Page 43 of Stars in Umbra (The Sable Riders #8)
Down And Dirty Work
RINA
R ina stood on the upper deck of the Corvette as morning light bled through the high mountain mist.
She and Mo had been awake for hours, finalizing their infiltration plan.
Mirage, seated at the central console, had her hands deep in the estate’s network, her fingers flicking across the holographic surface like a virtuoso at her keys.
‘I’ve created your credentials, photos, and a ten-year career path,’ Mirage said, her tone as casual as if she were ordering tea.
‘Your pseudo alias is Sidoni Malvern. You’re an Impressionist artist who has exhibited in Vellana, Sirocco, and the New Rambasa Gallery of Art.
His office reached out to you to scout you for a permanent piece in Thrall’s private collection. ’
Rina raised a brow. ‘They did, am I that talented?’
‘You’re brilliant, enigmatic, and expensive. So am I, because I was the one who hacked their AI and implanted your name into their scouting list.’
‘You’re scary. Glad you’re on our side.’
‘ Hellfokkinyeah .’
As Mirage spoke, a mannequin rotated in the center of the deck, draped in a sleek black gown with glimmers of silver like frost under moonlight.
Embedded into the seams were nanite circuits and camouflaged micro-lens clusters, as well as multiple hidden cameras in folds, beads, and the delicate embroidery of the neckline.
‘It’ll relay full-spectrum feeds back to us,’ Mirage said. ‘I’ve tied it to your neural link. All internal recordings will be routed through my glimmer channel and scrubbed before they reach your cortical buffer. No trace.’
By evening, the Corvette was quiet as final preparations kicked into gear.
In the captain’s quarters, Rina stood in front of the wall mirror, adjusting her earrings as the last touches settled into place.
Her hair was swept up in an elegant twist, her eyes smoky, and her lips the color of aged merlot.
She caught the tread of approaching feet and turned to face Mo.
He slowed, his lips turning up, eyes tracking every inch of her. ‘ Fokk .’
She smirked. ‘That good?’
He walked to her slowly, hands sliding around her midriff and clasping her close. ‘You’re lethal.’
He kissed her long and hard, his mouth lingering with heated passion.
At first, she protested. ‘Baby, my lipstick.’
‘You can redo it,’ he rasped as his palms roamed her spine, holding her to him.
The kiss continued until finally he drew back, gliding his mouth to her nape.
‘Don’t let anyone touch you,’ he murmured against her throat. ‘If they do -.’
‘You’ll kill them?’ she interjected, arching a brow.
He growled. ‘I’m not joking.’
‘Possessive,’ she said with a breathless laugh, brushing her fingers along his jaw. ‘But I can kill them myself, sante .’
Their neural link synced with a soft pulse in her inner ear.
Mo, Rina. It’s time.
Rina took an inhale, stroked Mo’s chin once more, then headed to the rear docking bay.
He strolled behind her, eyes on her as she entered the vessel and strapped in.
The hatch closed, and she locked eyes with him, waving as the craft lifted off.
With a quick wink, she tore past the blast doors and vanished into the clouds.
The Thrall Estate unfolded before Rina like a sovereign jewel nestled in the cradle of the eastern Trossachs.
She landed and handed her craft to a valet parker, adjusting her trailing, long dress as she sailed forth.
The grand entrance was alive with activity, streamlined sky cars touched down in sequence, their glinting hulls polished to mirror perfection.
Uniformed guards in charcoal gray patrolled with visible discretion, scanning identities with wrist-bound nodes and ocular trackers.
Floating chandeliers disguised as floral drones drifted over the guests, capturing images and biometric data with hidden lenses.
Through her neural link, Mo’s voice filtered in. ‘Visuals transmitting. Holy hell, this place is decadent.’
‘And fortified,’ Mirage added. ‘Every corridor is covered with cameras and hidden security measures. Take care.’
Rina glided past the orchestra, a string quartet playing an elegant cover of an old Earth love song.
A golden-voiced singer crooned in a husky contralto, her words gliding through the open-air gallery that funneled into the estate’s grand ballroom.
Guests mingled near roaring fireplaces and soft-lit lounges where single malts were served alongside vintage amuse-bouches.
The scent of aged timber, pine resin, venison sliders, and candied pear filled the room.
She kept her steps even, her expression languid and mildly aloof, slipping through the crowd sinuously.
Thrall’s banquet hall was breathtaking.
Cathedral ceilings, carved Highland beams, antique iron chandeliers overhead. Tartans in jewel tones softened the stone walls.
The guests comprised Dunia’s elite, scions of old families and power brokers, wrapped in furs, brocade, and couture.
The buffet tables gleamed with cold water oysters, roasted mountain duck, wild boar terrine, and towers of fresh cheeses and preserves.
