The captain grunted in understanding. “Ah, yes. Love—the great equalizer. It makes all of us stupid.”
A familiar ache opened up behind Solara’s breast, but she forced it down. She hated that Jace still had the power to hurt her from halfway across the galaxy. She hated even more that she’d given him that power—dropped her heart right into his waiting hands in exchange for a few sweaty fumblings and some pretty words.
“It’ll never happen again,” she insisted. “I’m smarter now.” She didn’t know who she was trying harder to convince, herself or the captain, so she asked, “Can we talk about something else?”
“One more question, and then we don’t have to talk at all.”
“Fair enough.”
He brought the ship around and hit the accelerator, and the Banshee shrieked, hurtling them away from the nearest sun and into the black. Light faded and within moments they were surrounded by a veil of darkness. The view sent a shiver down her spine. If anything could make her feel even more insignificant, it was the open void of space.
After programming a navigational course, the captain released the controls and sat back to face her. “What are you really after,” he asked, “in the fringe?”
Solara drew a breath and prepared to give him the easy answer: a job. But something in his expression caught her off guard. A hint of tenderness shone in the depths of his ebony eyes, like he actually cared. She didn’t know if that was the case, but she found herself willing to share the truth with him. And the truth was bigger than simply needing a job.
She was tired of being charity’s slave.
When farms donated soy-meal to the group home, that was what she ate. If she outgrew her boots, she made do until someone discarded a larger pair. When her data tablet broke, she shared with another orphan. Nothing belonged to her, not a single sock. Even her underclothes had been handed down.
She wanted to own something, all to herself.
More than that, she craved a purpose—to matter and feel needed. In the outer realm, settlers didn’t care about supple skin or glossy pink hair. Practical skills were the real beauty in those colonies, and for once, she would be stunning.
Finally she told the captain, “A new life. That’s what I’m after.”
He made a noncommittal noise, and she couldn’t help noticing that the smile had left his face. “And you think you’ll find it there?”
“Yes. Why wouldn’t I?”
“Ever been to a fringe planet?”
“No, but I’ve heard the stories.”
“It’s a dirty, hard existence,” he warned.
“I know that. And I want it.”
He tipped his head in a suit yourself gesture. “All right, then. I guess we’d best see to our breakfast.” Turning to his navigational screen, he added, “I just need to engage the autopilot.”
She leaned in to peer over his shoulder. “It’s not broken, then?”
“What’s not broken?”
“The autopilot,” she said, testing him. “Isn’t that why we docked last night?”
He shifted a terse glance in her direction, a look that told her not to play games. “You know it’s not.”
“Yes,” she admitted. “I felt the blast.” She chewed the inside of her cheek and tried to think of a way to probe for more information without revealing that she was a kidnapper and a thief. “Who were they after?”
Gaze softening again, he patted her knee. “Not you.”
Solara blew out a breath. That was all she needed to know.
They stood and slid aside the pilothouse door, then instantly recoiled at the stench that slammed into them from the other side.
“Saints on a cracker,” she hissed, waving a hand to dispel the fumes. “Only one thing stinks like that.”
“Burnt porridge,” the captain muttered. “We’ll never get the smell out.”
He was right. Burnt gruel had magical properties, clinging to walls and surfaces like a hundred-year curse until the reek grew so familiar that you stopped noticing it. In hindsight, maybe she shouldn’t have volunteered Doran for breakfast duty.
By the time Solara and the captain arrived in the galley, the whole crew had gathered at the table, Cassia and Kane on one side, Doran and Renny on the other. Each head was bent over a bowl of flawlessly prepared hot cereal, creamy and dusted with a sprinkling of cinnamon. That didn’t explain the foul smell…until she glanced at her spot at the table and the bowl of soup waiting there. It seemed Doran had managed to simultaneously burn and drown her porridge.
And judging by the smug look on his face, he’d done it on purpose.
“Kane helped with breakfast,” Doran told her. “But I insisted on making yours all by myself. I hope you love it.”
She faked a smile and settled on the bench beside him. If he thought he’d won this round, he was wrong. She had eaten far worse than this. “I’m sure I will,” she said, even as the putrid scent burned her nostrils. Peering down, she used her spoon to jab a lump floating in the gruel. Was that charred grain or a dead bug?