds me.”

She stepped close. She took his hand—even in the stifling heat of the club, he was scorched by her touch—and led him to a booth that mysteriously emptied as they approached. Once they settled in, she crooked her finger so that he bent his head to her. Lips an inch from his ear, she whispered, “8th Wing teach you that move?”

It took him a moment to focus on what she was saying, rather than how close her mouth was, the light feathering of her breath against his cheek. “Learned how to fight on Sayén.”

She frowned, pulling back. “Where?”

He gave a low, rueful chuckle. It didn’t surprise him she’d never heard of it. “My homeworld.”

“A rough place,” she deduced. “Where macskacats feed on street orphans and attack the unwary after dark.” She started. “You were one of those street orphans.”

He nodded tightly. “Sayén wasn’t always like that. So I was told. Modestly prosperous. Nothing special. Until PRAXIS heard about the deposits of sherica.”

She paled as understanding dawned. Sherica was an integral component for interstellar travel, used in countless reactors, and PRAXIS would want it for their own manufacturing.

“PRAXIS did their usual procedure.” His voice was toneless. “Swoop in, tell everybody their lives were going to get better. For a while, that was true. Lots of development—cities constructed, people buying more. The birth rate skyrocketed. All other industries fell away as everyone focused on harvesting the sherica. People forgot how to do anything but harvest. Then the sherica deposits dried up. PRAXIS left, taking with them the only source of income. And then…” He shrugged, though the movement felt stiff.

“Chaos,” Mara deduced.

“The government applied to PRAXIS for aid. Troops, loans, anything. But PRAXIS got what they wanted. The Sayén I was born on had nothing but ravaged cities and broken people.”

“And you were one of them.” She stared at him now, serious and sorry.

He didn’t know if he liked seeing that expression on her face, not directed toward him. Pity never helped anyone. It hadn’t helped him. Only determination and resolve had pushed him on, given him a new life away from the gutters of his ruined homeworld.

“How’d you leave?” she asked.

“I earned creds doing what I was good at. Street brawling, cage fights, alpha tournaments. Bribed my way onto a passing cargo ship.”

“And became a flyboy, fighting against PRAXIS.”

“Something like that.” He scanned the room, making sure that Scar Face wasn’t coming back with reinforcements. When he glanced over at Mara, he found her gaze locked to his face. She looked a little stunned. More incredibly, there was no trace of pity in her expression. Only…admiration.

He had never spoken of any of that, not to anyone outside of confidential officer assessments.

When other 8th Wing personnel talked of home, Kell said nothing.

But he’d told Mara things about himself that no one had ever heard. He didn’t know why. He wasn’t certain what she might say. Part of him wondered if she would use his history to taunt him, tell him that he was nothing but street trash pretending to be an ace pilot, that his 8th Wing uniform couldn’t hide who he really was. A hot cage encircled his chest, burning his lungs, his heart.

Her opinion of him mattered. He saw this with a quick, vicious understanding.

Instead of speaking, her hand slid out from beneath the table top and wrapped around the fist he was not even aware of making. Slowly, she worked her fingers between his, until they were woven together.

The hot cage around his chest suddenly loosened.

“This is where to come for information.” She scanned the room. Her fingers were still threaded with his, so it took him a moment to understand what she was saying. “Anything happens in Beskidt By, or on Ryge, you just come to Kusa’s. Better than the latest news uploads.”

He saw how the network operated. People continuously moved from table to table, some of them speaking with heads together, others shouting across the room. Light glinted off cred chips changing hands.

“That guy in the corner.” He discretely nodded toward the man in question. “He’s got to be out of favor. No one’s approaching him.”

Mara send a quick, covert glance to where he indicated. “Runrot. He sold out his smuggling partner a few solar months ago. Been a pariah ever since.”

“Honor among thieves.”

A dark smile curved her mouth. “Something like that,” she said, echoing his earlier words.

“And if they knew you brought 8th Wing here?”

Her smile faded. “I doubt they’d let me back in Beskidt By, let alone Kusa’s.”

Guilt stabbed him. But this wasn’t the time to delve into apologies, even for necessary evils, not when two men pushed back from a table and ambled toward the booth where he and Mara sat. A throb of loss shot through him when she pulled her hand from his.

She hadn’t lied when she said smugglers and scavengers liked to dress flamboyantly. One of the men, blond and fit, wore black nyyrikki-hide pants and a red silk shirt laced up the front. The other had his head shaved and was wearing a shiny blue jumpsuit so snug, Kell sadly knew he dressed to the right.

