Page 1 of Stolen By the Wraiths (Rift Wraiths #1)

T he lock disengaged with a soft click.

I tucked the sonic pick back into my tool roll, my fingers moving easily—a skill honed from breaking into things since I was twelve. The vault door eased open on silent hinges, spilling blue emergency lighting across my face.

Three data cores sat in individual slots, each one worth enough to clear my debt to the Zhek Syndicate. Finally. I pulled out the scanner, checking each core's signature against the job specs. The third one matched.

I paused, my fingers hovering over the target.

Six months of planning for a thirty-second extraction.

Some genius picked this job. Dusthaven Station's security was laughably outdated; I could bypass its systems in my sleep, and its vault defenses belonged in a museum.

Either the researchers here were incompetent, or someone wanted this data stolen.

A prickle of unease ran down my spine. Traps were always quietest right before they sprang.

The smart move would be to walk away. But the Zhek didn't negotiate payment plans, and their collection methods involved creative surgery. I'd seen what they did to defaulters. The lucky ones died fast.

I grabbed the core.

Fifty grams of crystalline storage. It represented either freedom or the biggest mistake of my life.

I sealed it in the shielded pouch at my belt, then began erasing my digital footprints.

Every scanner sweep and lock bypass needed to disappear.

The Meridian children's home had taught me many things, but the most important lesson was simple: never leave evidence.

The maintenance corridors hummed with life support as I retraced my route. Metal grating bit into my palms as I crawled through an air vent, the recycled atmosphere thick with the tang of lubricants and ozone. My muscles ached, but comfort wasn't part of survival.

On Meridian, children who complained were transferred to "special programs"—corporate adoption schemes no one returned from. I'd learned to keep quiet and trust no one. Those lessons had served me well in the fifteen years since I aged out.

I dropped into an abandoned storage bay and stripped off my infiltration gear.

The coveralls went into the recycler along with most of my tools.

In five minutes, I'd transformed from saboteur to a tourist, complete with a worn jacket, a simple travel bag, and documentation that would pass inspection.

My backup plasma pistol stayed concealed in its shoulder holster.

I had my emergency exit route mapped and a fake ID ready.

The docking ring buzzed with shift-change crowds, providing perfect cover.

I moved through the throng, my pace purposeful but not urgent, weaving through crowds while tracking exit routes and security positions out of habit.

A Vorth merchant, reeking of fermented spices, tried to wave a flimsy data chip in my face.

"Best prices on the station, little human," he rasped.

"I'll bet. Good luck with that, buddy," I said, sidestepping him without breaking stride. Moron.

A flutter caught my peripheral vision—a micro-drone hovering near an overhead access point. It vanished before I could focus, but my skin prickled. Professional surveillance wasn't standard for Dusthaven.

The transport put three kilometers between me and the crime scene. I'd collect payment from Stryd, transfer half to the Zhek, and book passage anywhere else. It felt too simple, too clean. Too safe.

Artificial twilight painted the entertainment sector in riots of purple and gold neon. The crowds were a chaotic mix of species and classes: spacers with credits to burn, corporate types slumming it, and travelers seeking anonymity.

I checked my chrono. Stryd insisted on 2300 hours, and punctuality mattered. The Red Comet cantina waited three blocks away.

I wove between laughing Umarians and Vorth merchants, the noise washing over me as the crowd pressed closer, pulling me deeper into the district's heart.

I slammed into something solid.

One moment I was navigating bodies, the next I'd hit a wall of heated bronze. Strong hands caught my shoulders, steadying me. The touch sent a current arcing through my system that bypassed surprise and went straight to my bones.

"Careful."

His voice carried an accent I couldn't identify. I looked up—and up—into amber eyes that shifted like molten metal in the strobing lights.

The face was unmistakably alien. Elegant bone structure lay beneath bronze skin that radiated a steady heat—sharp cheekbones and a strong jaw. Silver markings along his throat rose and fell with his breathing like living jewelry, catching the neon with each movement.

His scent surrounded me, cutting through the stale air—warm spice blended with something wild and untamed.

It filled my lungs, triggering responses I couldn't understand or control.

Warmth bloomed in my chest as my heartbeat quickened.

But underneath the simple attraction was something else, something deeper and unsettling.

A strange, cellular recognition, as if some primitive part of my biology was seeing something it had been waiting for. I wanted to chase that scent.

