The doors hissed again and Alison sagged onto the bed. What the hell was she going to do? Could she really ask him to trust her when she couldn’t bring herself to trust him?
Something beeped, breaking her out of her miserable downward spiral. Scowling, she rose to her feet and searched for the source of the noise. Someone tapped on the door.
“Your delivery from the ship’s post,” a female voice called through the door.
She had no way of opening the door, but perhaps the crew had some kind of override. “Bring it in.”
The door hissed open and for a second she considered bolting, but dismissed the idea. Where could she go? She had no weapons, no money, and Fenton was bound to find her. Next time he might chain her to the bed instead of buying her a king’s ransom in pretties.
A woman with orange hair and gray skin pushed a hover cart into the room and smiled at Alison. “Where would you like these?”
“Closet, please.” She watched as the attendant stowed her new purchases. On Earth, clothes could be replicated, except for designer copyrighted material, which was wicked expensive. Alison had splurged on an original Orbit cocktail dress when she’d been promoted out of the field. Mark Orbit had designed a stunning sapphire and gold confection that she’d no longer fit in. Her new threads might not be Orbit originals, but she was just as happy to see them.
Another summons at the door made her jump, but luckily gray girl was too entrenched to notice. “Enter.”
This time a young man with a more typical skin tone and violet eyes pushed in a cart of food. “Your husband ordered a few savories for you.”
“He’s too good to me.” Alison smiled to hide her surprise. “Don’t tell him that, though.”
The server, obviously a consummate professional, tipped his head. “Of course not. Where would you like me to set this up?”
She tapped her lips as she examined the tray. Somehow she doubted Fenton would return to her room that night. “The window seat, so I can take in the view, will do nicely.”
“Of course.” He set the tray down and turned to her. “My name is Evers. If you need anything else, just call for me.”
Since he’d offered . . . “Would you mind digging up something for me to read? I’m afraid my bags were lost on the space station, and I’m a little stir-crazy without my news feeds.”
Evers dug in his shiny silver pants pockets and pulled out a small round ball. “Sector news feed, updated hourly. Just plug this in to your view screen and punch in your room number.”
“You’re a lifesaver.” She smiled at him and was gratified to see him blush. Knowing she could wrap a young server around her little finger eased the sting of Fenton’s rejection. “Charge it to the room, if you would.”
He ducked his head in what she supposed passed for a bow and then left with the gray girl.
Lifting the lids of the covered dishes, Alison found the same delicacies she’d ordered at dinner. He’d ordered the same food she had, had it delivered fresh to her. He didn’t want sex, yet he still treated her like a queen. Would she ever understand him?
The news sphere was warm to the touch, as though it retained her body heat. She saw the indentation beneath the viewer and settled the round object in it. Immediately the screen flashed to life, displaying what looked like a city in the desert. Alison stepped away. Below the photograph alien words were scrawled. Some looked like hieroglyphs; none made any sense to her. Obviously, English was not an available option.
Irritated, she smacked her palm against the screen, then jumped when a voice-over narrative started to play. It was like a news broadcast, she realized, the calm, cool voice reading of death and destruction on the main planet of the Hosta System. Settling down, Alison began to eat as she watched the alien news.
The overlord’s palace has been overrun by the oppressed natives of Hosta. The new government is offering rewards to anyone with information that will help bring the war criminals who’d supported Xander’s reign of terror to justice. At the top of the most-wanted list is the former commander of the Northern territories, the overlord’s former ward. His identity is still unknown as the hall of records burned in the uprising. Rumor has it he never participated in a ranking ceremony due to his ability to phase split.
Alison choked on the bite of fruit she’d just taken. Spitting it out into her napkin, she moved closer to the screen.
His whereabouts are currently unknown, but the elected representative of the people of Hosta promises that anyone with information leading to this war criminal’s capture should contact him directly.
Was it possible?
