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Except easy got people killed when there were six females somewhere out there and no clue how many of these armed draanthic were on the ship.

“Clear,” the man below him said. “Couldn’t hide a pissing rat in here.”

They backed out, the bulkhead door hissing shut behind them.

Rann stayed where he was as their voices disappeared down the corridor, muffled by metal and distance. He counted footsteps. Two moving toward the galley. Three heading aft. Then another pair, checking quarters one by one.

He breathed shallowly, listening. B’s quarters were three doors down from his own. Her door opened, clunking as it caught halfway.

“Anything?”

“Nah.”

“Check under the bunk.”

“For what? A fucking mouse?”

“Just do it. You know what Joe’s like.”

Rann waited, his arms locked against the strain. The door shut and they moved on. He counted silently until the voices drifted away toward the next set of quarters.

Now.

He let go.

For one horrible moment his muscles refused to obey. Then he dropped soundlessly into the gap between the pilot’s chair and the co-pilot’s chair. Flattening himself against the wall by the door, he peeked out to make sure it was clear, then eased out into the corridor. The ship listed under his boots, tugged hard by whatever had latched onto the hull.

Moving fast, he kept close to the walls, ducking into the empty rooms when the boarders were in the corridors. Confident that they were alone, they chattered between themselves.

“Six of them. Joe’ll make a fortune.”

“Think we get first pick?”

A rough laugh rolled down the corridor. “Not unless you want your balls mounted over his desk. Joe doesn’t let us touch the merchandise. They need to be untouched for the buyers.”

Rann went still as rage crawled beneath his skin, narrowing his vision and making every breath feel too tight.

Females weren’t merchandise.

They weren’t prizes, or cargo, or things to be bought by whichever male had enough credits in his account.

B’s face flashed through his mind. Her dark eyes narrowed at him. Her mouth twisted when he said something she thought was stupid. The way she’d looked at him that morning, warm and sleepy before she’d remembered she was meant to be angry.

He gripped the edge of the bulkhead until his fingers hurt. Calmed himself down.

Then he moved.

The corridor was clear. He slipped through it, ducking into the next empty room when boots sounded nearby, then crossing to the one opposite when the males moved on. His pulse beat steadily in his ears, each second measured by doors opening and closing around him.

At last, he reached B’s quarters.

Sliding inside, he shut the door without letting it latch.

The universal suit lay where he’d shoved it earlier, half under the bunk. It was ugly with cheap seals. It had fit like shit on the spacewalk, but it was better than trying to cross open space with no protection at all.

He dragged it free.

Outside, a voice sounded outside the door and he froze, suit clutched in both hands.