Both men stopped to stand right in front of the booth. Their eyes gleamed when they looked at Mara. Kell contemplated how the men might appear without their heads, and decided it would be a flattering look.

“Mara,” the blond one said, pleasure in his voice. “Good to have you back.”

“Very good,” seconded the man with the shaved head.

Why? Why was it very good? Did she sleep with these preening asses, and they want a repeat performance?

“Leyon.” She tipped her head toward the man in the enlightening jumpsuit. “Bern.”

The men narrowed their eyes as they stared insolently as Kell. It was all he could do to keep from launching himself across the table and ripping out their throats.

“Who’s this?” spat Leyon.

Kell opened his mouth to speak, ready with a story that he was Mara’s new partner, but she spoke first.

“He’s my Halu pleasure slave.”

Kell barely resisted the impulse to gape at her. He had to nod and appear perfectly calm.

“Looks a bit…tough…for a pleasure slave.” Bern gazed at Kell as if he was something that should be washed off the hull of a garbage scow. “We all saw how he took down Jorgo.”

Mara gave a careless shrug. “You can get whatever kind of pleasure slave you want nowadays.

Besides,” she added with a slow, hot smile, “I like them tough.”

Anger, confusion and arousal all battled inside Kell.

The two smugglers muttered their disappointment. “Damn, Mara.” Leyon grumbled. “We’ve been trying to get you into bed for years. You don’t have to buy something any of us would give for free.”

“Half the men in here would kill to fuck you,” Bern seconded. “And the other half are gay.”

Kell had no doubt the half to which these polished turds belonged. He wasn’t anticipating the rush of relief he felt when he understood that Mara hadn’t slept with any of them. He could not condemn her for having a sexual history, having one of his own, but knowing she never had sex with anyone in the club made his impulse to kill a little less demanding.

Again, Mara shrugged. “I like things uncomplicated.”

“And I keep her well satisfied.” Kell draped an arm around her shoulders.

Only he heard her stifled laugh. Then, turning imperious, she said, “Kell, get me a drink.”

His teeth ground together. She knew very well he couldn’t refuse or be riled by her haughty tone —not in public, at least. “Yes.” He started to slide from the booth.

“Yes, what?”

“Yes… Mistress.”

A flare of heat in her eyes, then she waved him off. “Make it a good one too. None of that cheap Hanako liquor like last time.”

“Yes, Mistress.” He stood and forcibly shouldered his way past the two smugglers. He felt a mild satisfaction when they stumbled a little, but it wasn’t quite enough as he stalked toward the bar.

As he approached the bar, people scattered out of his path. He scowled at anyone who had the misfortune of meeting his gaze. Mutterings and murmurings congealed around him as word already spread that not only did he take out that thug Jorgo, but he was Mara Skiren’s pleasure slave—the lucky bastard.

He reached the bar and ordered two Deianeiran whiskeys. While the bartender hurried to fill his order, he glanced back at the booth. The smugglers Leyon and Bern had made themselves pretty damned comfortable, sandwiching Mara between their large bodies, and the three of them laughed at some story. She was so beautiful in her laughter, everyone in the club turned to look at her, as if drawn by the gravity of a pearlescent moon.

He was no different. His gaze stayed firmly on her the entire time the drinks were being prepared.

He hadn’t felt this tightly wound, his control at the breaking point, for a long, long time. The mission was always in his mind, but he knew the real source of his tension, and she was sitting between two overly-friendly smugglers, gleaming brightly.

The price of the whiskeys amounted to nothing less than extortion, but he paid it and walked the drinks back to the booth. When he returned, he sent Leyon a look so cutting, the smuggler leapt up and made room for him next to Mara.

“Your Deianeiran whiskey, Mistress.” He set it down in front of her before sliding in close enough so their legs pressed against each other. Just for good measure, he put a proprietary hand on her bare thigh, well in view of the smugglers. Partly it was for show, but mostly it was for himself, and he felt no shame—only pleasure—in stroking her silky, warm flesh.

She started to speak, but her voice came out a husky rasp, so she took a sip of her drink. “Let’s cut past the gossip, boys. I’m here for profit, not friendship.”

“There’s a shipment of stolen plasma rifles that needs a pilot for transport,” Bern offered.

Kell could only wonder from whom the rifles had been stolen.

Mara, however, looked unimpressed. “What else?”

“Three tons of sherica looking for a buyer,” said Leyron.

That amount of sherica could power a fleet of PRAXIS patrol cutters—and Kell couldn’t do anything to keep it out of their hands if someone wanted to provide it to them.