Alison removed the sphere and rolled it between her palms as she paced. It fit, the fact that Fenton could phase split, as he’d called it, that he never talked about his past, or elaborated on his mission. He’d only brought her with him after she’d seen his ability firsthand. Was it because she knew too much?
She shook her head. He was so noble, so generous in every way, she couldn’t believe Del Fenton was the war criminal the news feed made him out to be.
An insidious voice hissed in her ear. No one is that good. What do you really know about him? Are you willing to bet your life on a few hours of pleasure?
He’d turned her away the last time she made an advance, for no apparent reason. He’d been so hot for her before, so what had caused the reversal in his behavior? Now that she thought about it, she’d expected him to have a stronger reaction to her telling him the empaths wanted her dead.
What if he’d already known who she was? What she’d done? Alison thought he’d grown tired of her, but perhaps it wasn’t about her lack of sex appeal. Instead his own guilt over what he planned to do squelched his physical desires.
Her imagination took over from there, leaping to conclusions she had no proof of, but feared were correct. Perhaps the reason he was so insistent on going to the empaths’ homeworld was to get rid of her under the guise of seeing justice served.
If it was true, she had no choice but to beat him at his own game.
Alison restarted the news and settled down to watch and learn all she could about the war criminal. If her suspicions were correct and Fenton planned to betray her, she had to beat him to the punch.
Through the door separating their rooms, Fenton heard the murmur of voices as Alison received her clothing and food. The words were too low for him to make out, but he thought she sounded pleased.
He paced the confines of his secret chamber, restless and turned on. He wanted to go to her in the worst way, to commune with her on a primal level after all she had shared. She was a survivor, a skill he admired and envied. Saying no to her advances was one of the most difficult things he’d ever done. If he were free, he’d take her in his arms, hold her, ease into her pliant body again and again until they both came unraveled.
His gaze automatically slid to the pod, a visual reminder that he wasn’t free to do what he wished, to trust her, or even to cede to her demands that they not go to the empaths’ homeworld. His course was set; he must find the alchemist who resided on a private island there and hope the intelligence he’d gathered from light-years away was trustworthy.
Though he knew it wasn’t rational to be angry at the dead, he couldn’t help balling up his fists as he thought of his family, all who had left him alone on this plane, cursed and burdened while they set off on their next adventure. The room seemed to vibrate and he sucked in air sharply, focusing on a spot on the wall. Phase splitting from anger was the last thing he needed to do right now. He knew better than to let himself get so wound up.
If he couldn’t fuck, perhaps he could fight off his excess energy. Alison and the pod were as safe as they could be. He’d hacked the passenger manifest to be sure no last-minute additions had come aboard. No one knew who he was, who she was. No one was after either of them.
His mind made up, Fenton departed his quarters and headed down to the combat holo-ring. The ship’s promotional material had listed the holo-ring programs
to be state-of-the art, uniquely engineered to suit all the passenger’s needs, from exercise programs to exotic getaways.
Right now, what Fenton needed more than anything was to beat the hell out of someone, exorcise a few ghosts, and exhaust his backlog of unused energy.
The suite was unoccupied when he strode in, the beige walls looking no more remarkable than the empty closet in his cabin. Pressing his thumb to the credit panel, he waited while his universal credits were deducted and a small box containing six silver disks slid out of the wall.
Attaching the self-adhesive side to his pulse points, he imagined the gambling hell at Madam Brizella’s the night he’d met Alison. Too much had been at risk that night for him to lose control the way he’d wanted, but now, with all he protected secured . . .
Closing his eyes, he imagined the room just as it had been before he’d won Alison. Her at the bar, Mig making that stupid bet. The sounds, the smells, the charged and almost desperate air. The murmur of voices, the feel of his uniform against his skin. He held the image there, allowing the ring to absorb his memory and project it into reality.
