Page 24 of Stars in Umbra (The Sable Riders #8)

Forever and Utterly Mine

MOLAN

T he United Pegasi Military Conference was drawing to a close.

With it came the expected fanfare, a closing ball designed as much to showcase diplomacy as it was to reward all the hard work behind the scenes.

The venue, the Astra Solara, rose from the towers of the moon planet’s rotating rings like a shard of divine glass.

Its crystalline facade caught the shimmer of the twin suns of Alphetraz, casting fractured rainbows across the polished dunes below.

Strung between two massive pillars, the famous event space rotated on a central axis.

Its floor-to-ceiling windows offered a changing yet panoramic view of the desert’s stark grandeur on one side, and the sprawling cityscape of Eden II’s capital on the other.

Inside, chandeliers modeled after floating solar systems radiated with ambient light, and orchestral soundscapes pulsed through marble floors so finely veined they looked like captured lightning.

Mo stood just outside the entrance, arms folded behind his back, clad in a Sable black tactical dress uniform.

The suit featured a burnished silver thread trim along the shoulders and cuffs.

The tailored cut of his coat did nothing to soften his presence; he was like a monument of a warrior, his glyphs visible beneath his collar, dormant but watchful.

A team of one hundred elite Sable soldiers moved under his command, spread across the venue’s rooflines, entrances, and internal corridors.

Their earpieces pinging as they monitored incoming flyers and maintained strict perimeter control.

Tonight, he was the first line of defense for Pegasi’s most influential military brokers. Their entourages, however, were the real problem.

They caused drama with the venue staff, snuck in extra guests, and made ridiculous catering demands.

A few even showed up drunk, rowdy, and unruly. This was unbefitting for military personnel, but he kept his thoughts to himself.

What did he know? He was just a Sable gun, not a dignitary.

Mo raised two fingers to his earpiece. ‘Bay Three, green light. Confirm visual on the Allorian badge.’

‘Confirmed,’ came the reply. ‘General Vel Korin on final approach.’

Moments later, the long, charcoal-gray transport flyer touched down.

Its door opened to reveal the revered leader, stone-faced, clad in metallic white armor, and flanked by two aides.

Mo offered a curt salute and waved him and his entourage through after retinal scan clearance.

Next came Admiral Dane Vastrik of Sartixia, regal in his silver-blue uniform, epaulets gleaming.

Close behind him came General Amasi Jourdan from Rhesia, whose crimson cloak billowed in the warm evening wind like a warning flag.

Mo stood sentinel as they passed, exchanging formalities, studying their entourages as they disappeared into the hotel’s interior before scanning the airspace again.

Two sleek private flyers descended.

The distinctive lion’s head Sable Group insignia etched into the flanks of both crafts told him all he needed to know about its occupants.

He attempted to rearrange his stern face into a smile as Kainan and Zane stepped out first, wives in tow. Selene was radiant in obsidian and gold, while Illana was in a provocative silver silk gown.

‘Brother,’ Mo’s boss khan said as he approached.

Kainan’s meta eyes glittered with restrained amusement. ‘You’ve got the look of a man who’s ready to punch the next army groupie who staggers toward you drunk like a skunk.’

‘Not if they stay on their side of the velvet rope,’ Mo growled. ‘Still, if one more attaché tries to bribe his way in with a bottle of Savartin brandy, I swear, I might let loose. With a few energy taps and some flares up their ass, to send them rocketing back from where the fokk they came from.’

‘Go for it,’ Kainan whispered with a conspiratorial wink.

Zane chuckled. ‘Don’t tempt him. It’d be a shitshow regardless, given all the free liquor and gatecrashers.’

‘Are we running clean?’ the Sable Khosi muttered, dipping his timbre for only Mo’s ears.

‘So far,’ Mo said. ‘No threats. No breaches. Just chest thumping, skanky drunks and posturing.’

‘Good,’ Kainan said, clapping him on the upper arm. ‘Let’s keep it that way.’

He prowled away with his arm around his woman’s waist, trailing after the rest of the Riders.

Mo clocked the second her transport hovered above, soul lurching in anticipation.

Rina’s flyer landed with a hiss. When the doors slid open, Mo turned, and the air went out of him.

She stepped out in a floor-length off-the-shoulder gown that glimmered like liquid night, cut to flatter the soft curve of her hips and accentuate her tits.

Her hair, piled on her head, featured braids with jet-black pins, her earrings flickered like starlight, and her eyes, by all the gods, held him like a blade to the throat.

‘You’re gaping, soldier,’ she murmured, gliding up to him.

Mo clenched his jaw to stop from gawking like a schoolboy.

‘Tis like you planned that outfit to throw me off my game,’ he growled.

