Page 16 of Stolen By the Wraiths
I nodded, settling back into my seat to maintain surveillance. It was the perfect cover to get her close to Crask and the data pad.
She moved toward the bar, her gait slightly unsteady in a way that suggested she was affected by our intimate dancing. Perfect cover.
At the bar, Helena Crask stood waiting for her order, slightly swaying from whatever she'd been drinking. The logistics specialist had separated from Navarro's table, her purse resting carelessly on the polished surface beside her elbow while she gestured animatedly to the bartender.
I watched Alix approach, admiring the calculated casualness of her movements. She ordered two drinks, positioning herself just close enough to Crask to seem coincidental. When the bartender turned to prepare the orders, Alix made her move.
It should have been perfect. A simple bump, an apology, and fingers quick as lightning lifting the data chip I could see protruding from Crask's purse. But as Alix stepped back, polite "Sorry" on her lips, the logistics specialist's hand shot out.
"What did you just take?" Crask's voice cut through the ambient noise, drawing attention from nearby patrons.
Alix's expression remained perfectly innocent. "I'm sorry? I just bumped into you."
"I felt you reach into my purse." Crask's voice was getting louder, more aggressive. "Security!"
Every instinct I possessed screamed danger. Our cover was about to be blown in the most public way possible. I stood, my chair scraping against the floor as territorial fury flooded my system.
The crowd between us seemed to part as I moved, my pheromonal field broadcasting lethal intent. Crask took one look at my approaching form and stepped back, her face paling as she registered the level of threat bearing down on her.
"Is there a problem?" My voice was soft, but the threat in it cleared the space between us.
"She—" Crask began, but I cut her off with a look that promised violence.
"My mate bumped into you accidentally," I said, each word precisely enunciated and vibrating with barely controlled rage. "She apologized. What more do you want?"
The territorial display was immediate and overwhelming. My scent flooded the area around us, carrying chemical signals that every species could interpret: threat, protection, and violence barely held in check. Crask's fight-or-flight response kicked in hard, her pupils dilating as her body recognized a predator.
"I... I thought..." she stammered, backing away from both of us.
"You thought wrong," I said simply, moving to shield her from the other woman. "Perhaps you should return to your table."
Crask fled, practically running back to Navarro's corner booth while other patrons gave us a wide berth. The bartender finished preparing our drinks, clearly eager to end the interaction.
"Thank you," Alix said softly as we returned to our table, her voice carrying genuine gratitude beneath the performance.
"Always," I replied, though my traceries were still pulsing.
Under the table, she pressed something small and hard into my palm. The data chip. She'd managed to complete the theft even while being confronted.
"Facility coordinates," she whispered, her lips barely moving. "Epsilon Station, Kepler Sector. Security protocols and prisoner manifests."
The missing piece. Everything we needed to mount a rescue operation.
But the mission was becoming secondary to the woman in my arms. The public claiming, her willing acceptance of my territorial behavior, the way she encouraged my protective instincts—all of it was feeding drives that bore no relation to maintaining cover.
The return to our suite felt inevitable. The tension from hours of performance hung between us as the door sealed, creating absolute privacy.
"We should—" Alix started, then her voice caught as I stepped closer. "We should debrief."
"Yes," I agreed, though I made no move to increase distance between us. "We gathered significant intelligence."
"The timeline acceleration is concerning," she continued, but her eyes were focused on my mouth rather than tactical considerations.
"Thirty-six hours gives us a narrow window," I replied, stepping closer until she was backed against the wall.
The pretense of professional necessity evaporated. We both knew what was happening, both understood that we'd crossed a line somewhere between performance and reality.
"This isn't?—"