Someone bumped into him, jolting him from his concentration. Lifting his lids, he smiled in grim satisfaction as he saw the Hibariate perched on his stool, sharp teeth gleaming. Alison, back in her whore’s garb, clutched her arm where the fiend had bitten her.
For the first time in his life, Fenton released his control. With a roar of rage, he picked up the Hibariate replica and flung him across the room. The scrape of chairs and the shatter of glass filled the small space. Around him, fights broke out, fists connecting and men grunting. Whores ran for cover—all but Alison, who watched him with a mixture of hope and awe in her beautiful eyes.
Mig recovered quickly and launched himself in a counterattack. The force that knocked Fenton onto his back felt real, and his training kicked in along with a surge of adrenaline. Though the Hibariate was half his size, he fought viciously, keeping Fenton on his toes.
Someone hit him across the back with a solid object, probably a bar stool. Mig took advantage and sank his teeth into Fenton’s thigh. The pain was all too real, and dots floated before his eyes.
Tucking down into a roll, he tumbled forward. The sudden move shook the Hibariate free and more blood gushed from his leg. Alison rushed forward, cloth in hand. “Are you all right?”
Her concern sounded genuine, and for a moment, Fenton forgot that this was all just a product of his fantasy. Ignoring the pain, the chaos surrounding them, he clasped his hand around the back of her neck and pulled her lips down to his. The kiss consumed him as her sweet mouth sealed over his, her soft body rubbed against him in an evocative way. As his desires changed, so did the setting. The bar faded away, and between one heartbeat and the next, they were back on board the cruise ship. His leg was healed and her clothes were gone, so there was nothing to stop his questing hands as they explored her luscious form.
Nothing except the clapping. One pair of hands in a slow rhythm that seemed to mock him. The discordant sound, probably some defect in the program, brought reality back to Fenton with collision-course impact. Shame burned through him and he ripped the disks off his pulse points.
The clapping continued. Turning his head, he saw a tall, lanky man leaning against the doorway. His skin was deathly white, his hair cropped to his skull. He wore an ill-fitting ship’s uniform, the sleeves too short and the shirt too loose for his lean frame. At first glance he didn’t appear to be much of a threat, but one look into his soulless black eyes had every hair on Fenton’s arms standing on end. This man was a killer.
“Del Fenton. You are a difficult man to find.”
“Who are you?” Fenton scowled at the intruder.
“One who seeks. I believe you have something I’ve been looking for.” His smile was the most unpleasant sight Fenton had ever beheld.
He opened his mouth to respond but pain flooded over him, a tidal wave that made the injuries he’d sustained via the holo-ring seem like mere annoyances. Panting, he fell to his hands and knees, willing the agony away.
Shiny black boots moved into his line of sight as the man stood over him. The agony abated but left every muscle twitching.
The stranger’s voice was low and even, as though they were discussing new trade routes over drinks. “Now, tell me. Where is Alison Cartwright?”
“Go fuck yourself.” Fenton gasped as the searing blaze consumed him again.
“I was going to make this easy on you.” The man crouched down, his dark eyes like gates to the void as he watched Fenton writhe. “A quick death, unlike the Hibariate. I can show compassion when I choose to. Just give me the whore and it’ll all end. No more needless suffering.”
Again the shock as the torture shut off left him gasping. His eyes watered and his throat had closed up. Death would be a relief for him, not just from the stranger and his abilities but because his burdens were so heavy.
“What are you going to do with her?” Del wheezed.
His torturer actually smirked. “Does it matter? She’s just a whore.”
Just a whore. Like his sister. Not really a person, just a thing to be used and discarded. Clarity broke through the haze of pain. Fenton suffered because he was the only one who cared. Without him, Alison would be left at the mercy of this evil bastard.
In that moment, he recognized that he’d done his best for Gili and he could do no less for Alison. If he was to die either way, he would die as her protector.
Distantly he thought of the pod, his mission, his promise, then let it go as he stared into the face of destiny.