"I..." My voice emerged harsher than I'd meant. "Thank you."

He studied my face, those eyes tracking my features as if memorizing them. His nostrils flared slightly—reading my scent as I drowned in his—and the realization should have disturbed me. Instead, a fresh cascade of heat washed through me.

Out of habit, I catalogued the details. He was tall, probably six-five, with a powerful build that promised both strength and speed.

The way he held himself, even in stillness, was economical and fluid, a predator's movement that promised violence.

The glowing veins extended down his arms, disappearing beneath his sleeves.

His hands still rested on my shoulders, their warmth a tangible pressure through my jacket. When he shifted his grip slightly, the movement sent shivers down my spine.

"You should watch where you're going." His words made my thoughts scatter. "These crowds can be dangerous."

He said 'dangerous' like a promise, not a warning. I should have stepped back, broken contact, returned to my job. Instead, I found myself studying his cheekbones, how the silver pathways shifted with his breathing, the protective way his body angled to shield me.

"I can take care of myself," I managed.

Amusement flickered in those amber depths. "I'm sure you can." His gaze dropped to my mouth for an instant before returning, and the brief attention made my lips tingle. "But that doesn't mean you should have to."

The crowd pressed us closer. The air between us was electric, charged with his scent, which intensified and wiped my thoughts clean. Every breath carried that intoxicating mix, and my body answered with a warmth I couldn't control.

Jazurai traders pushed past, breaking the spell long enough for reality to intrude. I've got a job to finish and debts that won't pay themselves.

"I have to go," I said, though my feet didn't want to move.

He nodded, his hands lingering for another heartbeat before releasing me. "Be careful out there."

The crowd swallowed him, but his scent lingered. The survival sense that had sustained me through fifteen years screamed at me to blend in, to disappear. But a new, reckless impulse urged me to follow him, to chase the first hint of safety I'd felt in years.

Instead, I forced myself toward the cantina, every step like swimming through honey. The spot his hand touched burned, as if it marked me, and I could taste his scent with every breath.

The Red Comet squatted on the district's edge like a diseased growth, its neon flickering between red and a sickly yellow-green. Inside, the haze of smoke and bodies was like being underwater. The air tasted of cheap alcohol and desperation mixed with the recycled atmosphere.

I spotted Corvan Stryd in his corner booth, nervous energy vibrating off him as he nursed a drink that was mostly ice.

I took in the details in an instant: thinning hair, soft hands, and expensive clothes that couldn't hide his weakness.

But as I approached, I noticed details that didn't fit—the way he kept checking exits, how his fingers drummed an unsteady rhythm against the glass.

I slid across from him. He startled, then forced a smile that didn't reach his eyes.

"Perfect timing." He raised his glass in a mock toast. "I was beginning to think this place might eat me alive."

"Your choice of venue, genius." I kept my hands visible on the scarred table, the data core secure in my jacket. "You have my payment?"

"Of course, of course." But instead of producing credits, he leaned forward. "Tell me, how did you find Dusthaven's security? Challenging?"

Wrong question. The job was over—payment should be automatic.

"Why does it matter?"

"Professional curiosity." He paused, studying me. "I heard their systems were impossible to crack. But here you are. Eight hours. How?"

All my survival training shouted warnings. People who asked too many questions usually had reasons that ended badly for others.

"Credits first. That was our?—"

"Arrangements change." Stryd leaned back, his nervous facade cracking. "Turns out I learned some interesting shit since we talked. About those cores. About their true contents." He paused, studying my face. "About you."

Three figures rose from separate tables. They were professionals, closing my escape routes—the front door, the side exit, and the refresher corridor. I was boxed in.

"What do you want, Stryd?"

"Those cores contain classified bio-enhancement research worth more than planetary budgets.

" His smile transformed his face into something predatory.

"Military applications. Advances that could shift sector power balances.

My employers prefer the thief who stole them didn't live to discuss the contents. "

"Then why the meeting?"

"Professional courtesy. We'd like to know how you bypassed security so easily. Corporate intelligence always needs new talent." He leaned back, suddenly at ease. "Cooperate, answer our questions about your techniques, and we'll make it quick."

"And if I don't?"

Stryd picked up a small, silver utensil from the table, turning it over in his soft fingers. He didn't look at me. "Then we'll take much longer getting answers. Much longer."