Captive of Pleasure; the Space Pirate's Woman (The LodeStar Series) (36 page)

His gaze landed on Zaë, standing to one side of the group, watching him. Her soft blue gaze arrowed deep inside him, a stealthy charge a man had no way to protect against. All he could do was accept it, use the trueness of it steady him, help him stand straight and tall while he gave his people what they really needed, which was his sorrow, real and raw. To show them their suffering was okay, because he suffered with them.

She’d given him the solace of her body, honest and sweet. Now she gave him her silent support, her sorrow at his loss. How was it that this girl who was adrift in a vast galaxy, with no idea where her own home lay or even who she really was, kept handing him little pieces of himself that he hadn’t even known were lost?

He looked around at all the faces turned his way, somber, full of grief, some wet with tears. A big part of him wanted to turn away from that, to walk away. But he couldn’t. He’d fucked up, badly, and a good man was dead. The least he could do was show them he felt it.

“Var was my friend. Maybe one of the best I’ve ever had,” he went on, marveling at how the steadiness of his voice gave no clue to the raw fear clawing at him from inside, warning him to turn away before he revealed too much, let these people in further.

But they were already in, he realized. Somehow, though he’d told himself he was protected behind the cerametal armor of his indifference, they’d seeped in to tiny cracks he hadn’t even noticed, until he carried them all in the hollow of his chest. The way he did Creed and Logan. Rough, rowdy, mauled by life and circumstance, some wounded so deeply they could only exist in a pack like this, these people were his, and they
were in
.

“We’ve been called a motley crew. Reckon that’s true,” he mused, half to himself. “But if any one of us dies, we all suffer. Some more than others, depending on our ties, but we’re all connected by the adventures we’ve had, the risks we’ve taken together. The times we’ve picked up and moved on, together. Always together.”

“Var was your friend, all of you. He was a warrior, a man who looked out for everyone, fought to keep us all safe.” He blinked as hot moisture blurred his eyes, filled his throat.

 
“I wish I could tell him how much I’m gonna miss him,” he said thickly. “And that I’m sorry, so damned sorry he died. That I’ll never forget him and that I
will
avenge his death.”

He tossed the vest into the fire, and watched as the flames consumed it. “Goodbye, Var. God speed.”

‘And I’m sorry it was mostly my fault you died,’ he added silently, confessing his guilty truth to the flames.
 

The pyre shot up into the night and burned straight through the layers of lies he’d told himself. That he was truly the Storm, so powerful he could get away with anything. He’d believed his own theater, the worst sin a showman like him could commit.
 

And because of this, a good man was gone. ‘Never again,’ he promised. No more losses because of of him.

He stepped back and Ilya stepped up to take his place. She looked even tinier than usual, shrunken in on herself, her face pale, eyes haunted. She held Var’s helmet with the goofy crest he’d had custom-welded on.

“This isn’t goodbye,” she said. “Because you’ll never be anywhere but in my heart, babe. I’m keeping the medallion. I’ll wear it, right over my heart. But I don’t want anyone else ever wearing your helmet. So here it is.”

She flung the helmet into the fire, where it landed on a log, clearly limned in flame, until the crest caught fire and shriveled and blackened while they watched.
 

Qala was next, then Haro, Pede and then the others who wanted to say something.

When they were all quiet, watching somberly as the pyre consumed the mementoes they’d offered, Joran walked forward again.

“Up till now,” he said, “we’ve had a good run, had some great times. We’ve lightened the load for many a fat cata and stolen from other thieves. We’ve laughed in the face of danger.”

Everyone listened, hunkered down, tired and worn by sorrow. Some by fear, because if it could happen to a brute of a man like Var, how much more vulnerable were they?

“Tonight,” he told them, “is about celebrating that, celebrating the life of a man who reveled in living wild and free, and doing it with a good woman at his side. We’ve ale and wine, plenty to eat. I want you all to drink up, and lift your glasses high to Var.”

Joran waited until they stirred, partners moving to bring out the food and drink, his crew gathering in small groups. Then he beckoned to Zaë. Because he knew that beyond the circle of firelight, he was being watched by eyes by turns avaricious, lustful and judgemental. Vadyal’s mistress wouldn’t have flown back to her casino without leaving spybots planted around the camp. The IGSF likewise probably had them everywhere here now.

He wanted all of them to know she was under his protection. That was all he had to offer her, but by God, he’d use his reputation to build a fortress around her that no malefactor would try to penetrate.
 

She stayed close by him as they drank to Var, told stories about him, even laughed. And if that laughter held tears often as not, well, that was what this night was for.

When it was over, he settled in his bed with her in his arms.
 

“I don’t want to do anything but hold you,” he told her with a soothing stroke of his hand down her arm. And strangely, this was true. Out of habit, he’d nearly sent her to bed while he took another woman to her tont for a quick, hard fuck. Then he’d realized that for once in his life, his cock simply wasn’t that interested. So here he was holding Zaë instead, and it felt right. “Go to sleep now.”

“Will you sleep?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “Tired, but got a lot on my mind. Go to sleep.”

“I’ll stay awake with you,” she offered, and then yawned deeply.

“Right,” he murmured. “You do that.”

He laid his cheek on her hair, so silky and smelling of herbs and sunshine. She nestled into the curve of his body with a sigh, and relaxed. She was asleep in seconds, the only sound her soft, even breathing.

Joran lay awake for a long time, staring into the darkness, and rubbing his fingers through the end of her hair in a slow, absent caress. Her warmth gave him solace against the sorrow, but nothing could ease the rage burning in his chest.
 

