{Gait}

What a fucking week! Sagan never moved so many people around in her life. The upside to all the exhausting activity was the much needed hugs. Nothing beat quality time with the family.

She arrived on Gait after checking in on Jack, Chris, Karter, and Ross. They asked for a few accommodations for entertainment in Xelan’s stronghold. Just call her the Confinement Decorator.

With that on her mind, Sagan wanted—no, needed—some time alone with Korac. Not only his physical presence, but his intellect. Things felt scattered and alive, like lightning in a storm. Guidance. Sagan craved his guidance.

But not yet. First, tonight, she visited Razor’s Emporium as a patron. Cringe-worthy, really. But Matt assured her of the legitimacy of the experience. The ginger made great backup if shit went sideways, too. She worried over the Pain Curator’s motivations for employing her friend, or Matt’s motivations for asking. But who had time for psychoanalysis? Matt had her back, and that’s all that mattered.

So why were her hands shaking as she stood outside the packed Emporium?

Could it be that Sagan wondered about herself? About her desires. About the way she attracted men like Justin, Korac, and Razor. The three were not the same, but shared similar wants. Her among them. Her pain. Control over her.

The Seamswalker gripped her axes. Her fingerless gloves creaked with the strain. The Lyriki coat made a comeback because fuck feeling vulnerable. This violet warrior could drop Razor off in space. He couldn’t hurt her. Couldn’t even touch her.

“Let’s get this over with.” Sagan Seamswalked to the mezzanine where the Pain Curator waited with his eyes already on her. Again.

He gave a little bow of his head. His bright red hair still startling against his brown skin. Tonight, he wore what she assumed passed for casual on Gait. A black carbon fiber jumpsuit that squared off on his broad shoulders.

The handsome bastard caught her looking him over and smiled. “This way.”

“Wait.” She messed up and touched his arm.

The Pain Curator stared a long time at the contact. When he looked up, the green half of his eyes switched places with the orange half. She dropped her hand.

After swallowing hard, Sagan confessed, “I have some reservations.”

“You had a guide on Yu, Monarch 3, Pil, and Lukemore. Let me be your guide on Gait.” His words came out patient and genuine.

Sagan still couldn’t fathom this. “Razor, what do you want out of this? I don’t have any credits. You’re not getting sex.”

He barked out a laugh. A good one, damn it. “Few people are candid with me. It’s refreshing. I told you. I would like to broker a trade with the two planets your organization represents. It’s business. You are the most likely candidate to entertain this business. Therefore, you’re in charge of negotiations.” He searched her eyes a minute before adding, “I also believe I can help you find your answers with no danger to you.”

All the right things for him to say.

Matt appeared from a storage area toting glass crates. “Oh, hey, Sagan. Sorry for interrupting.”

“You’re fine.” Razor pointed down and instructed, “Take those to the kitchen. They add some inspiration to the drinks.” He grinned at the other redhead.

Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

Who grinned back. Everybody got along so well in a pain establishment.

Sagan took a deep breath and nodded. “I’m ready.”

“Very good. I’ll meet you at the booths—”

Sagan flitted down into the crowd. Legir of Yu warned her about proximity to others on Gait. The usual pickpockets aside, the upper echelon accessed rare technology like the pain capsules. They might snatch her pain or some other experience for themselves. Fucked up.

“Ahh, not those booths,” Razor called through the crowd. The white, shiny monoliths loomed in the addition. “They’re for more advanced experiences.”

She flitted to the smaller ones. “More advanced?”

He nodded almost solemnly. “They require nacre ports. Something I don’t think you’re ready for yet. But you will be.”

Interesting.

Inside the booth, the Pain Curator beamed with excitement. “All right. Like with your friend, goggles and grips. I must admit, I’m quite ecstatic for your reaction to the first experience.” Sadness flashed in his eyes. “This kind of anticipation… It’s almost foreign at my age.”

Sagan didn’t want to buy it. “Well, remember our deal regarding information? I need answers to more than myself.”

“Of course, what’ll it be tonight?”

She considered her questions carefully. Although tempted to blurt out, “What do you do for Imminent,” Sagan kept her cool. “How long have you been on Gait? Do you know its genesis? And why the Tritans keep it a secret?”

Creepy. Razor went stone still, but his eyes swirled again. When he spoke next, his voice dropped an octave, “I’ll consider your inquiries. Ask again when you’ve finished.”

Once he left the booth, Sagan shivered. Bizarre. The sensory deprivation between the goggles and soundproofing set her teeth on edge. Anxiously, she waited.

“Okay, so you’re the princess. And you’re waiting for me to rescue you.”

Rayne. Eight years old. Braids and a blue dress that matched her eyes. Sagan’s bedroom done all in princess pink with a canopy bed.

Sagan swallowed back tears. Why would he show her this? What does this memory have to do with pain—

Rayne tightened the knot around Sagan’s wrist. The polypropylene rope splintered and shivved under her skin. The pain hit her. Sharp and immediate. She hissed.

Her best friend noticed, leaned forward, and sucked the splinter out with her teeth. Another in many encounters where Sagan realized her sexuality swung both ways. Always with Rayne.

“Do you still want to play?”

Sagan’s visual moved up and down when she nodded. Endorphins rewarded her as she experimented with the pain while she pretended to sleep. Rayne whisked up their imaginary tower—the hallway—and found Sagan waiting for her kiss.

The image switched.

A lighter flicked. Flicked again. The flame lit the room as Sagan lit a candle. One second. Two. She pressed the metal to her wrist and hissed. Not in pain. In satisfaction.

She always enjoyed the pain.

The scenery morphed. Darkness. Not her memory. Her arms were not her own. Male, Icarean, and chafed with heavy metal until they bled raw. The sting of the wounds and the chill of the metal married within her. A hardness filled her mouth. Solid. It tasted of leather. Despite her experience with Justin and Korac, Sagan remained a virgin only in one respect. A self-check came back with soreness in the one place she’d yet to be touched. The full feeling confused and intrigued her. Uncomfortable, but not unpleasant at all.

Until the other man continued surging.

Sagan groaned as the Icarean male groaned. This hurt. And felt good. It also felt wrong. This wasn’t discussed—

A blade sliced her shoulder. Sagan bit down and reached for the grips. Sharp, but not too deep. The assailant soothed it with his lips, lapping her blood. Still surging. Faster now. Too much. It hurt.

Fangs bit into her neck, and her knees buckled. The pain converged into the pleasurable fullness. The taking and giving.

A familiar rich voice enticed her, “So close, my Prince.”

Sagan ripped the fucking goggles off. She knelt on the floor with her heartbeat thundering in her ears. The fullness lingered, but the memory faded. It wasn’t hers, so she couldn’t keep it. But…

That voice.

A knock sounded from the door. She hugged herself, not ready to open it. The memory left a hole. Unfinished. Unfulfilled. More. She wanted more. No… Sagan needed it.

“The first time is quite intense, but I understand more so for enthusiasts.”

Razor entered before she permitted. He draped a carbon fiber jacket across her shoulders. Oversized enough that Sagan burrowed into it as she stared into nowhere. She tried so hard to chase the memory. To hold on and never let it go.

The bastard sat on the parquet floor beside her with his knees tucked in. He didn’t touch her. Thank Elden for that. But his presence—the knowing in it—touched her in another way.

Razor owned a piece of Sagan, now. And both people sitting on this floor knew it.

“Gait was born a prison. And we are all its prisoners…”