Sam (BBW Bear Shifter Wedding Romance) (Grizzly Groomsmen Book 2) (8 page)

The door whooshed open and Annie gestured for Zosha to walk inside.

The room was plain in a way that made Zosha tense. It was all shiny metal and bolted-down furniture. Logically, she knew that all space ships has rooms like this, but on Lytos rooms like this were for people who needed to be able to get a little rough and clean up quick. Apart from a shirt tossed over the back of the desk chair and papers strewn across various surfaces, it was tidier than Zosha had come to expect from a single man’s living quarters. She dropped her pack and kicked it into a corner, then hovered awkwardly, unsure of what to do next.

“So, ah…” she started, more than a little on edge. All the nerves and anxiety and fear had gone from a broad, frenzied tidal wave of emotion to something like a tightrope in a void; it was compact now, and focused, and despite it being smaller then before it was still the only thing she could focus on without losing balance. Less of a bruising pain and more of a precise cut. “What did you mean when you said you owed me? I don’t think I’ve ever met any of you before, and I don’t do much business with smugglers.”

Annie tilted her head one way and then the other, mulling it over. “You said you were caught in the crossfire of an internal conflict caused by the ripples that Strathmore’s death caused,” she said finally. “If that’s true, from a certain way of looking at it, we owe you because we’re the one that caused those ripples.”

It took Zosha a minute to realize what she was saying because of the sheer impossibility of it. “I think I’m interpreting that in a way you don’t mean,” she said faintly.

“If you’re interpreting it as me telling you that we’re the ones who killed Strathmore, then congratulations, you’re on the right path,” Annie said, calm as you please, like she hadn’t just told Zosha she was at least in part responsible for shaking bits of the galaxy apart at the seams.

“I… see,” Zosha said because the silence felt too heavy and she was short on words.

Annie sighed. “It’s like this. My daddy was a gambler. One day he made a very big mistake and lost to a very bad man, and the short version of what happened after that is that I ended up at the altar with Strathmore. I decided to take my chances making a break for it, and Leo and the others rescued me. Strathmore tried to get me back; they stopped him. Permanently.”

“How?” Zosha asked. “Not to cast aspersions on the fighting prowess of your crew, but Strathmore had an army on that ship.”

“And that, I imagine, is what the boys are deciding whether or not to tell you about,” Annie replied. “Now that that’s out of the way, can I get you anything? A change of clothes? Food? You didn’t get a chance to eat while you were at the table, but I’m sure there’s something left.”

“That’s okay,” Zosha said with the awareness that she had just learned something huge and was now having to ignore it thrumming in her mind. “I have nutria-packs.”

Annie scrunched up her face. “Ugh, those things should be a violation of at least twenty human rights laws. Suit yourself, though. I need to go back and make sure my idiots haven’t killed each other yet. Rick will be down soon. And,” she added, her face softening slightly, “don’t worry about him. He’s not about to let you hurt any of us, but he’s surprisingly decent for one of the
Breakwater
boys.”

Zosha nodded, refusing to let herself believe it. Annie walked back out into the hallway, the door closing behind her with a beep. Already suspecting what would happen, Zosha tried to open the door only to find that she was locked in. She weighed the knowledge that she could break out much more easily that she had snuck onboard against the knowledge that they would only catch her again.

She walked to the bed and sat on the edge, exhaustion crashing over her as the last of her adrenaline wore away. The panic and worry was all still there, but now instead of motivating her to move, to fight, to escape, it just wore her out. She let herself fall back onto the bed. Annie’s retreating footsteps had been audible even after the door closed, she reasoned, so she’d be able to hear anyone approaching. Comforted, she closed her eyes, just for a second.

She floated back to awareness when she felt something nudging her shin. She blinked, frowning, before the memories of where she was and why surfaced. A new wave of alarm swept over her, forcing her completely awake. She held herself perfectly still, eyes wide and locked onto Rick, who was standing by the bed where her legs still hung over the side.

