Then her gaze landed on Doran’s indenture band, the one that joined them as master and servant, and the solution hit like a lightning bolt to the head. That bracelet was the most valuable hunk of metal on board, because he’d linked it to his credit account. And Doran’s credit was limitless. Just last week, he’d gambled away a lifetime’s fortune in the casino as if it were spare tokens he’d found in a jar. If she overpowered him and took his bracelet, she could use his money to hire a private ship.
Solara chewed the inside of her cheek and sized him up—six feet, two inches of lean, sculpted muscle. His bulk came from a gym, not a worksite, but that wouldn’t make him any less strong. Overpowering him was out of the question.
“What’s the matter?” he taunted, leaning against the stair rail with one booted foot crossed over the other. “Afraid you’ll miss me?”
She sneered at him. “The only thing I’ll miss is the chance to flush you out the waste port.”
He laughed. “You’re not very nice for a girl raised by nuns.”
Solara was about to retort, Maybe they weren’t nice nuns, when she remembered Sister Agnes’s parting gift—the tiny weapon tucked inside her pocket.
She drew a hopeful breath.
The stunner dispensed a fast-absorbing liquid drug with enough neuro-inhibitors to drop a mule. One touch to Doran’s skin and he’d be out cold in seconds. Better yet, when he came to, he’d have a nasty hangover and wouldn’t remember his own name. That meant he couldn’t tell anyone she’d stolen his band, at least not for a day or two, which was more than enough time to put a few solar systems between them.
Solara reached into her pocket and closed her fingers around the stunner while trying to ignore the sudden guilt tugging at her stomach. This didn’t make her a bad person. Doran had left her with no other options—it was life or death. Besides, the toxins wouldn’t hurt him.
At least not permanently.
She reminded herself of that as she positioned the button inside her palm and flicked the tiny activation switch. “I’d better go,” she said.
Doran nodded. “And soon.”
“Thank you for taking me this far. And for the new clothes.”
“Don’t forget the boots.”
“And the boots,” she agreed while extending her hand to him. “No hard feelings?”
The peace offering must have surprised him, because his eyebrows twitched. But even after he recovered, he made no move to touch her. He only stood there and tugged at his earlobe while refusing to look her in the eyes. It seemed the Great Doran Spaulding was too good to shake hands with her.
Solara solved that problem by grabbing his wrist.
There was just enough time for confusion to register on his face before his body collapsed to the floor, landing with a clang. Solara dropped to her knees and immediately started working the bracelet over his hand. As soon as she slipped it free, she shoved the band around her wrist and made for the stairs. She was halfway to the exit before she realized a snag in her plan.
The bracelet couldn’t be used without identity verification, which meant she would need his handprint for the scanners at the retail center.
“Oh no,” she whispered, and whirled around to face his sprawling body. If she wanted Doran’s credits, she would have to take him with her into the outpost.
Just how was she supposed to do that?
He awoke to searing pain.
His body throbbed in places he hadn’t known existed. Even his teeth had a vicious heartbeat. But it was his skull that screamed the loudest. It felt like someone had peeled back his scalp and coated his brain with molten ore.
What the hell had he done to himself?
He opened his eyes a crack and immediately wished he hadn’t. The light was too bright, burning a path to the center of his aching head. Moaning, he clutched his temples while rolling onto his side. A sudden image flashed in his mind of being trapped inside a closet, but when he felt the surface beneath him, it was hard and frigid—metal, not carpet. A quick peek confirmed it. He exhaled in relief. He must’ve passed out and hit his head. That would explain the unholy pulsing between his ears.
“Hey,” whispered someone close behind him. “Are you all right?”
Was he all right? What kind of asinine question was that?
“Fan-damned-tastic,” he barked, wincing at his own shouts. He lowered his voice to a whisper. “What happened to me?”
Instead of receiving an answer, he felt delicate fingers probe his scalp. “It’s a good thing your head’s so hard,” the person said, and he realized for the first time that the speaker was a young woman. “Can you sit up?”
“I don’t know.”
“Let’s try,” she said. “I’ll give you a push.”
She cupped his shoulders and guided him into a sitting position, then helped him lean back against what felt like a metal rail. His head pounded at the change in altitude, but the rest of him didn’t object.
“Better?” she asked.
“Not really. I feel like my brain’s about to explode.”
“It’s no wonder,” she chided as if he’d done something wrong. “After all the Crystalline you drank last night, your liver’s probably begging for mercy, too.”