the club lacked the desperately carnival atmosphere. Tinted glass in the windows muted the daylight, yet the details of the place—its grime and disrepair—still appeared. Same with the people. These smugglers and scavengers lived hard, and it showed in their hard faces, their tense, weary bodies and greedy eyes. Dangerous people who would do anything to survive.
Would Mara look the same in five, ten years? Embittered and callous? Assuming she was still alive.
He drew close to her, wrapped a protective arm around her shoulder. At her raised eyebrow, he murmured an explanation. “Pleasure slaves see to the protection of their mistresses.”
Maybe she believed him, or maybe she saw this as the justification it truly was. Pleasure slaves weren’t bodyguards. Still, she nestled closer against him, her own arm circling his waist. Slim and warm, she felt precisely right, and he tried without success not to imagine future days with her exactly the same way—tucked against him, taking his strength, but having her own too.
He met the gazes of Bern and Leyon, who stood on the opposite side of the club. He stared back, tightening his grip on Mara’s shoulders. Staking his claim. The two smugglers at last gave barely noticeable nods, conceding. She was not theirs, and never would be. And if, some day, she did decide to take them to her bed, he didn’t ever want to know. Her life in the future belonged to her alone, and she could take as many lovers as she wanted, but that didn’t mean he needed to revel in it.
A dark-haired woman sauntered toward them. She wore a skin-tight jumpsuit—obviously the preferred garment here on Ryge—revealing lavish curves. Heads turned as she approached. He noted the plasma pistol on her hip, the knife on her boot, but other than her potential threat, little else about her caught his notice.
Mara stiffened beneath his arm.
“So, this is your new Halu pleasure slave.” The woman ran a finger down Kell’s chest.
Mara knocked the woman’s hand away. “No touching my property, Delayna.”
The woman affected a pout. “Not fair to hoard your toys.” She stared at him with blatant interest. “You know I like to play.”
He felt like a piece of raw meat dangling in front of a macskacat—not a pleasant sensation.
“Go play with Leyon and Bern,” snapped Mara. “Kell is mine.”
All at once, he hardened again.
“You never used to be this selfish.” Delayna sulked. “Remember that time we shared those Makarios triplets?”
What?
Mara’s scowl matched his own. “Get the hell out of here, Delayna, before I cut your tits off.”
“Fine,” she sniffed. “I’m here for the merch, not a bedroom tussle.” With a huff, the woman stomped away. Leaving a web of tension between him and Mara.
“Triplets?”
She actually blushed. “A lot of Hanako liquor was drunk that night.”
But what she did in the past, or future, was none of his concern. He had to keep reminding himself of that. Difficult, when she said things like, “Kell is mine.” He understood it was part of the mission, and it wouldn’t be safe if she loaned out her pleasure slave—who was, in fact, an 8th Wing fighter pilot—but he couldn’t stop the rush of satisfaction he felt hearing her claim him for herself.
A stocky man shoved his way through the crowd and climbed on top of a table. “Everybody, shut the hell up.”
The crowd, amazingly, quieted.
“The transmission from Gavra’s going to come in a minute. After that, I expect each and every one of you fucks to buy a drink, and then get out of my bar. Got me?”
“Screw you, Kusa,” somebody shouted.
Kusa grabbed a knife from his belt and threw it at the shouter. His aim was good, because the knife hit the intended target right in the bicep. The man yelped in pain as blood spurted from the wound, staining his shirt. A roar of laughter went up from the crowd.
“Buy a goddamn drink, then leave. Got me?”
“Yes,” the crowd muttered.
“You keep refined company,” Kell murmured into Mara’s ear.
She gazed up at him through eyelashes pale as clouds. “My taste is improving.”
He burned with the need to kiss her, savor her again after too many hours without. Hesitation lasted only a moment. He was a pleasure slave, after all. What he knew was giving pleasure—hers. So he took her mouth, and she responded immediately, opening for him. Her fingers curled over his shoulders, gripping tightly, as he pulled her closer. She was spice and sweetness, more potent and addicting than specerij.
The withdrawal was going to be hell.