Page 14

T his place stank worse than usual.

The trading post hit Davis's senses like a physical assault.

Countless voices bargained and argued beneath the curved metal dome.

The air was thick with conflicting scents-spiced meats, engine exhaust, and the sweat of a dozen different species.

Every sound seemed amplified, separated into distinct layers he could focus on at will.

His skin burned. Not with pain, exactly, but with a crawling awareness that hadn't let up since he'd woken. His combat fatigues caught against his thighs with every step, the fabric suddenly too constricting.

Anson walked beside him, dark eyes flicking over to study him when he thought he wasn't looking.

"So," Anson said, sidestepping a verlatian with brightly colored fabrics over one of his many arms, "that was quite a show at breakfast."

His jaw clenched. "Drop it."

"Come on, Tell. You nearly ripped Rann's throat out over a wink." Anson's lips quirked. "Even for you, that's extreme."

"I said drop it." He kept his gaze forward, counting the scales on a Drakronian three shops ahead, and picking out individual teeth on the Morrigaal haggling over meat opposite. The clarity of his vision wasn't normal.

"Fine." Anson raised his hands. "Just making conversation."

They passed a food stall where something sizzled loudly. The smell slammed into him-charred protein, spices, the cook's sweat. His stomach cramped with hunger so intense it forced him to pause.

"You okay?" Anson frowned.

I m fine." He pushed forward. "Let's get this over with."

The B Kaar studied him. "Are you wearing heels?

"What? He sliced a glare sideways.

"You just seem taller." Anson's eyes narrowed. "Did Covak slip you Vorrtan growth hormones along with whatever freakish medicine he used on your chest?"

He snorted. "Don't be fucking ridiculous."

A polished metal panel caught his reflection-distorted, but enough to make him look twice. The angle of his jaw seemed sharper.

"You're imagining things," he muttered, turning away from the reflection. Anson had always been prone to exaggeration, putting it all down to B Kaar senses . Which was all bullshit as far as Davis could see. Technology intuition was one thing, but claiming to see physical changes was another.

His thoughts circled back to Mira. Her expression when he'd confronted Rann. Not fear, exactly. Wariness Confusion.

Shit. He'd ruined everything. Whatever had started in the medbay last night-whatever electric, impossible thing had sparked between them when he'd pressed her against that counter-he'd shattered it with his behavior this morning.

The kiss replayed in his mind over and over. The softness of her lips. The small sound she'd made when she d pressed against him. The way her hands had moved over his chest, fingers trailing fire across his skin.

He'd lain awake most of the night, the memory burning through him. More than once, he'd nearly left his quarters, drawn to her door by something primal he couldn't name.

He should have gone to her. Should have explained that he was sorry. That seeing Rann near her had triggered something he couldn't control.

Instead, like a coward, he'd stayed in his quarters watching the hours tick away while his newly healed skin itched and burned. By morning, the wound that should have taken weeks to heal had vanished completely, leaving only a faint line across his chest.

"You're quiet," Anson observed as they turned down a narrower corridor lined with tech shops.

"Just thinking," he muttered.

"About Mira?" Anson waggled his eyebrows. "Because I saw the way she was looking at you this morning. Before you went feral, that is."

His head snapped toward Anson. "How was she looking at me?"

The eagerness in his own voice caught him off guard. So did the sudden clarity of Anson's face-individual pores, eyelashes, the faint pulse of ke'lath lines beneath his skin. His vision had sharpened again, triggered by... what? Emotion?

Anson's smile widened. "Like you hung the moons, you draanthing idiot.

Something fluttered in his chest. Could it be true?

Anson slid a glance sideways as they approached a bar with a flickering neon sign. "You know, for someone who prides himself on being observant, you're remarkably blind when it comes to women."

"Mind your own business," he growled, but without heat.

"I would, but your business is affecting mission effectiveness." Anson's tone shifted. "Whatever's going on with you isn't exactly subtle. Covak said that wound should have kept you in medbay for a week."

He tensed. "Covak exaggerates."

"Not about medical issues." Anson paused at the doorway. "Look, I don't care what this thing is between you and Mira. But if it affects the team, it becomes my problem."

Before he could reply, Anson pushed through the door leaving him to follow along like a damn puppy dog.

