That was what he was here for. That was what mattered. Not the female in the holding cells.
Liar,a voice whispered in the back of his mind.
He’d caught a glimpse of her when he’d hacked into the security feed yesterday, doing his standard reconnaissance. Small and curvy, with dark hair and frightened eyes, wearing the slave gown they put on all female captives. She’d been sitting on the metal bench in her cell, arms wrapped around her knees, looking utterly lost.
Something had twisted in his chest at the sight. Something he’d spent years trying to bury.
Not my problem. I can’t save everyone.
His father’s voice, cold and dismissive, echoed in his ears.Sentiment is weakness. Attachment is liability. You want to besomething more than a bastard mistake? Then learn to take what you need and leave the rest behind.
He had spent most of his life trying to prove his father wrong. He’d spent even longer trying to prove he didn’t need his approval. Some days he wasn’t sure which battle he was actually fighting.
He paced the narrow confines of his quarters, tail twitching with agitation. The smart play was to stay focused on his mission. Find the artifact. Determine if it was connected to the Vault. Get off this ship before the Grorn arrived to claim whatever they were after.
The female was a distraction he couldn’t afford.
But he also couldn’t stop thinking about those guards, laughing as they discussed her sale price. He couldn’t stop imagining what would happen to her at the trade station, passed from buyer to buyer until she ended up gods knew where, doing gods knew what.
She’s not my responsibility.
He pulled up the security feed on his datapad anyway, telling himself he was just checking the patrol rotations. The image flickered, then resolved into the holding cell corridor. She was on her feet now, running her hands along the walls of her cell looking for weaknesses, looking for a way out.
Brave,he thought despite himself.Stupid, but brave.
Most captives spent the first few days curled up in shock, unable to process what had happened to them. This one was already planning an escape. He watched as she tested the bars, examined the grate in the floor, and studied the ceiling. Hermovements were careful and deliberate, the kind of systematic approach that spoke of intelligence rather than panic.
She wouldn’t find anything. The cells were designed to hold beings far stronger than humans. But she was trying, and that was more than most would do.
He switched off the feed and tossed the datapad onto his bunk. He needed to search the captain’s quarters, not obsess over a doomed captive. Morven kept odd hours, but there would be a window eventually. A chance to slip in, find the artifact, and determine its significance.
That was the mission. That was all that mattered.
He lay back on the thin mattress, staring at the ceiling and listening to the hum of the ship’s engines. Two days until they reached the trade station. Two days to find what he was looking for and get out before everything went sideways.
And somewhere in the back of his mind, a small voice kept asking:What happens to her when you’re gone?
CHAPTER THREE
The explosion threw Emma off the metal bench and onto the floor of her cell. She hit hard, the impact driving the air from her lungs, and for a disorienting moment the world spun in a chaos of noise and flickering lights. The floor bucked beneath her. Alarms screamed through the corridor—a harsh, pulsing shriek that made her teeth ache.
What the hell?
She scrambled upright, bracing herself against the wall as another explosion shook the ship. This one was closer, strong enough to make the metal groan and buckle. Somewhere distant, she heard panicked shouting.
The lights in her cell flickered once, twice, then died completely.
Emergency lighting kicked in a heartbeat later, bathing everything in a sickly red glow that made the shadows jump and dance. She pressed herself into the corner, her heart hammering against her ribs as she tried to make sense of what was happening.
Someone was attacking the ship.
Is that good or bad?Were the attackers better than the slavers, or even worse?
Another explosion, and this time she heard the distinctive sound of weapons fire—sharp cracks and sizzling energy bursts that echoed through the corridors. Heavy footsteps thundered past her cell, and she caught a glimpse of one of her guards sprinting toward the source of the chaos. He didn’t spare her a glance.
She grabbed the bars, trying to pull herself closer and see what was happening.
The bars moved.
