Kieran (Tales of the Shareem) Read Free Page B

there in a while—”
    Kieran cut her off. “Shit, woman, why the hell did someone from Old Earth want to come to Bor Narga? This is like the back of the back of beyond. A rock with sand that crazy people built cities on.”
    “I didn’t come on purpose,” Felice said, her voice scratchy. Hadn’t been her choice where to go for a long time, even before she’d sold herself to TGH Corp.
    “Who would?” Kieran went on. “What are you doing here?”
    Felice hugged herself more tightly. She was so tired. And thirsty. “Why do you live here? If it’s such an armpit?”
    “Is that your next question? Answer: No choice.” His gaze softened. “You all right?”
    “Is that your question?” Felice fought to keep standing while pretending she wasn’t weak.
    Kieran steered her to a sofa that looked like nothing more than a slab of plastic. When Felice sat down, though, the sofa cushion rearranged itself to fit her buttocks, cradling her gently. It was surprisingly comfortable, which she’d appreciate if she weren’t so exhausted.
    Kieran released her and held up his hand. “Stay there.”
    He said it sternly, like he would to a dog, then turned and strode to a tiny alcove kitchen. As she’d observed at the dockyards, he could move fast and quietly despite his size—size that was all muscle, Felice could see from the body-hugging tunic.
    Kieran returned with a container of water. No water vapor collected on the outside, which meant a) this climate was dry—no kidding; and b) the container was thermally protected.
    Felice didn’t care—that was her mind noticing things. Her lips, tongue, roof of her mouth, and throat cried out for the liquid. As soon as Kieran put the container into her hands, she lifted it to her mouth and began to gulp. Water spilled down her chin and trickled under her work coverall.
    “Careful.” Kieran was sitting next to her—right next to her—his hand steadying the cup. “You’ll bring it all up again. A slow drink. Then another.”
    Felice dragged in a breath and tried to take a calm sip. Her parched body, though, wanted to suck it down.
    “You don’t have a breath mask,” Kieran said.
    “What?” Felice spilled more water, and Kieran caught the slipping cup.
    “You don’t have a breath mask,” he repeated. “Every off-worlder is assigned a breath mask when they come off their ship. For the sandstorms.”
    “Oh. Right.”
    “So where’s yours?”
    Kieran was watching her. His gaze spoke of suspicion, but also interest. Felice sensed behind that a great hesitation in him, as though he held something back from her—from everyone—and always would.
    Felice shrugged. “I don’t have one. Must have missed the handout.”
    “No you didn’t.” Kieran’s gaze pinned her, and the way he leaned into her meant she’d never get around him to run. She’d been good, sure, but that had been back when she’d been fit, well fed, and rested. “It’s the law,” Kieran said. “You wouldn’t have been allowed off the ship without it. You a stowaway?” He tipped the cup to help her drink again, ending up with his hand at the back of her neck. “To Bor Narga? You must be insane. That’s the only explanation.”
    Felice pushed the water away and licked her lips, reflecting that it felt good to have them wet again. “Not the only explanation.” She drew a breath, deciding to tell him.
    A huge risk, but Felice also knew she wasn’t wrong that Kieran didn’t trade people. His eyes had told her. There were those who approved of slavery, those who were indifferent about it, and those who abhorred it. She wasn’t sure which Kieran would turn out to be, but she knew he wasn’t in the first category.
    “I’m a slave,” she said in a rush. “ Indentured servant as they sometimes like to call it. But I’ll never work off my indenture, so it’s the same thing.”
    Kieran’s brows lowered, his gaze narrowing to a keen, soul-baring stare. Just when Felice decided she’d been