The bar assaulted his heightened senses. Poor lighting. Sticky surfaces. The stench of cheap liquor and unwashed bodies. Blue smoke hung in the air, making his nose itch and his eyes water as the carpet underfoot tried to hitch a ride on the soles of his boots.

Back corner, Anson muttered under his breath.

A Zygtal with metallic scales that caught what little light existed, multiple eyes constantly shifting sat there like a little king surveying his domain. Beside him sat a Latharian, unremarkable except for a jagged scar splitting his left eyebrow.

"Anson," the Zygtal acknowledged, then gestured toward Davis. "And your colleague."

He nodded but said nothing. He'd expected a weapons deal, but the table held dataflexes rather than sample cases. He didn t look long. They must be here about information instead. He ignored the scarred Latharian staring at him. Looking was free, even if it did piss him off.

"Let's get to business," Anson said, sliding into the booth.

Davis remained standing, leaning against the wall so he had a clear view of both the exit and their contacts, and folded his arms over his chest. The sounds of the bar shifted unpredictably.

One moment, he could hear someone shuffling cards three tables away; the next, everything faded to background noise.

He shook his head, he must be more tired than he d thought, and his thoughts went back to Mira. The shadows beneath her eyes at breakfast. Had she slept as poorly as he had? Had she been thinking about the kiss too?

"-the primary matrix should integrate with minimal adaptation," the Latharian was saying, tapping a schematic. "But the secondary harmonics will require calibration to your specific system."

He frowned. Kasivar that was B'Kaar armor. Why was Anson negotiating for armor tech? He focused more intently on the conversation, looking over Anson s shoulder at the data flexes, and recognizing the schematics for an advanced integration circuit.

"Will it interface with all configurations?" Anson asked. My setup isn't exactly standard, shall we say?

The Latharian glanced his way. "That depends on your integration protocols. Most backports require additional stabilizers, especially when installed by... less experienced technicians."

Something in his tone made Davis's muscles tighten. The words were innocuous, but the way he said "less experienced" while flicking a glance his way carried a subtle sneer.

"Our technician can handle the adaptation," Anson replied. Lots of experience with all kinds of systems.

Davis shifted his weight as pressure built at his temples. His vision wavered before snapping back into focus with painful clarity. He rolled his shoulders, aware of tension spreading across his back. His shirt constricted his chest, suddenly too tight.

He s human, right? Didn't think humans were large enough to serve effectively on combat crews," the Latharian commented, eyes flicking over him with clinical detachment. "Heard they were weak, puny little creatures. Barely capable of sustained exertion in standard gravity."

Rage flooded Davis's system. His vision narrowed, the edges bleeding red as his hands curled into fists, tendons standing out like cables beneath his skin.

"Say that again." His voice didn't sound like his own. It was deeper, rougher vibrating in his chest.

The scarred Latharian leaned back, surprise flickering across his face. "No offense intended. Simply an observation based on imperial demographic data."

Anson's hand shot out, gripping his forearm. "Tell. Stand down."

He barely felt it as the blood roared in his ears. His muscles coiled, preparing to launch across the table, to grab the scarred asshole by the throat -

"Davis," Anson hissed, out of his seat in a heartbeat to get between him and the contacts. "Not. Here."

For a heartbeat, he nearly shoved Anson aside. Strength surged through him, different from anything he'd experienced before. Not adrenaline, but something deeper more primal. He knew without thinking that he could break Anson's grip, could break his arm if necessary.

That thought made him blink cut through the rage.

This was Anson.

He stepped back, forcing air into his lungs. Shit. I need air."

He turned and strode toward the exit, shouldering past other customers. The door yielded with a protesting creak, and he emerged onto the main concourse, gulping air that smelled of machinery and way too many species. He looked around, feeling penned in. Captive -

"What the draanth was that?" Anson grabbed his arm and swung him around. "You nearly blew the entire deal over a stupid comment!"

He pressed his hands against his eyes. The pressure in his head had intensified, shifting from discomfort to actual pain. "I don't know," he admitted. "I couldn't control it."

"Bullshit. I've seen you take worse insults without blinking." Anson moved into his line of sight, studying his face. "Something's wrong with you. And don't give me that 'I'm fine' crap. Your eyes..."

"What about them?" He dropped his hands, alarm cutting through the fog.