“Yeah. I get that,” she whispered, then winced, wondering if she really did. She had never had that ideal life that he had, some vision of a blissful future, then seen it ripped away. She had always known her life wouldn’t be a dream, but she had enjoyed it, nonetheless, enjoyed being her father’s secret weapon, and she had thought he would continue to live on, that life would continue to be comfortable. Interesting. Full of adventure.
“I thought you might. I don’t usually—well, Striker has never gotten this story, that’s for sure.”
“I should hope not.” Ying smiled and rested her head against his shoulder, looking up at him through her lashes. His eyes were closed. Too bad. There was a part of her that wanted him to ask to see her tattoo.
But maybe he was thinking of the wife who had left him, of the life he had lost. She shouldn’t intrude on that. The arm around her shoulders was nice. Maybe it would keep her dreams from returning.
She closed her eyes and snuggled into his side a little more. She never snuggled, not with anyone she had to be tough for, but after hearing his story, she doubted she had to be tough for him, not tonight. Ying rested her hand on his abdomen. She resisted the urge to let her fingers roam, though she could feel the contours of his muscled stomach beneath the fabric of his shirt. His breathing was even, and she was wondering if he might have dozed off when he spoke again.
“This is the second time I’ve gone on shore leave with Striker,” Marat said. “The first time, he said I looked glum and promised to cheer me up. He took me to a brothel.”
“And did it cheer you up?”
“No. Half of the workers were too young to be legal on any planet with laws. And morality.” He clenched his jaw for a moment. “I know it’s different out here on the rim, but it bothered me to the extent that... Let’s just say that I wasn’t going to have a good time with that going on out there. Didn’t bother Striker, of course. He’s so oblivious, I’m not even sure he noticed.”
“He seems a charming fellow.”
“Uh huh. Right. The real idiot was me. You’d think one time going down to a station with him was enough. But I was restless, tired of being cooped up on the ship.” Marat sighed, finally opening his eyes. They were full of apology as he looked down at her, and something about that concern—that gentleness—stole the remains of Ying’s natural tendency to wall herself off and hide her emotions. Not that she had been doing a good job of that since waking from her nightmare, anyway. “If I hadn’t been foolish enough to come down here with him,” Marat went on, “I wouldn’t have seen you and screwed up your plans. I’m sorry.”
Ying couldn’t look away from his eyes, from the honesty and feeling there. It was different from what she had experienced around her father’s crew. And it was appealing. “I think... I’m not.”
His forehead furrowed. “But...”
She lifted her hand to the side of his face, the day’s beard growth rough against her palm, but not unappealing. Nothing about him was unappealing. His eyes widened, and he fell silent. He didn’t pull away. Ying leaned closer, her breasts brushing his chest as she lifted her chin to kiss him, more tentatively than she usually would. She was used to men wanting her, but those were her type of men, pirates and thieves, people who wouldn’t put morality into an equation that involved sex. Just because Marat had planned that scheme to rescue her didn’t mean it had been done out of sexual desire. He actually seemed like someone who would do something heroic just because he saw himself as a hero.
He did seem surprised by her kiss, and he didn’t react at first. She might have drawn back, but the feel of his hard chest beneath hers and the manly smell of him filled her senses, making her linger, hoping he might find her presence equally appealing.
His hand came up to her waist. To push her away or draw her closer? When he opened his mouth, she didn’t know if it would be to return the kiss or to ask what she was doing. But his warm lips caressed hers, and his hand rested on her waist, fingers stroking her through the robe. Her body responded to his touch, flushing with warmth, and she shifted even more onto him, relieved and astir with anticipation. She lowered her hand to his chest, pushing his jacket aside and exploring his musculature through his shirt. She struggled to keep her touch from being too bold, too hungry.
