Ardor said as she climbed aboard the Guerrero. She was wearing a ripped prison jumpsuit instead of the black Reaper uniform Gabriel had fashioned for her. “I’ll be too busy watching yours, wench,” Gabriel replied. He was on the docking bay catwalk, looking up at his woman who was paused in the hatchway of the Fiach runabout. Ardor threw herself at him, never doubting he would catch her. Though he staggered a bit, he clasped her to him—their mouths locked together in a fiery kiss—his arms wrapped tightly around her. Breva stood nearby, turning his attention from the embracing couple to glare at any of the workers who might have halted their labors to stare at the prince and his Coalition lover. Breaking the contact first, Ardor laid her head on his shoulder and shivered. She feared for his life even though she knew he was a master flyer. He took chances she’d rather he not, but it would be useless to make him promise to be careful. He would do as he pleased. “When the job is done, get out of the palace as quickly as you can.
