Page 69 of New World

His upper lip curled slightly, exposing sharp teeth, but he didn’t react. Didn’t let on that he had noticed. Instead, he shifted course and moved toward the nearest bar, a low-lit den tucked into the side of a curved stone structure. Its entrance was half-hidden, the doorway framed with sheets of tight cloth and old metal lanterns that flickered dimly.

Perfect.

Without hesitation, he stepped inside.

The air inside was thick with the scent of spice, alcohol, and the musk of too many bodies in close quarters. A mix of traders, smugglers, and locals were scattered across the room, clustered at the long metal bar or hunched over wooden tables, their voices a low murmur beneath the hum of alien music.

Zoak claimed a table in the farthest corner, his back to the wall.

From here, he could see everything.

A server approached—a lanky Tesla Terran male with cybernetic implants running down his arm. Zoak barely looked at him.

“Drink?” the server asked, voice bored.

Zoak lifted two fingers. “Something strong.”

The server nodded and left, but Zoak barely noticed.

His attention had locked onto a conversation to his right, voices carrying over the ambient noise.

“The Legion’s mobilized.”

Zoak’s jaw twitched.

“They’re heading straight for Cryon II.”

A low growl started deep in his chest. He had been hired to kill Dorane, but if Andronikos destroyed Cryon II first, it would steal his victory.

His hand flexed against the table, claws itching to tear something apart.

He was about to snarl a comment at the fools discussing his prey when the chair across from him scraped against the floor. Zoak’s eyes snapped up. Someone had sat down across from him.

Uninvited.

His fingers twitched toward his concealed blade, but the moment he met the female’s eyes, the movement stilled.

She was smiling.

Dark. Amused. Unafraid.

Zoak’s entire body went still.

Mei studied Zoak as she settled into the chair she had pulled out.

Up close, he was larger than she’d expected, his scaled hide a dark, mottled hue of red, black, and tan that blended into the dim lighting of the bar. His cloak draped heavily over his broad shoulders, but Mei’s sharp eyes picked out the subtle bulges of concealed weapons. A throwing knife on his right thigh, a blade strapped beneath his forearm, something heavy at his back—likely a plasma pistol.

She wasn’t concerned.

Her own weapons were just as well-hidden.

She waved off the server with a flick of her fingers, keeping her gaze locked on Zoak as she leaned back in her chair. She wanted to see how long he would tolerate her silence.

It didn’t take long.

Zoak’s jaw twitched, the muscles beneath his scaled skin flexing with irritation. She could feel his anger simmering, barely held in check, like a beast ready to lunge. He expected her to speak first.

She didn’t.

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