Page 7 of Stars in Umbra (The Sable Riders #8)

Moon Devil’s Delight

MOLAN

M o pulled Rina onto the dance floor, where they found an open spot.

He turned her and banded one arm behind her waist as she placed one hand on his shoulder, the other on his forearm.

The music washed over them, and she moved against him in a natural rhythm.

Their steps fell into perfect sync, as if they’d always been in lockstep, their body awareness of each other heightened.

At one point, she flicked her head up, and their gazes locked.

The electric arc that went through him was enough to give him a jolt.

It came from the most fokkin’ beautiful eyes he’d ever seen.

They were hazel shot with brown highlights; fawn pools he could lose himself in forever, framed by the longest lashes imaginable.

They were also hella familiar.

Where the hell had he seen them?

He’d no idea, but still, hot damn.

‘Your name’s Mo?’

He jerked his chin in assent, not quite able to form words, nor wanting to, given his ‘ say fokk all or as minimal as possible ’ approach to life.

‘Rina.’

He nodded, even though he recognized who she was from the identikit that flashed on his neural node the moment he spotted her.

While his team was providing security at the wedding, he was on duty, covertly, of course.

He’d clocked her the second she sashayed onto the pavilion.

She was the first woman in months he’d ever had such a visceral, primal reaction to.

Since then, he hadn’t been able to keep his eyes off her, like a moth to a flame.

He studied her every slight movement, each breath.

Now, she kept her eyes averted from him, and he took note.

She was shy, and the self-effacing meekness in her gaze stirred a sentiment that had been buried deep inside him.

Rina was steel, heat, and a sweet hesitation he found endearing in a woman with such an eminent and prestigious reputation in the defense world.

She wasn’t like most women who came onto him, quick to dazzle, slow to matter.

She had an aura about her that he picked up the instant he spotted her, that he fokkin ’ respected.

She exuded fire and fierceness, a combination that intrigued him.

As they danced, he attempted to imprint the press of her against him, the scent of her skin.

She stirred up in him feelings he kept hidden away in the corners of his soul.

They resurfaced, and he grimaced as they washed over him.

The core one was related to his freakin’ loneliness.

Mo had the bank to buy the best toys in the galaxy; gemstones stashed in vaults across three systems, an apartment in every major city from Eden II to LeCythi.

He owned sleek racers that hugged atmospheric currents like lovers, and tactical drones coded to his nerve pulses.

He even had the title deed to a mansion on the clifftops of J’Urg M’hor, with celestial views of the desert mare.

He was living out the dreams he used to whisper to himself in the back alleys of LeCythi, living on the edge of survival with a knife in one hand, fire in the other.

Now he was working for the Riders.

He held power and respect, the kind that could tilt a deal with a glance or tip the balance of a syndicate ring war with a quiet word.

In the merc world, in the gun-running circuits, in the shadows that built empires and dismantled them just as fast, Mo was a king.

He could do whatever the hell he wanted.

He had all the game, but it signified nada .

The freakin’ truth was his life was empty, despite the looks, the control, and a top-tier rep, because he’d been living deadened, so fokkin’ numb for so long.

All this reputation and fortune did not afford him what he yearned for, the one missing factor that he envied the Riders for.

A lover, perhaps one like Rina.

He realized he was placing her, a woman he had just met, on a pedestal.

However, he had good reason. It was not because of her seductiveness or the lush sensuality behind her smile.

Nada , it was for the way she gazed at him now, as if she discerned past the shadows and the wounds to the real soul of him.

The music shifted into an evocative, Sacral chord, humming beneath a plaintive violin and bass that curled around them like smoke.

Around them, the crowd melted away into shadow and flickering gold light.

As the evening unfolded, a cloud rolled in, enveloping the venue in a surreal mist, like they were floating in the sky.

Mo never took note because, in that moment, his focus was solely on Rina.

They danced close, their chests brushing, foreheads almost touching, his hands on her waist, hers on his broad back.

He fought to control his rising desire, as their eyes locked in a conversation neither of them dared speak aloud.

It was so freakin’ intimate and so right at the same time.

At one point, her gaze dropped from his to his chest under the exposed collar when the glyphs on his skin began to stir.

Faint at first, then brighter.

Lines of pale gold light bloomed across his bare collarbones and arms, pulsing with each beat of his heart.

Rina gasped, and her hand rose, her fingers skimming the gleaming sigils traced down the line of his torso, just above the open clasp of his shirt.

‘They glow,’ she whispered. ‘Just like the Sacrans’ symbols.’

Mo’s hand tightened on her waist as her stroke sent arcs of pure pleasure through him.