Tomorrow would see the beginning of reckoning for those who’d caused this. Had it not been for Cerul’s interference, he would never have ventured into Vadyal’s casino, would have been content to harry him and the other slimers who thought Frontiera a safe place for their crimes. And had he not shot off his mouth so recklessly, Var would still be alive.
 

And likely Vadyal, not that anyone would miss him. Although, from what Slidi had let slip yesterday, she’d been biding her time, waiting for a chance to take over his empire. His skin crawled as he remembered her hints that Il Zhazid was a worthy consort for her on her new throne of corruption.

Now he was deep in the slavers’ business, and with Vadyal’s compatriots regrouping, the only way out was through them—or what he left of them.

He gave a deep sigh, and scrubbed his free hand over his face. The fastest way to his goal, without losing any more of his people, was with help. And the man who commanded the biggest security force outside the IGSF was his big brother, Logan Stark. But was he fit to take on a task like this? Or was he too strung out on loss and searching for a cure in the bottom of a brandy snifter?

Joran had told his crew that to take down the slavers, they must first let others believe they’d gone into the slave trade themselves. This flayed the pride of his best lieutenants—Qala, Haro, Pede and others. But they had agreed to do it, and swallowed their pride.
 

It was Joran’s turn to do the same. He’d spent years proving to himself that he could live his life on his own terms. And he’d done it. As he’d told them all tonight at the fire, it had been a good run. But he should have remembered that the universe was in a constant state of flux. No state of bliss ever lasted forever, neither did hard times—although they often seemed to take longer.
 

Logan was apparently mired in one of those hard times now. Drinking heavily, not sleeping…symptoms of suffering, and not ones that Joran had ever associated with the iron-willed older brother he knew.

He admired Logan as much or more than any being alive, even though he himself had chosen diametrically different goals. Instead of building a kingdom of businesses and credit like LodeStar, Joran had chosen to live absolutely free. Instead of commanding factories and fleets of giant spaceships, he’d chosen a small band of like-minded men and women in fast cruisers.

Logan Stark was known galactically as a space magnate, tough, canny and fantastically wealthy.
 

Only a handful of citizens, other pirates and now unfortunately the IGSF knew who Il Zhazid really was, and what he did. Fewer still knew that he had a hefty amount of credit stashed away in various accounts, or that he owned land on Frontiera, even had a stake in LodeStar and LodeStone mine.

And that suited Joran to his core. Rather than competing with his older brother, he’d chosen to be his opposite in many ways. Up to him, he would have continued on living wild and free, hiding himself and his crew from the galaxy behind the guise of the ‘simple nomads’ that fool of a reporter had seen. Most good citizens didn’t really want to look beneath the surface, they wanted to believe what they saw and heard, bad or good.
 

Same with pirates and the other gangers he and his warriors existed alongside. They believed the myth of Il Zhazid and cowered away from him. Maybe it made it easier when they lost credit or territory to him if they believed he was infallible, he guessed. Less blow to their blustering egos if they were beaten by a force of nature, rather than accepting that most of the time, he was simply cannier than they.

The real trouble came when a man started to believe his own myth. Hubris, the ancients called it. A man thought he was infallible, he was just asking for the gods to strike him down. Well, he believed in only one God, but he guessed his own arrogance had gotten him into this anyhow. Up to him to know when to ask for help. Quick prayer wouldn’t hurt right now, either.

Zaë started in her sleep, and whimpered softly.
 

“Sh-shh,” he murmured. “It’s all right, baby. You’re safe. I’ve got you.”

He turned onto his back, and pulled her with him, his arm around her waist so she was draped against his side, her arm on his chest, her upper leg over his. She sighed, yawned and went back to sleep.

So easy for her to trust him to help her. And so hard for him to do the same with others. Maybe what he really feared was that Logan was, after all, fallible. That even his assistance might not pull Joran and his band out of the black hole waiting to suck them in.
 

Oh, hells. If change was inevitable, well, he wasn’t one to wait for it to happen, but to force it. So he’d set the throttle full ahead and do this, the same way he did everything.

Logan might be hurting, might be vulnerable, but he still commanded a vast network of security and commerce. Surely he wasn’t too strung out on alcohol and stress over losing his woman to help save his adopted planet.

The Stark brothers, including Creed, had fought their way out of the slums of New Seattle. They could handle one Indigon despot.

***

Joran woke early. He managed to ignore his urge to turn his sweet bedmate onto her back and open her to take his morning erection and assuage it with her tight, warm little cunt. Instead, he eased away from her and pulled the covers up around her shoulders. Zaë nestled into his pillow and slept on, while he gave his stiff cock a soothing stroke and groaned silently.
 

Hells, he woke aroused most mornings, but not like this. After their play yesterday, then spending the night holding her, his body was primed for more, and it wanted her
now
, not later.
 

He could wake Marzolle and have a quick, friendly fuck, or make one of the camp followers’ happy, but again neither of these options appealed. Like being offered berry wine when a man wanted a shot of whiskey, smooth and fiery.

 
Those other women wouldn’t blush when he made them undress for him, or give him shy, baffled, blue-eyed looks at his graphic sex talk, or be so surprised when they came around his fingers.

Besides, he had a knot the size of a fist in his gut—worry.
 

“Full ahead throttle,” he muttered to himself. He leaned down to grab his soft pants off the carpet and yanked them on. In the galley, he set the coffee maker for a cup of strong, black brew with creamer, set his security first to sweep for spybots and then to block surveillance, and linked his brother.

He straddled one of the stools at the counter and raked his hair back with both hands before lifting his chin in greeting to Logan. Who of course sat at his gleaming desk, freshly showered and shaved, wearing a business suit and looking as if he’d been up and working for hours. Although Creed was right, their older brother did look like hells, with shadows under his eyes and a harsh set to his mouth.