Page 50 of Stars in Umbra
Her eyes widened, jaw dropping in disbelief.
‘You what?’
‘You’re looking at The Sable Group’s Internal Chief of Security.’
He murmured the title, as if it didn’t feel real on his tongue.
She peered at him for a second, then, radiant, she leaned over and wrapped her arms around his shoulders in a sudden, impulsive hug.
‘Mo, that’s incredible.’
She kissed his cheek, brushing her warm lips on his skin.
‘Congratulations,’ she whispered as she drew back.
He smiled back, almost shy beneath her gaze.
She realized the rough, dangerous Mo who’d stared down death for years didn’t quite know what to do with kindness.
Rina pulled back, tilting her head, her lengthy hair falling over her shoulder in a wave he followed. ‘Why do you look like you don’t believe it?’
He shrugged. ‘I never thought I’d be part of something like that. The Riders are legends. Not the kind of crew that lets ghosts like me in the front door.’
Her expression softened, warm and unwavering.
‘If they think you’re worthy, then you are,’ she declared, as though it were fact. ‘You deserve it, Mo.’
She jumped up, crossing to the minibar with a decisive stride, rummaging through its contents until she pulled out a bottle of prosecco.
She popped the cork with a quiet fizz, grabbed two glasses, and poured them both a modest serving.
Returning to him, she handed him a glass and raised her own with a grin that lit up the room.
‘To Mo. To happiness, and greatness.’
He clinked his goblet against hers, his smile slow, languid, sensual asfokk.
After a few sips, he headed to the fridge, extracted the vanilla ice cream, and scooped the creamy, cold goodness into bowls.
Handing one to her, he navigated the controls on a holo-screen until it flickered with some ridiculous off-world comedy full of slapstick and terrible one-liners.
For a while, they sat shoulder to shoulder, eating in companionable silence, occasional chuckles breaking the quiet.
The stress of the day melted, and at one point, she glanced sideways at him, warmth curling in her chest.
Mo was sprawled on her sofa like he’d always belonged.
Broad shoulders stretched across the backrest, long legs, thick, robust, muscled, propped up, one ankle crossed over the other.
His dark shirt clung to his frame, sleeves pushed up to his forearms, tattoos peeking beneath the fabric.
For a man built like a weapon, there was a stillness about him that softened the room.
It was a rare kind of quiet, one sans ego, or edginess, just peace.
A sentiment she didn’t know she’d been craving until now.
She tucked her bare feet under her thighs, nestling into the throw rug, and let herself settle for the first time that day.
