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She’s ready.
The crew is ready.
Nassakth’s ready.
I’m terrified.
When we finally dock, I pick through the few tunics and trou I’ve brought, looking for something to wear. I pull out a long piece of fabric and wrap it around my head, concealing my hair, lower face and neck, and tuck it into the collar of my tunic.
Nassakth just puts on his guns and runs his fingers through his mane. I noticed that he seems casual right now…but I also know he spent an hour grooming his tail earlier and every strand of fur on it is gleaming and in place. I’d swear there’s even a decorative bead or two in the thick fur, but I don’t ask. Tails seem like sensitive things, and I’m guessing it’s a lot like asking a guy if he uses product in his hair. Even if he does, he won’t admit it…and he sure won’t like being asked.
“You nervous?” I ask him, moving to his side and putting my hand on his arm.
“I am praxiian. We do not get nervous,” he tells me in a lofty voice, and then pats his belt, checking his weapons again. “I am, however, uneasy.”
“You and me both.” I glance down at his weapons. “Can I have a gun to carry?”
“It might draw more attention than it’s worth,” Nassakth admits, and produces a thin blade. “Carry this instead.”
“I could kiss you right now,” I say, grinning up at him from under my face wrap. I grab the knife and stuff it into the belt at my waist, then pull my long tunic over it.
He leans down and pushes my covering aside, pressing a kiss to my mouth. “I do not like this thing.” He fingers the material. “It hides your beauty.”
“It also hides the fact that I’m not wearing a collar, and I don’t want anyone thinking I’m up for grabs.” I hesitate. “Maybe I should wear one after all? A collar?”
Nassakth frowns. “I hate the idea. You are my mate, not my pet.”
“I know that, and you know that. I hate collars, too. But we have to ask—will it make me safer?”
He grunts. “It might.”
I pull out the collar Bethiah has left for us. It’s ornamental and decorative, with a shiny, slinky chain that ties to Nassakth’s belt. With a grimace of distaste, I unwrap my scarf and put the collar on my neck, chaining the other end to his belt. “Better safe than sorry, right?”
“I do not like this. I would much rather be home with you curled in my bed and naked in my arms.” He cups my face in his big hands and tilts my chin, angling my head so he can kiss me. “No collars. No slaves or owners. Just us mated and content.”
“That’s where we’ll go as soon as we’re done here, then,” I promise him. “Right back home.”
Nassakth presses one more kiss to my lips, his gaze lingering on my face, and then he nods. “We find out what they want, and then we go home.”
“Easy peasy lemon squeezy,” I tell him cheerily.
“Shall we go, then?” He holds a big hand out to me.
I put my hand in his…and then grab the head covering and wrap it around my face at the last minute. Just in case.
Nassakth squeezes my hand and then we leave our quarters. Bethiah is there in the narrow halls of the Little Sister, waiting for us. Gone are the playful expressions and teasing looks—the bounty hunter of today is all business. Her hair is braided tight against her scalp and woven through her horns, crisscrossing like a weird net that’s spangled with tiny, glittering stones. Her body is covered head to toe in a gray jumpsuit that’s bristling with weapons and pouches of all kinds. There are no less than three blasters strapped to her waist, something that looks like a crossbow on her back, and her legs and boots jingle with metal that’s not readily visible. She lifts her chin at us. “We ready?”
I let out a shuddering breath and look up at Nassakth.
He nods.
Bethiah produces two bracelets. “These are trackers I want you both to wear. It’ll help me keep tabs on you if we get separated.” As we put them on, she demonstrates the two buttons on the front. “Press these if you get in trouble. The first one sends a ping to my system so I know there’s a problem. The second one will call the local authorities and should only be pushed if I’m incapacitated. I won’t be, though, so just try not to hit it.”
I put the bracelet on, noticing that the slinky metal of it slithers around my skin and fits itself against my wrist. “What’s this third button do?”
“Self-destruct,” Bethiah says immediately. “Hit that and your arm will explode.”
“What?” I squawk, trying to rip the darn bracelet off. I don’t want to wear a bomb.