“Hey there,” he said, voice soft like he thought she might run for it. She couldn’t fault him for it; if she thought it would work, she’d have tried it in a heartbeat.
 

“…hi,” she answered when enough time passed that it became clear he was waiting for some kind of response. He backed away and she sat up slowly.

“I’m sorry for waking you,” he said. “I just have a few things I need to go over with you. After that, you’re free to roam the ship. Although if I were you, I’d stay away from anywhere you think Custer might be.”

“He’s not, like, plotting his revenge, is he? Because I swear that was just a reflex.”

“Well, your reflex is the funniest damn thing I’ve seen in months. Watching Custer get what’s coming to him is always satisfying. I’ll say this, though: he’s got a history of going starry-eyed over girls who cause him significant amounts of pain as a first impression.”

Zosha added that to a mental character profile that was, in her opinion, not to attractive. “God, why?”

“Look, the man’s defining characteristic is ‘masturbates with his robot hand.’ I don’t know why Custer does shit and, frankly, I’m happier that way.”

“That sounds reasonable,” Zosha allowed. “Alright, what did you need to talk to me about.”

“Right. Ah,” he coughed. “You may want to be comfortable for this. Do you want to change out of that suit?”

Something went cold along Zosha’s spine and she stiffened. “Why, Mr. Chapel, that’s quite forward of you,” she said, voice sweet and artificial smile in place. “And here I thought you might be the gentlemanly type of smuggler.”

Rick raised both hands in a placating gesture. “Not like that. I like my women willing and enthusiastic. But this is going to be a weird conversation to kick off a long couple of days, so you might want to change into something less… that.”

Zosha cast a longing look at her bag. “Will you at least turn around?”

Rick made an assenting noise in the back of his throat and turned. Zosha practically ripped her suit open in her haste to get it off. It did its job adequately but not comfortably, and the sooner she was in something that didn’t feel like it was squeezing her to death quite so much the better.

“Alright, done,” she said once she had changed into her more casual clothes. Rick turned around, his eyes lingering on her newly revealed collarbone. She had opted to just zip a jacket up over her bra instead of putting on a shirt and she could practically see his eyes darken when he realized it. It was half a test to see if he was as good as his word and half a ploy. Men tending to be looser with both money and information when they thought they were about to get something they wanted in return, and all Zosha had to do was be the thing they wanted. There was a third reason floating around the back of her mind, but she was waiting until she felt she could trust Rick more before allowing it to influence her.

Rick cleared his throat and dragged his eyes up to hers. “Alright then,” he said, a bit huskier than before, “you may want to sit down for this.”

Zosha raised an eyebrow and sat on the edge of the bed. Rick tossed the shirt that was hanging off his chair into a corner by the closet and took a seat.
 

“So, I’m assuming you’ve heard of bear shifters,” he said.
 

Zosha nodded and tried not to speculate on where this was going. “Of course. I’ve never met one, though.”

“Funny story, that,” Rick said, scratching the back of his neck. “Actually, you’ve met five.”

Objectively, Zosha meeting people from a species she had been previously aware existed shouldn’t really compare with the shock of finding out she had accidentally stowed away on the ship of the ragtag crew that had killed the galaxy’s most feared dictator, and yet, somehow, it did. She sat for a minute, processing, until everything whited out into a haze of acceptance that the universe was a vast place with many, many things she could never hope to understand or control.

“That’s wonderful,” Zosha said in a voice that sounded generally like her trying to impersonate herself. “That’s just… wow.”

“Surprise,” Rick said, wiggling his fingers. “Are you okay?”

“I think I might be in shock,” Zosha said cheerfully. “It’s not a thing I go through a lot, but I’ve just received an awful lot of surprising information and it’s been a really stressful few weeks. I expect I’m going to have a truly spectacular meltdown when it wears off.”

“Let me know if there’s something I can get you,” Rick said. “Do you have any questions?”