“Last chance, Fenton. Be smart. Tell me, where is Alison?”
“Right here, you sick fuck,” she said from behind him.
8
Alison’s plans to confront Fenton were jettisoned into space as she met the assassin’s soulless gaze. She’d been running from him for so long, afraid of what he’d do when he caught her, that witnessing him coercing Fenton to relate her whereabouts was like a dream.
But the blood trickling from Del’s ears and nose were all too real. Seeing him bleed, almost ready to die for her, caused something to shift in her mind. Hell, maybe she had snapped because instead of running, she stood her ground and lifted her chin, her eyes trained on her doom.
“Alison? It’s been so long, I hardly recognize you.” His smirk told her he found her downhill slide into homeliness amusing.
“A lot of things have changed.” Fenton lay still behind him, showing no signs of movement. Was she too late?
“Indeed. You’ve led me on a merry chase, and were much more resourceful than anyone at Illustra ever imagined. And here I always thought you were just a pretty face.”
Another dig she let roll off her back. “Leave him alone, he’s just a john I’ve been using. Not his fault his dick got him into trouble.”
The assassin actually smiled, an unpleasant twist of cruel lips. “Oh, you poisonous harpy, how you wound the male ego with your sharp barbs. And here the poor fellow was falling in love with you. You should have seen the fantasy I interrupted. That’ll teach him.”
She’d forgotten how much the assassin loved the game of cat and mouse. How he liked to play with his prey. “Only if you let him live, so much the wiser. Illustra has no gripe with him, and I’ve told him nothing of value.”
Those empty eyes narrowed to snake-like slits. “You told him about you. Why is that? You were never the type to share with your coworkers, let alone a mark. What makes this one different?”
She shrugged. “He wasn’t. It was just another tactic to keep him interested. He likes to play the hero, rescue the baby bird with the broken wing. I thought my tragic past would help sway him.” Fenton stirred, still out of it. If she could only keep the assassin talking long enough, maybe they could figure a way out of this.
“I think you’re lying. One way to find out.”
Time wasn’t on her side as the throbbing started in her skull. Memories she’d suppressed, things
she’d buried in the darkest recess of her mind flowed to the forefront in a barrage of images and the feelings attached to them. Summer at the lake with her mom and Sally, her first training session as a pleasure companion, the screams of the empaths as they were contained, the connection when she met Fenton’s gaze the very first time.
Her knees hit the deck as sensations bombarded her, every feeling in the range of human emotion churning in a frothing sea of shattered glass, cutting her, making her bleed until she was in danger of drowning in her own blood.
Then it stopped, left her huddled and panting on the floor with tears tracking down her cheeks. She cried silently, all too aware that she’d reached the end.
The assassin crouched down, so he could meet her gaze once more. “Just as I suspected. Sometimes I hate being right.”
His words made no sense, but since her brain had been scrambled like an egg, she wasn’t surprised. “Let him go.”
One midnight eyebrow rose. “Self-sacrifice even? From you? Will wonders never cease?”
He was a maggot, a disgusting filthy malevolent bottom-feeder who gorged himself on other people’s pain. Fenton stirred again and she swallowed hard as she met and held his gaze. “I’ll give you whatever you want. Just let him go.”
He actually sneered at her, bringing his black-gloved hand to circle her throat. “You’re not my type. Good-bye Alison.”
All the air seemed to be sucked from her lungs in a rush. She writhed, struggling to breathe, to fight even though she knew it was impossible. Her vision tunneled and filled with little black dots and her mind fuzzed over.
A clang resounded through the room and the pressure on her chest eased. She sucked in air gratefully, coughing, and struggled to sit up.
Even though he still lay on the floor with his back to her, Fenton also stood over her, holding a large metal chair. The assassin had crumpled to the deck in a heap, obviously unconscious.
Tossing the chair aside, Fenton knelt down and ran his hands over her. “Are you all right?”
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