Page 73 of Anton's Grace
I wove through the crowd towards the changing rooms, a sense of unease gripping me.
“It may be nothing, but Brandon tagged a Samuel Trent boarding his shuttle with a veiled indentured sex slave. It wouldn’t be a big deal but she was wearing Mystique. According to him, her body height, size and hair color all matched.”
Whispers of fear coursed through me. Mystique was an extremely expensive perfume, averaging a few hundred credits per ounce. I bought Grace a bottle and she loved it so much, that’s all she wore anymore. No slaver would use something that fancy on a sex slave.
“What about her collar?”
I heard him repeat the question to someone else, Brandon I assumed.
“Standard leash,” William answered.
“Don’t let them take off,” I said.
I rushed through the throng. One of the patron’s yelp of protest died in his throat when he saw who had bumped into him.
I didn’t care.
As I neared the corridor leading to the changing rooms, Sheila cut me off with her usual fake smile.
“Mr. Myers, I haven’t seen you in a while.”
She traced her hand along my arm.
“I don’t have time right now,” I said, trying to go around her.
She stepped into my path, blocking my way again.
“Oh come on,” she said, taking a seductive pose. “Surely you—”
“You listenrealgood,” I grounded through my teeth. “Block my path again and I’ll toss you on your ass. I have no interest in whatever the fuck you’re peddling. Now I’m on my way to check up on the woman I intend to marry. You stay the fuck away from her. Should I ever find out that you tried to mess with her again, in any way, you will discover what happens to those who cross a Braxian.”
She paled. Shoving her aside, I hurried to Grace’s dressing room. I barrelled through the door. The room lay empty, her sequin dress hanging on the hook. There was no sound of water from the shower.
“Grace?” I called out, knowing she wouldn’t answer. “She’s not here,” I said in the still open com. “Don’t you let that fucking ship off the station.”
“You got it,” William’s voice replied, the com crackling with static.
I went to the dancers’ dressing room. Muffled voices seeped through the door, partially drowned by the music and chatter from the dining room. Hoping against hope, I knocked and opened it without waiting. The girls froze mid-sentence. Romero stood in the corner, without Grace.
“Where’s she?”
Their surprise turned into worry upon hearing the tension in my voice.
Carrie answered, “She should be in her dressing room, cha—”
“No,” Sacha interrupted. “She isn’t. Or at least she wasn’t when I checked before. Zenia said some man wanted to talk to her in the back.”
Cold dread washed over me. I rushed through the empty hallways. My footsteps on the tiled floor sounded unnaturally loud to my ears. I reached the back to find it deserted, as was the back alley. Coming back in, I noticed the closed utility room door. I opened it. Grace’s silk sarong scarf lay crumpled on the floor.
“It’s her. I’m on my way,” I said in the com. “Is Marcus on that ship?”
“I’ll find out.”
Romero and the girls rushed to find me holding Grace’s dress in my hand. I terminated the com, hating the thought that this may not be a kidnapping but an escape. She might have resorted to this if she wanted to keep our child and feared I would kill it. Ignoring them, I headed for the docking bay.
Chapter 22
Grace