‘I did. I also intended to leave you staring after me. So, if you’d excuse me, Commander, as I sway away and achieve my goal.’

‘ Fokk, you’re a tease,’ he groaned.

He caught her wrist as she passed. ‘Save me a dance.’

She tilted her head, the barest smile on her lips. ‘I’ll save you more than that. Later?’

He jerked his chin, not trusting himself to speak as she turned and disappeared through the entrance.

Hips swaying with the kind of promise that made Mo want to rush her and whisk her away, where they’d forget all rank and duty.

Before he could dwell further on her beauty, a uniformed Sable security officer jogged up, his face tight with a mix of urgency and annoyance.

‘Commander, we have a stranger out front,’ the operative reported. ‘He’s handing out cards and bothering the Galician delegation. Says he’s here to network.’

Mo let out a slow exhale. ‘What does he look like?’

‘Tailored suit. Gray hair. A bit too smooth,’ the guardsman replied, his tone laced with disdain.

Mo moved to the outer perimeter checkpoint, his eyes narrowing as he spotted the figure just as he was climbing into a glossy, deep-green flyer.

‘Hey, mister, who are you and what’s your business here?’ Mo called out in a growled command.

The man paused, his hand on the flyer’s hatch door.

He was a study in polished privilege, the expensive fabric of his ensemble clinging to a physique that suggested more than just boardroom battles.

His face was a mask of practiced charm, but in his eyes, a brief, cold glint of cunning flashed, enough to set Mo’s instincts on high alert.

‘Name’s Caidan,’ he replied, the words dripping with casual confidence. ‘Just a humble businessman putting out a few feelers.’

‘Feelers belong in market halls, not military balls,’ Mo growled, his jaw clenching. ‘This isn’t a sales conference.’

Caidan grinned, unbothered. ‘Relax, Commander. I’m just admiring the talent, trying to make new friends, and greeting old ones. You’re still looking impressive, Molan. Good to see you keeping us proud.’

The flyer’s door hissed shut, and the vehicle rose, banking into the dusky sky before disappearing toward the horizon.

‘The fokk ?’ Mo muttered, a knot of cold suspicion tightening in his gut.

The man had the moxie to call him by his full name, which few were privy to.

He had no clue who this man was, yet he spoke with an infuriating familiarity.

Mo stood frozen, with Caidan’s face flashing in his inner eye, as a whisper of a memory attempted to claw its way to the surface.

Who the hell was he?

A voice from behind him broke the silence.

‘His full name is Caidan Thrall,’ Mirage said, materializing beside him in a gleaming graphite sheath gown, her heels clicking against the polished stone.

Her holo earrings pulsed with subtle streams of data.

‘He’s a wealthy Dunian industrialist with a finger in every resource manufacturing pie you can think of, from arms contracts to mining assets and supply chain logistics.

He also has some form of political influence that reeks of rotten privilege. ’

‘Regardless, he was not on the guest list,’ Mo rasped, brow furrowed. ‘He was harassing our patrons.’

‘True, and he’s rather intimate with you. Or at least, he believes he is,’ Mirage replied, her gaze fixed on his face.

‘I don’t care who he thinks he knows,’ Mo shot back, his jaw tensed. ‘My duty isn’t to indulge gatecrashers, no matter how wealthy they are. My job is to move them along. Without a free drink or a damn canapé.’

Mirage’s lips curved into a slow, knowing simper. ‘Now that’s the Molan I know.’

‘Don’t call me that,’ he rasped. ‘Only my mother had the privilege.’

‘My apologies,’ the synth AI intoned before she melted back into the crowd.

Mo furrowed his brow and stared into the skies where the green flyer disappeared.

Who the fokk was Caidan Thrall?

The stranger’s moniker was now a haunting echo in Mo’s mind; a whisper that refused to be silenced.

He sensed it held the key to a door that had long since been locked.

He filed away the encounter for further exploration and prowled back to the his station, lost in thought.

‘ Za ki zama tawa kuma uwar ‘ya’yana .’

The rasped murmur tore through Mo’s lips, unbidden as he drove his hips into Rina from behind, limbs, breaths, and strokes entwined.

It was hours after the ball, that godforsaken torture of an event.

The negative aspects of the evening, however, had been eclipsed by her, the woman who was taking over his soul, mind, and spirit.

All night long, he observed her work the room with a mesmerizing grace.

She moved among generals, admirals, and the most senior defense heads in Pegasi, her presence an undeniable force.

She had a luminous power, her charm unmistakable, her strength unbowed, her style in a league of its own.

Her body, too, was a masterpiece, lithe legs encased in a dress that made every step a calculated sin. Each sway of her hips was a metronome, syncing to the wild pulse that leapt in his throat.