Beyond the archways, floor-to-ceiling windows framed the dusky sky and forested hills.
Then, she saw him.
Caidan Thrall.
He stood near the central fireplace, dressed in a dark brown waistcoat over a deep green tunic, colors that matched his formal estate crest.
His shoulders were broad, his face aristocratic, with high cheekbones, a square, prominent jaw, and eyes like fractured peridot.
His hair was silver-blond, curled back in stylized waves, and his fingers bore several rings carved from rare Deltan obsidian.
He exuded inherited wealth, predatory control, and dangerous charm.
His eyes scanned the entire room, never missing a face, and as soon as they landed on her, he arched a brow, taking note of her.
She didn’t flinch; she met his gaze, then slid her eyes away, as if disinterested.
She strolled past him, eyes on the hanging canvases in the adjoining gallery: a series of bleak seascapes and volcanic fields.
She stopped in front of one, an abstract in burnt ocher and ash.
Footsteps. Then his voice, rich and slick as amber oil.
She tensed.
‘Do you know who I am?’
Eyes on the artwork, she leaned in closer to examine its paint strokes. ‘Should I?’
He cleared his throat, and she flicked him a glance.
His eyes narrowed.
She almost smirked. Wealthy, influential men like Thrall hated being ignored .
‘I own this pile.’
She arched a brow. ‘Well, good for you.’
Again with the contracting of his eyes, this time accompanied by the flare of his nostrils.
His ego wasn’t coping.
‘And who might you be?’
She tilted her head toward him. ‘Sidoni Malvern,’ she said. ‘An artist from New Rambasa. I was told someone from your estate staff wished me to view the grounds for an upcoming commission.’
Thrall’s eyes narrowed.
She sensed the probe. The neural flicker. A quiet intrusion on her cortex.
‘He’s scanning,’ Mirage warned. He’s also possibly searching SysNet to research you.
Seconds stretched.
Tension prickled the back of her neck.
Then his features relaxed. He smiled.
‘Well, Sidoni. I’m glad they found you. I see your work and reviews online are extraordinary. I’m curious to see how you render this place in paint.’
He offered his arm.
Rina took it with an elegant nod.
She caught Mo’s growl in her cerebral link. ‘I’m going to hate every second of this.’
She almost smiled.
‘Then don’t watch, lover.’
With that, she let Caidan Thrall lead her deeper into the castle.
Caidan moved beside Rina like a man who’d never been denied access to anything in his life.
His stride was a chest-first challenge, a silent dare for the world to try and stop him.
The gallery around them echoed with the soft clink of glassware and the hum of refined conversation, but he kept his gaze locked on her.
‘You appreciate bleak landscapes,’ he said, nodding to the painting she had paused before.
‘I do. They’re pure,’ Rina stated. ‘Landscape painting is the purest art form. Without people, the artist creates a space entirely open for the viewer to occupy and feel emotion.’
He stepped closer. ‘That artwork depicts The Thrall Estate, also called Tigh Aluinn , which is built on history and solitude. My ancestors were warlords, land barons, and kings, albeit in name only. Their ghosts still prowl these hills.’
His voice lowered. ‘Do you sense them?’
‘I perceive curated opulence and privilege, sir,’ she murmured, eyeing him from the corner of her eye. ‘Plus a fokkton of money.’
He gave a small, self-satisfied laugh. ‘And yet, you came.’
‘You invited me.’
‘To evaluate the grounds for your art, of course,’ he said, eyes gleaming. ‘Then remain longer. There’s far more to absorb when one experiences it firsthand.’
He pivoted to face her, eyes sweeping down her gown, pausing a moment too long. ‘Are you alone, Miss Malvern?’
‘I am,’ she said, with a calm she didn’t quite feel.
‘So stay overnight.’
His statement was a command, and she arched a brow at his forcefulness.
He gestured with a casual flourish toward the east wing visible through the arched corridor.
‘The guest lodges are exquisite. The sauna and hot tub overlook the loch, and my glass-fronted gym is a cathedral to fitness. Tomorrow, we’ll fish for trout in the streams. If you wish, you can even paddleboard, canoe down the river, or perhaps indulge in some clay shooting, if you fancy.
We could ride out on Highland ponies and potentially encounter a herd of stags or red deer in the glens. ’
He leaned closer, lowering his voice. ‘There are beaches where no one will find us, Miss Malvern. Trails where only secrets travel.’
She gave him a tight smile and took a half step back. ‘I’m honored by your hospitality, but I have other engagements. I’ll return to the gallery, thank you.’
She turned.
His hand closed like iron around her upper arm and yanked her back.
The grin was wiped from his face.
‘Very few refuse me,’ he sneered, his breath tinged with the sweetness of plum wine and the rot of domineering authority. A man not used to being refused.