and
certainly not to Tessa.
As she read the analysis of her other findings, her ore processor chugged away
quietly behind her. Occasionally it gave a little ping, setting her heart pounding. Each
ping meant another garnet. She already had enough that she’d never have to work
again, and that was without excavating at all. When she’d been assigned as a lowly
clerk in the nearly defunct colonial geologic survey office she’d thought it was the
worse thing that could have happened. Buried alive professionally, or so she’d been
told.
Fuck that.
Tessa Marasdottir was about to rise from the dead. With this money she’d pay off
her mother’s indenture and cover the immigration tax without even noticing. Within six
months they’d be starting a new life in a new place. Hell, she might even be able to get
married eventually, have kids.
Tonight her new life could begin.
Tessa flicked off the tablet and sat back in her camp chair, looking at the stars. Then
she raised her glass of carefully hoarded Tyrian brandy and toasted herself.
“To the future,” she said, and drained it down.
“You got another cup?”
It took every bit of willpower Tessa had to hold her glass steady at the sound of that
penetrating, hated voice.
Daaron Von Saur’rel.
Her eyes darted, searching for him, hunting him in the dim darkness beyond the
reach of her fire. What the hell was he doing here? And more importantly, did he know
about the garnets?
6
Garnets or Bust
Daaron stepped into the circle of light. The bastard looked just like she remembered
him, but different too. Still tall, with unruly dark hair that played around his head with
a looseness that echoed his morals. Still that hideously beautiful face. Sculpted mouth
and cheekbones, heavy-lidded eyes that belonged in the bedroom. A casually cruel
mouth capable of flaying a classmate alive if they spoke out of turn or didn’t do their
homework. Muscle-bound body, like a great ape.
But there were differences too. At university, he’d worn silken shirts that cost more
than her mother’s indenture. Now he wore clothing that was still expensive but
eminently more practical. She could tell even in the dim firelight that he had one of
those fancy nano-shirts capable of shedding water, providing heat and even morphing
shape as needed, the type used by the military. The same material in the form of pants
cupped those lean hips she’d always tried so hard not to notice. She’d give anything to
own a suit like that, far better than the cheap synth crap she wore.
And in his hand?
A blaster, pointed right at her.
“The old Daaron Von Saur’rel wouldn’t have let himself get this far from a luxury
hotel and an entourage,” she said, sounding far cooler than she felt. “What brings you
to my campsite?”
“The old Daaron Von Saur’rel is dead,” he replied, voice light but eyes deadly
serious. “You still have your braids.”
She started, off guard.
“I am still unmarried,” she replied, choosing her words with great care. “That
shouldn’t surprise you. I can only bring a man debt, not a dowry.”
“Doesn’t it seem a little old-fashioned to you?” he asked, his tone conversational,
almost friendly. The gun wasn’t friendly at all.
“Our customs may seem strange to an aristocrat,” she replied, thinking rapidly.
Where was he going with this? “But they serve a valuable purpose for my people. Of
7
Joanna Wylde
course, we’ve had this conversation before. Without guns. I’m not going to change my
mind about sleeping with you.”
“Having sex,” he corrected gently. “I wanted you to have sex with me. Sleep was
always optional.”
He stepped farther into the light, and a crooked smile stole across his lips.
“You’re always cold, aren’t you, princess?” he asked. “Always high above us
mortals?”
“Mortal?” she asked, her tone harsh and bitter. “You’ve never been mortal, Von
Saur’rel. As far as I’m
certainly not to Tessa.
As she read the analysis of her other findings, her ore processor chugged away
quietly behind her. Occasionally it gave a little ping, setting her heart pounding. Each
ping meant another garnet. She already had enough that she’d never have to work
again, and that was without excavating at all. When she’d been assigned as a lowly
clerk in the nearly defunct colonial geologic survey office she’d thought it was the
worse thing that could have happened. Buried alive professionally, or so she’d been
told.
Fuck that.
Tessa Marasdottir was about to rise from the dead. With this money she’d pay off
her mother’s indenture and cover the immigration tax without even noticing. Within six
months they’d be starting a new life in a new place. Hell, she might even be able to get
married eventually, have kids.
Tonight her new life could begin.
Tessa flicked off the tablet and sat back in her camp chair, looking at the stars. Then
she raised her glass of carefully hoarded Tyrian brandy and toasted herself.
“To the future,” she said, and drained it down.
“You got another cup?”
It took every bit of willpower Tessa had to hold her glass steady at the sound of that
penetrating, hated voice.
Daaron Von Saur’rel.
Her eyes darted, searching for him, hunting him in the dim darkness beyond the
reach of her fire. What the hell was he doing here? And more importantly, did he know
about the garnets?
6
Garnets or Bust
Daaron stepped into the circle of light. The bastard looked just like she remembered
him, but different too. Still tall, with unruly dark hair that played around his head with
a looseness that echoed his morals. Still that hideously beautiful face. Sculpted mouth
and cheekbones, heavy-lidded eyes that belonged in the bedroom. A casually cruel
mouth capable of flaying a classmate alive if they spoke out of turn or didn’t do their
homework. Muscle-bound body, like a great ape.
But there were differences too. At university, he’d worn silken shirts that cost more
than her mother’s indenture. Now he wore clothing that was still expensive but
eminently more practical. She could tell even in the dim firelight that he had one of
those fancy nano-shirts capable of shedding water, providing heat and even morphing
shape as needed, the type used by the military. The same material in the form of pants
cupped those lean hips she’d always tried so hard not to notice. She’d give anything to
own a suit like that, far better than the cheap synth crap she wore.
And in his hand?
A blaster, pointed right at her.
“The old Daaron Von Saur’rel wouldn’t have let himself get this far from a luxury
hotel and an entourage,” she said, sounding far cooler than she felt. “What brings you
to my campsite?”
“The old Daaron Von Saur’rel is dead,” he replied, voice light but eyes deadly
serious. “You still have your braids.”
She started, off guard.
“I am still unmarried,” she replied, choosing her words with great care. “That
shouldn’t surprise you. I can only bring a man debt, not a dowry.”
“Doesn’t it seem a little old-fashioned to you?” he asked, his tone conversational,
almost friendly. The gun wasn’t friendly at all.
“Our customs may seem strange to an aristocrat,” she replied, thinking rapidly.
Where was he going with this? “But they serve a valuable purpose for my people. Of
7
Joanna Wylde
course, we’ve had this conversation before. Without guns. I’m not going to change my
mind about sleeping with you.”
“Having sex,” he corrected gently. “I wanted you to have sex with me. Sleep was
always optional.”
He stepped farther into the light, and a crooked smile stole across his lips.
“You’re always cold, aren’t you, princess?” he asked. “Always high above us
mortals?”
“Mortal?” she asked, her tone harsh and bitter. “You’ve never been mortal, Von
Saur’rel. As far as I’m
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