“Anyway,” he finally said. “My father didn’t trust the Enforcers to rescue us, so he hired a group of mercenaries to do the job.” And to their credit, they had. No one could’ve foreseen what happened next. “They found us two days later in an ancient row house outside the city. The plan was to storm the place and take us by force, but when the team threw a stun grenade through the window, it sparked a gas leak, and the whole house went up in flames.”
Even now, Doran could taste the bitter stun gas that had made his limbs heavy and his sight dim. The grenade had done its job, ensuring that no one in the house could move. From inside the closet, he’d lain on moldy carpet and listened to the screams of men too drugged to haul themselves out of the fire’s path. Above the noise of chaos, he’d heard Gage wailing in agony. It was a horrible sound that no amount of therapy could make him forget, though not for lack of trying.
“One of the mercenaries found me in a closet,” Doran said. “But by the time he carried me outside, the top floor had collapsed, and it wasn’t safe to go back in.”
A dozen men lost their lives that day: three inked felons, eight hired guns, and the other half of Doran’s coin. The fire had burned so long and hot that investigators didn’t expect to find any bodies. But Doran’s mother had refused to give up until Gage was recovered, swearing that her son’s last resting place wouldn’t be in that house. She’d held firm, and the following week they found his remains, still bound at the wrists and ankles.
Doran wished he didn’t know that detail.
“That’s why you hate closets,” Solara said.
“And felony tattoos,” he added, lifting her hand to study her knuckles. “The men who took me had them.”
In a blur, she jerked her hand away and detangled their arms. “Oh no,” she said, bolting upright so quickly she shook the mattress. “It’s a trigger for you. That’s why you flipped out the first time you saw me without gloves. And why you kept quiet when I said this crew might ransom you.”
Doran was about to say yes, but she didn’t give him the chance.
She scrambled out of bed, apologizing over and over and ignoring him when he asked her to come back. Then, after rooting through her clothes, she pulled on those damned fingerless gloves again.
“No,” he insisted as he propped himself on both elbows. “Take them off.”
“It’s fine,” she said. “I don’t mind wearing them.”
“I mind, damn it!” He hadn’t meant to shout, but if she started covering her knuckles again, it wouldn’t be to protect his delicate sensibilities. “I want to see your ink. It’s part of who you are.”
“But—”
“But nothing. I don’t care what we said before. The day you took off those gloves and told me your story was the day we became friends. If you hide from me now, it’s like taking a step backward.” He knew he shouldn’t care. Soon he’d be gone and none of this would matter. But it did matter, to him. “Just take them off.”
She hesitated.
“Please,” he said. “For me.”
She peeled the gloves from her hands but avoided his eyes afterward as she brushed and braided her hair. The conversation died, and when he offered to eat breakfast with her in the galley, she insisted that he stay in bed. He objected, making it only as far as the chamber door before a dizzy spell sent him back beneath the sheets.
Stupid traitor body.
More than the silent treatment, Doran hated lying around like an invalid while other people pulled his weight. Everyone on board the Banshee had a purpose: Renny navigated, Solara repaired, Cassia and Kane tackled the day-to-day chores, and the captain generally saved their asses. All Doran had accomplished was one lousy pirate divorce.
You’ll never change, and you’ll never make a difference. When you die, no one will miss you, because your life won’t matter. You don’t matter.
He knew Solara didn’t believe those words now, but they still stung because, deep down, there was a kernel of truth to them. He was the reason the Banshee was hiding like an insect inside this asteroid. Half the quadrant was hunting him, and if the Daeva ever picked up his location, they’d use it to capture the crew. The kindest thing he could do for these people was leave. At least he’d make a difference in that small way.
“Are you sure you’re strong enough for this?” Solara asked, her gaze averted as she nudged his duffel bag with the toe of her boot. “There’s no hurry.”
No hurry. That was what the crew kept telling him, but another week had passed, and Doran couldn’t stay here forever. The dizzy spells had subsided, and honestly, he’d felt fit for travel a while ago. But he couldn’t admit to that, so he deflected with a question of his own. “Are you sure you won’t come with me? It makes sense. We’re both going to the fringe.”
Yesterday he’d broken down and told her that his coordinates were located in the outer realm. His father wouldn’t approve, but Doran didn’t care. He trusted Solara, and he didn’t want to make the journey alone.
“Thanks, but they need me here.” She mumbled something about leaking coolant coils in the main engine. “Your ship probably runs like a gazelle.”