Page 15 of Hunting the Warlord's Daughter

“Dear fates,” Kaz muttered.

Aral turned her down with a scowl. She refugee disappeared into a warren of pathways winding deeper into the makeshift city of tents. The sky had taken on a sickly yellow cast. It had all the look of an approaching dust storm. Little wonder Zorabeta was being used to house Drakken-born refugees. No sane person would live here voluntarily.

Blast the Triad! If they’d apprehended Karbon when they were supposed to, Awrenkka, a boarding-school-bred young woman, would not have been forced to suffer the indignities of this encampment. If not for their incompetence, he would have extracted her directly off Barokk. He did not like it when his plans went astray. He’d put too much care into crafting them.

“If you meet her wearing that scowl,” Kaz said, “you’ll frighten the girl.”

“She’s not a girl,” he snapped. “She’s a mere year younger than you.”

“Ach. Someone is grumpy.”

He peered into the rising sun, its glare like acid being poured on his raw nerves. “I slept poorly again.”

“Too bad. You’ll need your energy for your wedding night.”

“Dear fates, grant me patience.” He scowled at her, and it irked him that she looked amused. “You know I won’t pressure her into a real marriage.” Expecting sex. Demanding his conjugal rights. “Once we get out of here, I’ll explain the arrangement to her.”

“And then? Let the romance begin.”

Despite himself, he laughed, then he shook his head. “I doubt she remembers me. I was just some boy at her presentation.”

“TheResilienceis a small ship. You’ll have plenty of time to get reacquainted. I can supply you with some ideas to speed the process.”

“Kaz…”

“I’m serious. Don’t put off letting her know how important she is to you, thinking you’ll wait until the time is right. No time is righter than the present. If you feel it, say it. Each day together is a gift that you may never have again.” The teasing in her tone had drained away. He knew she spoke of her own experience—with Bolivarr. “Don’t wait to tell her how you really feel,” she repeated, softer. “There may not be another chance.”

Kaz’s sadness spoke volumes. Lovers—and friends—could be taken away at a moment’s notice. Kaz had many regrets about how she’d left things with Bolivarr, specifically their last stormy conversation. But he was gone—dead—four years now and counting.

“When one doesn’t move on with life, isn’t that waiting as well?” Aral asked.

Kaz’s mouth tightened as she flicked a speck of dust off her jacket—she’d somehow kept it immaculate despite the wretched conditions. “Point taken.” She squared her shoulders, suddenly back to being Sub-Battlelord Kaan. “I should not have brought up such a personal subject while on duty.”

“You seemed fine until it got too personalfor you.”

“Well, it wasn’t professional.”

“Nonsense. We were friends long before we were shipmates. More than that—you were the little sister I never had.” Equal parts annoying and worshipping, she’d tagged along with him and Bolivarr on the grounds of the Mawndarr estate, where her family had lived. “In fact, the very first time you boarded a ship of mine, it was through illegal means. You stowed away.”

He was glad to see her smile return. “You knew about it,” she countered. “You sanctioned it. So technically, I wasn’t a stowaway.”

“I needed the extra hand on board. So I looked the other way.”

“Hardly! Those late-night talks over bottles of whiskey, staying up half the night, trying to solve all the galaxy’s problems, I wouldn’t call that looking the other way. Don’t rewrite history, Aral.” Though he knew if she had the power, Kaz would write Bolivarr back into their lives. They both would. “Ah, I miss those days,” she said. “The three of us partners in crime. I misshim.” She fell silent for a moment. “Perhaps it’s time I did close the book on the past. We’ll write new books for ourselves.”

A commotion down by the docks caught their attention. To the sound of guffaws, one of the crowd-watchers called out to his cohorts, “Look at that girl! Those glasses she’s wearing—artifacts—they’re as thick as bottle bottoms!”

Glasses? Aral caught sight of a female, petite in stature, on the other side of the road. Thick, square, black-rimmed glasses sat on her nose. Dark, reddish-brown hair tied in braids, the ends gathered in a thick ponytail, reached down to her shoulder blades. The wind kept picking up strands and blowing them around her face, teasing him with a peek at a slender neck and the curve of her jaw. No visible tattoos. No jewelry. Just unblemished, dust-streaked skin.

She was too small to radiate the kind of magnetism she did. She should be lost in the crowd; instead she was the eye of the storm as chaos spun around her. Maybe it was how she seemed to avoid interaction with everyone else, or the way her brown hair reflected the sunlight that bounced too harshly off everything else, strands that sparked like fire where the light hit it.

Just as he remembered.

Anticipation electrified him from head to toe.Show me your eyes. Then I’ll know it’s you.He took one step toward her, then another, Kaz on his heels.

“Is it her?” Kaz asked. “Is it?”

The woman met his eyes then. A direct, fearless stare.

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