“Not at the moment. Would it be okay if I just sat here for a moment? Quietly?” she asked.

“Of course. I’ll be doing some paperwork. Let me know if you need anything.”

Zosha took the opportunity to calmly assess the clusterfuck that was, currently, her life. If it had been inadvisable to let the crew of the
Breakwater
know that she was able to reliably contact Spinner before she had found out about their involvement with Strathmore’s death, now it was inexcusable. Spinner hated politics and never took sides. If he did anything that could be construed as helping her now, it could easily be interpreted as him aiding the others, which would automatically devastate the resources he pulled from Strathmore’s supporters. She was utterly, completely alone, apart from the six people who could kill her as easy as breathing and probably would if they thought it was convenient. In addition to that, she was trapped in a metal can with five men who could track her if she tried to run or hide and who seemed more forthcoming with their information than people who were planning to let the other party live generally were. She tried to organize her thoughts the way Spinner had taught her:
what do I need? What do I want? What do I have?

The answers were simply bleak. She needed, as she always had, to get away from Lan Doro. She had nothing that she would be able to use successfully against the smugglers she had inadvertently thrown her lot in with should they choose to attack her. She wanted to be at home, safe, and not worrying about anything other than paying rent. She wanted Lan Doro to die. She wanted to have met this strange, kind man in another place and another time. She wanted an awful lot and felt a dawning fear that she might not get any of it began to trickle through her.

The last time Zosha had thought about something not being fair was the last time she had seen her mother, her back disappearing into the midday crowd. After that, she had walked through life with the knowledge that nothing was fair and that nothing would ever be fair. People lived their lives at different levels and on different scales, with self-preservation as the only common thread linking the whole of the species. It did no one any good to sit around thinking
this isn’t fair
.

Zosha thought it then. She felt the odd desire to be five years old again and throw herself on the ground, screaming and crying and kicking. She wanted to wail that none of this, not grabbing the notebook, or Lan Doro seeing her rounding a corner, or getting on this ship, was fair, because it
wasn’t
. Justifications were easy in lives like Zosha’s. She was in this mess because she was on the run, which was because she stole a notebook, which was because she thought she could sell it, which was because she was hungry, which was because that was how her life worked. It wasn’t her fault; she hadn’t asked to be born on that God forsaken asteroid, or to be a street rat. She realized her eyes were beginning to sting.

“Excuse me,” she said in a detached voice. “I think I’m going to have that meltdown now. May I use your bathroom?”

“Of course,” Rick said, frowning in concern. “Is there anything I can do?”

“No thank you,” she said, rising and walking towards the small bathroom. Once inside she locked the door, knelt by the toilet, and waited.

Soon enough, she felt the familiar tugging sensation in her stomach. She bent over the bowl just before the retching started. The one good thing that could be said about nutri-paste was that it came back up easily.

She felt the swirl of caustic, jagged emotions swirl through her veins and rested her head against her hands. She was so tired of all of the running and she would give anything to just stop
feeling
for five minutes. She had been on high alert constantly since she grabbed the damn book and she wasn’t sure how much more she could take before she went insane. It seemed like every time she turned around there was a new source of anxiety or fear waiting for her.

Her mind started to go fuzzy, like static, and she could feel herself shaking as her breath rattled in and out of her. She curled in on herself more.

“Europa, Ganymede,” she mumbled to herself, listing off the moons of Jupiter. As a child she’d been fascinated ever since she’d stumbled across a book about them. She still had all sixty-three memorized, and reciting them helped her calm down. “Io, Callisto, Amalthea, Ananke…”

Eventually, her breathing evened back out and she felt a little less like making all Hyde’s dreams come true and taking a swan dive out the airlock. She stood on legs that, thankfully, only trembled slightly, and walked to the mirror to check her reflection. She was, as feared, even paler than usual, except for the red, splotchy skin around her eyes. Deciding that it was as good as it was likely to get for a while, she walked back out into the main room.