Page 2 of Stolen By the Wraiths
He said 'dangerous' like a promise, not a warning. I should have stepped back, broken contact, returned to my job. Instead, I found myself studying his cheekbones, how the silver pathways shifted with his breathing, the protective way his body angled to shield me.
"I can take care of myself," I managed.
Amusement flickered in those amber depths. "I'm sure you can." His gaze dropped to my mouth for an instant beforereturning, and the brief attention made my lips tingle. "But that doesn't mean you should have to."
The crowd pressed us closer. The air between us was electric, charged with his scent, which intensified and wiped my thoughts clean. Every breath carried that intoxicating mix, and my body answered with a warmth I couldn't control.
Jazurai traders pushed past, breaking the spell long enough for reality to intrude. I've got a job to finish and debts that won't pay themselves.
"I have to go," I said, though my feet didn't want to move.
He nodded, his hands lingering for another heartbeat before releasing me. "Be careful out there."
The crowd swallowed him, but his scent lingered. The survival sense that had sustained me through fifteen years screamed at me to blend in, to disappear. But a new, reckless impulse urged me to follow him, to chase the first hint of safety I'd felt in years.
Instead, I forced myself toward the cantina, every step like swimming through honey. The spot his hand touched burned, as if it marked me, and I could taste his scent with every breath.
The Red Comet squatted on the district's edge like a diseased growth, its neon flickering between red and a sickly yellow-green. Inside, the haze of smoke and bodies was like being underwater. The air tasted of cheap alcohol and desperation mixed with the recycled atmosphere.
I spotted Corvan Stryd in his corner booth, nervous energy vibrating off him as he nursed a drink that was mostly ice. I took in the details in an instant: thinning hair, soft hands, and expensive clothes that couldn't hide his weakness. But as I approached, I noticed details that didn't fit—the way he kept checking exits, how his fingers drummed an unsteady rhythm against the glass.
I slid across from him. He startled, then forced a smile that didn't reach his eyes.
"Perfect timing." He raised his glass in a mock toast. "I was beginning to think this place might eat me alive."
"Your choice of venue, genius." I kept my hands visible on the scarred table, the data core secure in my jacket. "You have my payment?"
"Of course, of course." But instead of producing credits, he leaned forward. "Tell me, how did you find Dusthaven's security? Challenging?"
Wrong question. The job was over—payment should be automatic.
"Why does it matter?"
"Professional curiosity." He paused, studying me. "I heard their systems were impossible to crack. But here you are. Eight hours. How?"
All my survival training shouted warnings. People who asked too many questions usually had reasons that ended badly for others.
"Credits first. That was our?—"
"Arrangements change." Stryd leaned back, his nervous facade cracking. "Turns out I learned some interesting shit since we talked. About those cores. About their true contents." He paused, studying my face. "About you."
Three figures rose from separate tables. They were professionals, closing my escape routes—the front door, the side exit, and the refresher corridor. I was boxed in.
"What do you want, Stryd?"
"Those cores contain classified bio-enhancement research worth more than planetary budgets." His smile transformed his face into something predatory. "Military applications. Advances that could shift sector power balances. My employers prefer the thief who stole them didn't live to discuss the contents."
"Then why the meeting?"
"Professional courtesy. We'd like to know how you bypassed security so easily. Corporate intelligence always needs new talent." He leaned back, suddenly at ease. "Cooperate, answer our questions about your techniques, and we'll make it quick."
"And if I don't?"
Stryd picked up a small, silver utensil from the table, turning it over in his soft fingers. He didn't look at me. "Then we'll take much longer getting answers. Much longer."
RESSH
The particle rifle rested against my thigh, its weight as familiar as my own heartbeat. From my booth on the cantina's overhead balcony, I had flawless sight lines to the scene unfolding below. Corvan Stryd sat across from the human female—Alix Rowe—delivering his final threats with the casual cruelty I'd learned to expect from Kess Vain's operatives.
