She paced the small cell, anger rolling off her in waves that made his skin prickle with awareness.
His mate in distress. His mate threatened.
And him sitting there, useless, trapped by technology designed to break creatures like him.
"I gave Horris some bullshit about my dad, and apparently, that satisfied him." The words tumbled out between ragged breaths. "They have a biolock from my father. A dead-man's biolock."
"What?"
The dragon surged forward before he could stop it. Heat flooded his system, fire racing through his veins. The cuffs sparked, warnings flashing across his vision.
Neural disruption imminent. Compliance required.
She didn't notice his struggle, too lost in her own horror. "It's exactly what it sounds like. They're going to drain every drop of blood from my body to unlock some tech of my fucking dead father’s."
No.
The word echoed through every fiber of his being. His mate would not die. Would not be bled dry by greedy pirates chasing legends and treasure. Not while he drew breath. Not while fire still burned in his heart.
The cuffs went from warm to hot. Electricity danced across his skin, preliminary warnings before the real punishment began. He closed his eyes, reached for every meditation technique his combat instructors had beaten into him.
Center. Breathe. Control.
"We're getting out of here." The words came out rough, barely human. "They won't touch you."
"How?" She stopped pacing, fixed him with those sharp eyes that saw too much. "You're still wearing those cuffs."
He needed to think past the rage, past the dragon demanding blood. Horris wanted treasure. The crew wanted wealth. Greed had always been humanity's most reliable weakness.
"I have a plan."
She studied him for a long moment, then dropped onto the bench beside him. Close enough that her thigh pressed against his, that her scent wrapped around him like silk. Sweat and industrial cleaner and, underneath it all, something that called to the deepest parts of him.
"It better be a good one," she said quietly. "Because I've got maybe seventy hours before they turn me into a blood bank."
Less than three days to get the cuffs off, get her to safety, and preferably leave Horris and his crew as smoking corpses in their wake. His grandfather would have called it a challenge. His brothers would have called it impossible.
Zane called it motivation.
The next morning came too slowly. He spent the night planning, weighing options while Mercy dozed fitfully against his shoulder.
In the morning, after Mercy had been taken away to do more work, the guards brought their usual protein ration, tossing it through the field with casual disdain.
Time to perform.
"You know," he said conversationally, loud enough to carry, "my family would pay quite handsomely for my safe return."
Stevn, the nervous one who'd cuffed him, paused at the field controls. "Sure they would."
"The Vemion Treasury makes most planetary budgets look like pocket change." He shifted, holding up his bound hands with calculated casualness. "The person who ensures my comfort … who perhaps removes these uncomfortable restraints … would find themselves very well compensated."
Greed flickered across Stevn's narrow face. Just a flash before suspicion replaced it. "Captain says you stay cuffed."
"The captain isn't here." Zane let aristocratic boredom color his tone. The spoiled lord who'd never been denied anything. "And the captain doesn't need to know about any private arrangements between gentlemen."
"You have no idea what the captain's after."
Perfect opening. Zane allowed himself a small smile. "And you're sure he's going to share it with you? Every credit? Every treasure? Pirates aren't exactly known for their generous profit-sharing."
