“Docking fees transmitted,” Fred said. “Security are requesting the crew manifest and cargo declaration.”
“Standard freight run. One crew, one passenger.” She hesitated. “List him as… consulting security.”
“That’s creative.”
“You have a better idea?”
Fred didn’t answer, which meant he didn’t.
She found Raaze waiting at the cargo ramp, arms folded, looking far too composed for a male who’d had his tongue in her mouth twenty minutes ago. His hair was smoothed back, and his shirt was open to the waist again. Seriously, did he have an objection to buttons or something?
“Ready?” he asked.
“Are you?”
His lips quirked. “I was born ready.”
The ramp descended into a cramped docking bay that smelled of coolant and recycled air. Venrexx Prime’s orbital station was small… little more than a waypoint. There were a handful of berths, a customs checkpoint staffed by two bored-looking Latharian men, and beyond that, the civilian concourse.
Raaze walked in like he owned the place.
Confidence, she knew. Her father had it in spades, and her brother had inherited the worst of it. But this was a different animal entirely. This man had spent his life being watched by millions, and even exiled and wanted, he couldn’t turn it off.
The customs officers straightened as he approached, and for one horrible second, she was sure they’d recognized him from the warrant.
“Business?” the taller one asked.
“Medical consultation.” Raaze’s voice was bored. “The female requires treatment.”
Both officers looked at her. She tried to project sickly and probably just managed constipated.
“Documentation?”
“Filed with the port authority.” Raaze waved a hand. “Check your systems.”
The officer’s brow furrowed, and he turned to his console. She held her breath. Fred had fabricated the medical referral in transit—a minor procedure, nothing that would flag in the system—but if they looked too closely?—
“Cleared.” The officer jerked his head toward the concourse. “Healer’s Hall is level three, section nine.”
Raaze swept past without a backward glance, and she had to scramble to keep up. The civilian area opened around them, and she stopped dead.
She’d been on stations before. Human stations, mostly, but a few alien ones as well. Generally, they were all built the same, with cramped corridors and shoebox quarters because space was at a premium.
This was… not that.
The concourse stretched three levels high, balconies overlooking a central promenade lined with merchant stalls and food vendors. The architecture was all arches and dark metal, lit by strips of amber light that gave everything a warm, almost intimate glow. And everywhere—everywhere—there were Latharian males.
It seemed like every flavor of Latharian male in the universe was here… all of them built like they’d been designed to make human women feel very, very small.
And all of them were staring at her.
“Why are they staring at me like that?”
“They don’t get many females here,” Raaze murmured, close enough that his breath stirred her hair. “Most haven’t seen a female in decades. Not since the plague. So try not to look like prey.”
“Helpful. Thanks.” Then she blinked. “The plague?”
“The one that killed our females.” His jaw tightened as his hand settled on the small of her back as they walked. “The Empire has been searching for compatible mates ever since. Humans are… compatible.”
