She disappeared into a changing booth that was really just fabric hung on a frame. I could see her silhouette as she changed, and had to look away before my body's reaction became obvious to everyone in a ten-meter radius.
When she emerged, my mouth went dry.
The fabric clung without being tight, showed skin without being obvious. The blue made her skin glow, her dark hair shine. She'd let her hair down, and it fell past her shoulders in waves I wanted to fist my hands in.
“It's not practical,” she said again, but she was looking at herself in the merchant's mirror with an expression I'd never seen. She looked happy. Just purely happy with how she looked.
“It's perfect.”
“It's expensive.”
“I have credits.”
“Varrick...”
“Let me.” The words came out rougher than intended. “Let me do this.”
She turned to look at me, and something passed between us. Understanding. This wasn't just about clothes. This was about claiming and providing and all the things my instincts were screaming for me to do.
“Fine. But I'm getting practical things too.”
She bought traveling clothes, sturdy boots that actually fit, undergarments that I tried very hard not to think about. Each purchase was careful, considered. Five years of poverty had taught her the value of everything.
While she shopped, I watched the crowd. A pickpocket, Nazok, young, probably desperate, was working the throng. He started toward Sabine, saw me watching, and immediately changed direction. Smart kid.
Two Valdorian were arguing over prices three stalls down, their pale, ethereal beauty at odds with the crude insults they were throwing. A Poraki family huddled together, their amphibious skin already drying despite the moisture in the air. Port refugees, probably. Like us.
“You're doing that thing,” Sabine said, appearing at my elbow with an armload of packages.
“What thing?”
“Cataloguing threats. Analyzing everyone.” She smiled slightly. “I do it too.”
We found food stalls on the second level. An elderly Orlian whose sand-colored skin rippled with pleasure when we complimented her cooking served us something that might have been stew. Strange meats in stranger sauces, flavors that shouldn't work together but did.
Sabine tried everything, making those sounds that were slowly driving me insane. Little moans of pleasure. Soft gasps when something was particularly good. A purr, actually purred, when she tasted something sweet and spicy that the Orlian called “fire honey.”
“You're staring,” she said, licking sauce from her thumb.
“You're making noises.”
“It's good food.”
“Those aren't food noises.”
She took another bite of something that steamed and glowed slightly, then moaned deliberately. The sound went straight through me, my cock hardening instantly.
“Careful,” I warned.
“Or what?” She licked sauce from her thumb, tongue moving slowly. Deliberately. “You'll break another wrist? Threaten someone? Go all protective Vinduthi on me?”
“Something like that.”
The space between us crackled with electricity. The crowd faded. There was just her, those hazel eyes dark with challenge, her lips still shiny from the sauce. I wanted to lean across the small table and taste that sauce on her mouth. Wanted to find out if she'd make those same sounds for other reasons.
A fight broke out nearby. Two Zeqnids going at each other over some perceived slight. Multi-limbed violence that had other patrons scrambling for cover. One crashed into our table, sending food flying.
I had him by the throat before conscious thought engaged, lifting all two hundred pounds of him off the ground. “You spilled her food.”
