The kind of heat that seeped through clothing and made her hyperaware of every point of contact. His chest rose and fell against hers with each breath, steady despite their situation. She could feel the lean muscle beneath his ridiculous silk shirt, the strength he tried so hard to hide behind that pampered exterior.
And he smelled good. It was distracting as hell when she needed to be thinking about escape routes and weapon stashes.
"Your heartbeat's elevated," he murmured, and she could feel his breath stir her hair.
"We're about to die," she shot back. "Of course it is."
"Ah." The sound vibrated through his chest into hers. "That must be it."
Was he … was he flirting with her? Now? While pirates tore her ship apart looking for some mythical treasure map? The man had no sense of self-preservation.
She shifted, trying to find a position that involved less full-body contact, but only succeeded in pressing her hips more firmly against his. He made a small sound, quickly stifled, and she froze.
"Sorry," she muttered.
"No need to apologize." His voice had gone deeper, rougher. "Though if you keep moving like that?—"
The door yanked open, flooding the tiny space with harsh light. Mercy blinked, momentarily blinded, as rough hands grabbed her arms and hauled her out. Her legs had gone numb from the awkward position, and she stumbled.
"Move it," one of the pirates growled, shoving a blaster against her ribs. Behind her, she heard Zane yelp before they slammed the door shut again.
They dragged her through her ship, and Mercy felt each bit of destruction like a cut of a knife. The panel she'd rewired last month hung open, its guts spilled across the deck. Her few personal items lay scattered and broken. The ceramic mug her mom had given her lay in three pieces near the galley entrance. Even the pilot's seat had been slashed open, foam stuffing bleeding out like innards.
She'd spent five years keeping the Alto running. Five years of scraped knuckles and late nights and careful budgeting to afford parts. This ship was her freedom, her home, her life. And they were destroying it for nothing.
"I really hate pirates," she said through gritted teeth.
The one holding her arm laughed. "Feeling's mutual, sweetheart."
They shoved her onto the bridge. Horris stood by her navigation console, running his fingers over the displays with casual control. Like he already owned everything there. Like she was just an inconvenience to be dealt with.
"Tie her to the chair," he said without looking up.
Mercy struggled, but there were too many of them. They forced her into the pilot's seat—her own damned seat—and wrapped cargo straps around her wrists. The straps bit into her skin, too tight for comfort but not quite tight enough to cut off circulation. They knew what they were doing.
Horris finally turned to face her. Up close, that scar was even uglier, pulling his mouth into a permanent sneer. "Now then. Let's have a civilized conversation."
"Hard to be civilized when I'm tied up." The words came out rough, her throat dry from fear and adrenaline. The cargo straps had already started to chafe, the synthetic material designed to hold shipping containers, not human wrists.
He backhanded her. The blow snapped her head to the side, and she tasted copper. Her vision went white at the edges, then filled with dancing black spots. Pain exploded across her cheek, radiating up into her temple and down her jaw. The metallic taste flooded her mouth, and she had to blink several times to clear the spots dancing in front of her eyes. Her ears rang with a high whine that made everything else sound muffled and distant.
"Where's your father?" he asked. He straightened his jacket, smoothing down the fabric like violence was just another part of his daily routine. His scarred face showed no emotion, no satisfaction or anger. Just cold calculation.
Mercy worked her jaw, then spat blood onto the deck. It landed with a wet splat near his boots.
"I haven't seen him since I was a kid. I have no idea. Dead, probably." She tested her teeth with her tongue, relieved to find them all still in place. The taste of blood was overwhelming, coating her mouth with copper and salt. Her cheek was already swelling.
"Don't lie to me."
"I'm not."
The truth rang in her voice, clear and sharp. She'd had twenty years to get over being abandoned. Twenty years to stop caring whether Rayden Webb was alive or dead or floating in some asteroid field. The anger had burned out long ago, leaving only hollow indifference.
Horris hit her again, harder this time. This time she saw it coming and tried to roll with it, but the straps held her in place.
The headrest cracked under the impact. Blood filled her mouth again, and she could feel her lip splitting. The taste made her stomach turn, but she swallowed it down rather than give him the satisfaction of seeing her spit again.
"This can be a discussion, or it can hurt." He leaned in close enough that she could smell the sour alcohol on his breath. "Your choice."