Would she be presuming too much if she scooted into his lap? His kisses were light and exploratory, not hard and demanding, and she didn’t know if he had any notions of getting naked and having sex with her on the floor of the maintenance shaft. She shouldn’t be disappointed in that—it wasn’t a particularly romantic spot, after all—but she was enjoying the feel of him beneath her roaming fingers and wouldn’t have minded less clothing being involved. She also found the taste of his lips appealing and wanted to taste more of him. She opened her mouth, inviting him into her.
Marat paused, gazing into her eyes, as if he were looking for some answer there. She might have protested his lips leaving hers, but his hand had slid around to her back, stroking her through the robe, giving her body something else to enjoy.
“Are you...” he started.
Feeling horny? Yes, yes, she was. Ying almost said it aloud, but she wasn’t sure if he was ready for such bluntness. He was a nice man, after all. She couldn’t help but smile at the thought of bringing out his naughty side.
His gaze dropped to her lips, an intensity in them that hadn’t been there a moment before. Maybe he liked her devilish smile?
He swallowed and shifted one of his legs up to hide the swell of his groin. Her smile broadened. Ah, yes. He did like her smile. Or he simply liked having all of her pressed against him. That worked for her.
“Yes?” she prompted.
“I—ah. Sorry, I’m just a little uncomfortable with you being in that robe.”
“You want me to take it off?”
“No,” he blurted. “I mean, yes, but not because... Er. I wouldn’t ever want to impose myself on someone who was a—wasn’t with me because...”
Aw, he didn’t want to sleep with a slave.
“I kissed you, hero,” Ying said and kissed him again, just in case he was remembering the moment incorrectly. “Now that we’ve established that, would you like to go back to doing some more of it?”
“Yes.” His hand slid down to her waist again, then along her thigh until his warm palm found the bare skin of her calf, stroking her gently, almost reverently. A shiver went through her, and her body responded even more than when he had touched her through the robe. Her nipples tightened, poking against the coarse material. He was looking her up and down, and couldn’t fail to notice. His rapt attention made her hotter, and moisture gathered between her legs. “I wouldn’t have guessed you would want to kiss a man who’s afraid of spiders,” he murmured.
“You said you weren’t afraid of them, that you just preferred they not bother you.” Ying let her own hands go back to exploring. She tugged his shirt out of his trousers and slid her hands beneath the material, eagerly touching his smooth, taut flesh.
“Yes, that’s right,” he whispered. “So long as you’re not alarmed later when I use you for a shield if that tarantula comes back.”
“Maybe I’ll keep you so busy that you wouldn’t notice a swarm of tarantulas crawling past.” She grinned and kissed him again.
“That sounds appealing.”
He kissed her back, and when she opened her mouth, he accepted her invitation. His tongue slipped in, caressing and stroking hers. This time, his hunger was apparent in his touch, both in his lips and in his hands. The lower one slid higher, pushing her robe up to her thigh. She relished the touch, hoping his fingers would travel even higher. She pushed his shirt up, wondering if she could convince him to take a few things off. Maybe if she shifted into another position, she could handle removing his clothing on her own.
Since her robe had already been pushed up, she had little trouble easing her leg over him and coming down on his lap. At first, his hands paused, and he seemed a little embarrassed that she
would land on the bulge in his trousers. As if she hadn’t known that was there. She pressed into him, enjoying the feel of his hard length, even if the material of his trousers lay between them. Her slave outfit hadn’t come with underwear, and the fabric actually felt good rasping against her bare, sensitive flesh. She worried that he would be alarmed by her forthrightness, so she was relieved when he started kissing her and rubbing her again, his hands sliding up to her hips.
A clang came from the darkness, and they broke the kiss, both of their heads spinning in that direction.
“That’s not a tarantula,” Ying said, shifting off Marat’s lap.
“No.” He pulled out his pistol.
Another clang followed the first.
“Azarov?” came Striker’s voice from the darkness around the bend. “That you up there? Don’t shoot. We’re coming in.”
Marat’s head clunked back against the wall, and he sighed. “We?”
