Page 7 of Stalker

"So what brings you to Alpha Centauri?" Maryse leans forward, chin resting on her palm.

"Work." The lie tastes bitter. "I move between stations. Security consulting."

"A mercenary with manners. That's different."

The wine arrives, deep crimson catching the light. Perfect cover for my discomfort.

"What kind of ships have you worked on?"

"Merchant vessels mostly. Some private security." My fingers trace the stem of the wine glass. "Protection details."

"Must be exciting."

"Not as exciting as engineering. Tell me more about your studies."

Her eyes light up.

"You want to hear about hydroponics?"

"Please."

The technical terms flow over me like water. Her passion shines through every word, hands dancing as she describes growth cycles and atmospheric processors. The tension in my shoulders eases.

"Sorry, I'm babbling."

"No, keep going. Your voice..." Heat creeps up my neck.

"My voice?" She blinks those perfect eyes and I want to melt into a puddle.

"It's nice. Soothing."

Her cheeks flush pink.

"What about your voice? Where'd you pick up that accent?"

"Here and there. Spent time on different ships." The wine loosens my tongue. "The Dreadmoon had quite the diverse crew-"

The fork slips from her fingers, clattering against fine China. Heads turn. Whispers ripple through the restaurant.

Her face drains of color.

"The Dreadmoon? The pirate vessel?"

The word 'pirate' seems to echo in the sudden silence. I've said too much.

"My past has... complicated parts." I lean back, studying the wine's depths. "Some I'm proud of. Others, not so much."

The lie slides easier than expected. Not that piracy shames me - those raids kept food on many tables. But something in those green eyes makes me want to be better. Or at least appear that way.

She could lead me straight to Daniels. That's what I tell myself as I watch her delicate fingers wrap around the stem of her glass. Pure strategy. Nothing to do with how the light catches her hair or the way her lips curve when she smiles.

"We all have chapters we'd rather not read aloud." Her hand inches closer to mine on the tablecloth. "The past is just that - past."

The tension drains from her shoulders. Other diners return to their meals, the moment forgotten.

"When you know better, you do better."

The simple wisdom of her words strikes deeper than any blade. Here I am, plotting revenge while she offers understanding without question. My mother would have liked her - sharp mind hiding behind that gentle exterior.

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