Page 21 of Stars in Umbra
Where the hell had he seen them?
He’d no idea, but still, hot damn.
‘Your name’s Mo?’
He jerked his chin in assent, not quite able to form words, nor wanting to, given his ‘say fokk all or as minimal as possible’ approach to life.
‘Rina.’
He nodded, even though he recognized who she was from the identikit that flashed on his neural node the moment he spotted her.
While his team was providing security at the wedding, he was on duty, covertly, of course.
He’d clocked her the second she sashayed onto the pavilion.
She was the first woman in months he’d ever had such a visceral, primal reaction to.
Since then, he hadn’t been able to keep his eyes off her, like a moth to a flame.
He studied her every slight movement, each breath.
Now, she kept her eyes averted from him, and he took note.
She was shy, and the self-effacing meekness in her gaze stirred a sentiment that had been buried deep inside him.
Rina was steel, heat, and a sweet hesitation he found endearing in a woman with such an eminent and prestigious reputation in the defense world.
She wasn’t like most women who came onto him, quick to dazzle, slow to matter.
She had an aura about her that he picked up the instant he spotted her, that hefokkin’ respected.
She exuded fire and fierceness, a combination that intrigued him.
As they danced, he attempted to imprint the press of her against him, the scent of her skin.
She stirred up in him feelings he kept hidden away in the corners of his soul.
They resurfaced, and he grimaced as they washed over him.
The core one was related to his freakin’ loneliness.
Mo had the bank to buy the best toys in the galaxy; gemstones stashed in vaults across three systems, an apartment in every major city from Eden II to LeCythi.
He owned sleek racers that hugged atmospheric currents like lovers, and tactical drones coded to his nerve pulses.
He even had the title deed to a mansion on the clifftops of J’Urg M’hor, with celestial views of the desert mare.
He was living out the dreams he used to whisper to himself in the back alleys of LeCythi, living on the edge of survival with a knife in one hand, fire in the other.
Now he was working for the Riders.
He held power and respect, the kind that could tilt a deal with a glance or tip the balance of a syndicate ring war with a quiet word.
In the merc world, in the gun-running circuits, in the shadows that built empires and dismantled them just as fast, Mo was a king.
He could do whatever the hell he wanted.
He had all the game, but it signifiednada.