A woman’s voice came next. “Yes, we.” She sounded hard and cold, like one would expect from a female mercenary. Normally, Ying would approve of that, but she had the sense that while Marat might have disobeyed Striker or talked him into helping, this woman would be another matter. “We’re here to keep you from getting the company in trouble and giving the captain a reason to shoot you,” the woman said. “Another reason.”
Marat met Ying’s eyes, his expression bleak. He opened his mouth, but then closed it again and shrugged helplessly.
6
Marat climbed out of the maintenance shaft into an empty, lower level of the station with the lights dimmed for the night. Or perhaps they were always dim. The bleeps and hums of machinery suggested they had still not returned to a public area.
Marat straightened and faced the stern, disapproving faces of Sergeant Striker and Sergeant Hazel. It was the middle of the night, and they looked grumpy to be awake. Still, both appeared to be ready for a brawl, with mesh, blast-proof armor beneath their jackets and multiple weapons holstered at their waists. In addition, Striker wore a bandolier of grenades. Marat did not know if they were so heavily armed because they expected trouble from Wolf’s people or if they thought he would resist their invitation to return to the ship. He shouldn’t resist, not if he knew what was best for him.
He watched as Ying dropped out of the shaft next to him, the hem of the robe rucked up and revealing her shapely calves. The memory of their kiss—what had almost become much more than a kiss—seared his brain. Earlier, he had hoped to win a smile from Ying; he hadn’t expected that he would get even more than that when she had woken up from her dream. Her nightmare. He hoped she would not feel that he had taken advantage of her vulnerability.
When Ying landed, the robe dropping to cover her legs again, Marat tore his gaze away. Even before he met Sergeant Hazel’s eyes, he was certain he could feel her frowning at him. He was right. No doubt, she believed all this foolishness he had chosen to partake in had been because of a woman. And... she was right.
Any hint of Ying’s earlier vulnerability was gone. She planted her fists on her hips and stared defiantly at the Mandrake Company people.
“I assume by your appearance that the captain wasn’t impressed by my suggestions?” Marat asked. He hadn’t checked his tablet since before he and Ying had started... entertaining themselves, but it also hadn’t beeped to inform him of a new message.
“The captain isn’t impressed by anyone who pisses off an enemy with a ship full of armament and minions happy to use them,” Hazel said, her arms folded over her chest, her aloof exasperation reminding him of Ying, though Hazel had broader features and frizzy hair that would have been a tangle if she hadn’t kept it cut short. If anything, her expression was even fiercer than Ying’s right now, maybe because she was clothed, armed, and had three inches in height and at least twenty pounds more of muscle to throw behind the stare.
“Sorry, Azarov,” Striker said, though he didn’t appear that apologetic. “When you didn’t come back, I had to tell someone. Didn’t want you getting shot up down here because you were thinking with your—” he glanced at Ying, “—heart.”
“Heart.” Hazel snorted. “Striker is here to take you back to the ship, Azarov.” Her eyes narrowed. “I suggest you go with him.”
Marat asked, “What about—” but was cut off before he could finish the sentence.
“She is not coming with you,” Hazel said. “This isn’t the inner core with all of its fancy GalCon laws. You liberate a slave here, and there’s no police or military organization that’s going to help you. The law on this station says she belongs to Wolf now, and you’re not going to drag the entire company into a fight over her.”
Ying’s features changed very little as she watched this exchange. She had never expressed any desire to go to the ship with him, so he doubted the outcome of this argument mattered much to her, though he selfishly hoped she would miss him if she never saw him again, at least a little.
“I wasn’t going to ask to bring her with us,” Marat said stiffly, struggling to keep his tone civil. Hazel was always brusque—he had been to many of her judo classes—but she was usually fair. Tonight, though, she seemed extra crabby. Given how the events must appear from the outside, he supposed he could not blame her. “She wants to kill Wolf, not join Mandrake Company. Unfortunately. She’s a cook.”
