Fated Mate Conquered - Luna Voss Page 0,50

ogling me, even with the obvious mark on my neck.

“All you have to do is hang on my arm and look pretty,” he tells me, pushing me briefly up against the wall and kissing my neck. “Which you’re already doing a pretty damn good job of.”

“I try my best,” I giggle, pushing him off me as a Dajorkan in a suit approaches to lead us to the game. “Now let’s go play some cards.”

We follow the Dajorkan casino worker through the space station and into a bar that appears to be closed. Or rather, closed for a private party, as the sign on the door announces.

“This is where the private game is?” Turan asks the casino worker.

“Yes,” he confirms. “We hold a game here every night. Quarter-million credit buy-in. Drinks are on the house.”

“My kind of game,” Turan laughs. I cling to his arm as we walk in, trying to play the role of the ditzy arm candy.

When we enter the bar, I see that it’s dimly lit, with a table in the center where four men sit drinking and playing cards. A cloud of smoke lingers above them, wafting from cigars that two of them are casually puffing. Overhead, I can see some kind of filtration device gently sucking up the smoke, preventing the room from getting too hazy.

“Good evening, gentlemen,” Turan greets them as we approach. “I was told you had a little game going.”

Now that we’re closer, I can see that none of the four men can possibly be Rizban. He’s an unsuppressed Voorian, whereas I’m looking at two humans and two Dajorkans.

“Please, join us,” says one of the humans, fixing Turan with a predatory grin. “We’ll deal you in next hand.”

Nobody offers to deal me in. Clearly, it’s a bit of a boys club. I take the seat next to Turan, trying to play calm, but feeling nervous. This whole environment skeeves me out.

A Voorian waitress comes up to take our drink orders. Turan asks for a whiskey, and I get a cocktail that I have no intention of drinking. The waitress makes eye contact with me as she takes my order, a momentary greeting between two women of the same species, and I have to stop myself from smiling at her too warmly. I have a role to play. Still, I can’t help but notice that she’s the only person in the bar other than Turan who has paid me any attention since I walked in.

Whatever my mate is planning here, I can’t wait for it to be over. I can tell from the context and snippets of conversation that these guys are gangsters, possibly serious players in the human and Dajorkan mobs. One of the Dajorkans seems to be a lieutenant with the Red Star Boys. These gangsters scare me. They aren’t bound by the same code of honor as the Vostra.

Turan plays a couple of hands, losing most, but winning one. I can tell he’s not pretending to be a total idiot the way he was before. I guess now that we’re in the game, that part is no longer necessary.

It must be almost an hour later that I hear someone else entering the bar.

“Rizban,” says one of the humans, standing up to greet the new arrival. “I was hoping I’d see you here tonight.”

19

Kora

Next to me, I feel Turan tense. His fist clenches under the table, and I put my hand over his, stroking it reassuringly. We’re facing away from the entrance to the bar, meaning we still can’t see the newcomer, and he can’t see us.

We stay seated as Rizban greets his human friend, still not paying attention to us. He has a couple of women with him, scantily-clad Voorians who I assume to be prostitutes. Just as the waitress did, they glance at me as the men talk, and we silently acknowledge each other. For all they know, I’m here in pretty much the same capacity as them: the bored, grudging arm candy of a dangerous gangster who is paying for my presence. Of course, the mark on my skin proves otherwise, but I doubt they can see it in the dim light.

Rizban’s female companions sit down, and I almost hold my breath as the Gordulla captain crosses to the other side of the table and takes his own seat. He’s taller than Turan, and relatively thin for an unsuppressed Voorian, clean-shaven with an angular face.

“Who’s this?” he asks rudely, pointing to Turan. He pulls out a cigar, and one