Page 91 of Shadows of Stardust

Just outside the front window, he’s sprawled himself in the hammock on the bungalow’s front porch. I make a quick pit-stop in the kitchen to grab a cup of something that, while I’m not quite certain what it is, is warm and savory and bitter and has enough caffeine to help me face another day on the Mate Match beach.

“What are you doing?”

Zan cracks an eyelid as I open the front door and step out to join him. “Relaxing. Haven’t you heard? We’re supposed to be enjoying paradise.”

Oh, so I’m getting sassy Zan today.

Good to know he loosens up a little after an orgasm.

I snort. “Relaxing? You?”

“Surprised?”

I step to the side of the hammock and look down at him. With the morning sun washing over him, wearing another white tunic shirt and a pair of the shorts he absolutely can’t stand, Zan does, in fact, look like he’s on some kind of vacation.

I wonder if he gets many of those.

If being a mercenary for the Aux is anything like being enlisted with the Sol Alliance, I can probably guess the answer to that.

“No,” I say. “But I bet you’re just as irritatingly good as it as you are at everything else.”

Though he doesn’t open his eyes, a smile tugs at the corner of his lips. “What else am I good at, Ros?”

God, I don’t need to answer that.

I have no business eventhinkingabout all the dark, depraved alleyways the question sends my mind down.

The rasp of his fang on my bottom lip.

The pull of his mouth on my nipple.

The flick of his silver-threaded gaze while he was on his knees, darting up to study my face and watch just what he was doing to me.

“We’ve talked about this,” I grumble, shoving the thoughts away. “You and your ego and the distinct lack of stroking it needs.”

“Well, we might have to revisit the conversation. Especially now that I know how good you are at—”

“Absolutely not.”

Zan’s shoulders shake with barely contained laughter. But before I have time to keep telling him off, his gaze darts to something on the beach. In the next heartbeat, his arm is around my waist, and I barely keep my morning beverage from splashing all over him as he tugs me down into the hammock beside him.

“What the hell?” I sputter. “What are you—”

“Directly in front of the bungalow. Ten meters.”

Of course.

Even if everything between us shifted irrevocably last night, of course we’ve still got to deal with the pesky cameras. We’ve still got an audience and a performance to sell.

So, with that in mind, I lean over and set my mug on the porch railing before curling into Zan’s side.

For the performance, of course.

Not because being here—cuddled up next to him, listening to the steady beat of his heart and basking in the bright morning sunshine—almost makes me feel like I’m on my own vacation. Some little slice of paradise from someone else’s life.

The first camera is joined by another, and they circle to capture a few wide arcs and close-ups, getting the blissful morning-after footage they need before drifting further down the beach.

“No sudden movements,” I mutter. “Or they might come back.”

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