Striker snorted. Marat fought the urge to defend Ying’s talents. They hardly mattered right now.
“She’s more than welcome to kill him,” Hazel said, “but not with our help.”
“I never asked for it,” Ying said, her chin up.
Hazel gave her a withering stare. Ying narrowed her eyes and did not wither.
“The cuffs, Striker,” Hazel said.
“What?” Marat asked as Striker unclipped a pair of flex-cuffs from his belt.
Ying hadn’t been concerned about the argument until that moment. Now her eyes widened, and she leaped away, turning to sprint into the dark tunnel. But Hazel hadn’t survived more than ten years as a combat specialist in Mandrake Company by being slow or weak. Her longer legs gave her the advantage, and she caught Ying quickly, bowling her to the floor.
“What are you doing?” Marat yelled, charging after them.
Ying had spun and was fighting with the ferocity of a cornered cat. Though he intended to help, Marat only made it two steps before an arm was flung across his chest and yanked him to a stop. Marat might not be a small man, but Striker was even bigger, with the overly muscled bulk of someone who spent countless hours a week throwing heavy weights around. Marat tried to drive his hip back so he could throw Striker over his shoulder, but he might as well have been trying to hurl a boulder around. Something hard, cold, and metallic pressed against Marat’s temple, and he froze.
“Is that a pistol?” he asked, incredulous, but for the first time realizing how serious his situation was. Had Mandrake ordered him killed, rather than letting him start a fight with Wolf?
Despite Ying’s ferocity, Hazel came out on top in their confrontation. She hauled Ying to her feet, locking her arms behind her back. Ying never stopped fighting, but Hazel was as immobile as a rock. Rocks and boulders, that’s what the Mandrake Company people were.
“It’s a stunner,” Striker said, “but I’m not sure if I should tell you that, since you’re squirming like an oiled wench in a brothel.”
In other circumstances, Marat might have asked exactly what Striker was doing in these dubious brothels of his, but all he wanted to do was distance himself from these two, to let Ying know that he was not on their side, at least not right now.
“What are you going to do with us?” he asked, making his tone as frosty as he could.
“Striker’s taking you back to the ship,” Hazel said coolly, not appearing ruffled by her brief skirmish. “I’m taking our friend here to Wolf’s doorstep.”
“What? You can’t just hand her over to that monster.” Marat flexed his shoulders and tried to pull away from Striker, but the big sergeant s
till had a meaty arm wrapped around his chest, pinning one arm and almost pinning the other. He managed to get a hand up to grab the forearm holding the stunner, but Striker’s grip was immovable. “Not like that, not without any weapons or anyone to help her.”
Neither of the sergeants softened.
To his surprise, Ying had stopped struggling. “I will go,” she said. “You needn’t manhandle me to get me there.”
“Ying.” Marat wanted to say something useful, but nothing came out.
“This was always my plan,” Ying said. “I will find the weapons I need to kill him on his ship.”
“Before he tortures you?” Marat demanded, his fingers balling as he imagined that bastard pawing over her.
Ying said nothing, but determination filled her eyes as Hazel turned her and led her away.
* * *
Ying did not care for the way the mercenary woman grasped her arm, forcing her through the space station corridors with an iron grip, but she accepted her fate. Months ago, she had prepared herself to face Wolf without weapons, to improvise and find a way to kill him once she was on board his ship. For a while, she may have entertained the idea of having Marat at her side in some capacity, but it had been foolish to ever think that way. It was cowardly to let him risk himself for her, and she understood why the mercenary captain had not wanted to get his people involved.
Still, as they returned to the shops and eating areas of the station, most open despite the night hour, Ying caught sight of an automated apothecary kiosk that sold all manner of drugs from antihistamines and headache relief to stronger narcotics. Even if she was prepared to face Wolf naked, that didn’t mean she wanted to. It would be so much easier to kill him if she could take a few ingredients with her.
Mandrake Company- The Complete Series Page 144