She glanced up, question in her gaze.

‘Are you Sacran?’ she murmured.

His mind seized, and he froze, eyes narrowing, jaw set.

‘ Nada ,’ he rasped. ‘I’m Iccythrian.’

The curt answer cooled the moment between them, like the soft snap of a closing door.

Her touch dropped away, and though she said nothing, he sensed the shift in her, an invisible step back.

The music ended.

He let her go, unsure if she’d misconstrued his tone or if he’d misread her interest.

As she turned to leave, before she slipped through the press of dancers, he caught her wrist.

‘A drink?’ he murmured, nodding at the bar.

She studied him for a heartbeat, then smiled, a slow, wry, luminous beam that carved its way right into his heart.

RINA

Mo’s hand shot out, his lean, sinewed fingers hot and firm as they closed around her cuff.

The touch scorched her skin, a brand of possession that left her breathless.

‘With me,’ he murmured, the words a rumble that stroked her spine like velvet.

As he held her, her gaze dropped to his sinewed hand, dusted with dark hair.

His wrist bore a band of aged gold and weathered leather, a detail that stood out against his polished style.

The piece felt like a secret, a glimpse into a past he kept hidden, and she wondered about the sentiment it held.

He shifted, guiding her toward the lounge, his hand settling at the small of her back, a claim, not an invitation.

It was protective, unhurried, and unnerving in its quiet confidence. They moved as one, their steps an unspoken rhythm, his towering form a long shadow beside her.

As they neared the counter, the lanterns caught the bronze shimmer of her dress, gilding her skin like firelight on fine metal.

Inside, her stomach was a live wire.

She was Colonel Rina Mendi, Chief of Defense, a veteran diplomat and an iron-tongued negotiator. She could talk down a bloodthirsty regime over a cup of bitter chai .

However, Mo had a way of gazing at her that short-circuited her considerable defenses. He didn’t leer, and there was no smirk on his lips.

His eyes held no predatory hunger or dismissive arrogance.

Instead, it was as if he perceived the depths of her soul, and somehow, that was far worse.

In his steady gaze, she felt stripped bare, her vulnerability laid open for him to witness.

His eyes were so soulful that she imagined they pierced through her barriers, her military rank and smiling facade, to the woman beneath, and the intensity of that unflinching perception was unnerving.

At the bar, he nudged a stool out for her, then signaled the bartender, a Sartixian mixologist with mirrored cuffs and a soft blush mohawk.

‘A Moon Devil’s Delight. For the lady,’ Mo rasped. ‘Make it light. Crisp. Peach over stone. Finish it with a hit of star lime.’

Rina arched a brow. ‘Ordering drinks for me now?’

Mo leaned in, his lips just inches from her ear. ‘I’m keeping you fueled, beautiful. So you can dance all night long.’

‘Sir, yes, sir,’ she teased, but the steel in her voice softened.

She slid onto the stool, legs crossing to reveal a flash of thigh through the slit of her dress.

The breeze caught the fabric, and she experienced the sensation of more than one gaze.

Still, Mo’s eyes never left her. They were hot. Focused.

Unrelenting, getting under her skin.

Rina smirked, a challenge in her eyes. ‘You staring because you’re impressed, or deciding where to bite first?’

Mo’s timbred chuckle vibrated through the air. ‘Trying to figure out how a woman like you is still walking around free.’

She lifted her glass when it arrived, clinking it against his tumbler of whiskey. ‘Because no one’s ever had the balls to try and keep me.’

A crooked smile played on his lips, his eyes gleaming like polished onyx. ‘Maybe they just didn’t know how.’

Her smirk faltered as her stomach flipped again.

Mo’s mouth curved, slow and dangerous. ‘You want honest or charming?’

‘I’m always in the mood for flattery.’

‘I don’t do it, but here’s my offering,’ he said, his voice a warm murmur meant only for her. ‘You walked in like a flame, and I’m the moth too stupid to stay away.’

‘That was charming,’ she said, impressed. ‘Like a marksman used to hitting a target others can’t reach.’

He took a sip of his whiskey, his eyes still locked on hers. ‘Wait till I tell you about my antique gun collection.’

That made her arch her brow. ‘You collect guns?’

He arched his in response, a smile lurking on his lips. ‘Naam, earth-made, 19th and 20th Century collectibles. They’re elegant babies. Beautifully crafted, lethal as fokk . They’re also a lucrative investment; some can command sky-high prices due to their limited supply and excessive demand.’

‘Fascinating,’ she said, her tone dripping with mock seriousness. ‘Do you sell them for the Riders?’