She was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen, all long legs, golden hair and pink lips. He was lost from the first. The way she walked, tall and straight. The way she’d glance over her shoulder to see if he was still there.

He’d wanted to tear the purity from her before he discovered the knife’s edge it was balanced on. And then he’d just wanted to dance along the limit with her.

Oh Force, could she dance …

He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, and downed the rest of his juma before signalling for more. The buzz of the crowded cantina dissolved, and all he could see in his mind’s eye was the way she had moved before that slug’s ass of a Hutt, flashes of crimson and gold dangling from her hips and her breasts.

It had been absolute torture, watching her bend and sway, her honey-coloured hair loose over her shoulders, sliding over the delicate line of her throat. Worse still with Blondie standing beside him, blushing like a virgin schoolgirl.

“Eyes open, prettyboy,” he’d snapped. “We’re in an Exchange den, not your grandmother’s parlour. Stay alert!”

He wondered, now, if the Disciple had responded. No way to know, his ears had been too full of the pounding of his own blood.

He closed his eyes to savour the memory, but opened them when he felt a slender form approaching his table. She was nervous, he could feel it. So, he looked up into her blue-grey eyes and smiled.

“Sit down, have a drink.”

She sat, but waved the hovering serving girl away with an impatient gesture.

“No, you’re right, of course. We don’t want to spend our time here.”

She had despaired of his familiarity with the wide range of cantinas from one planet to the next. That is, she had until she understood why. The crowds, the noise, the booze, the Pazaak – it all kept him safe. Kept him hidden. Once she’d understood, she’d only smiled sadly every time he left the Hawk  to seek out the nearest watering hole.

But he didn’t want to be in a cantina tonight. He wanted to be with her. Alone with her.

He left his last drink on the table, unfinished beside a mess of empty glasses, and rose, holding his hand out to the beautiful woman across from him. “You’re right. Let’s get out of here.”

She clung to his arm as they travelled Nar Shadda’s filthy streets, dodging burnt-out soldiers and used-up whores. You can buy anything here, as long as you don’t care where it’s been.

He remembered her first time on Nar Shadda. The sheer … weight … of the moon’s population had almost driven her to her knees – the squalor, the desperation, the apathy. He had felt shamed on behalf of the entire place.

It had disgusted her.

There was nowhere in the galaxy he felt more at home.

Instead of turning towards the landing pad, he paused in front of a derelict apartment block. “I still have a place here.” He felt slightly embarrassed. “You never know when you might need a good hole to disappear into, y’know?”

He took her hand and led her down the dim hallways with naked light emitters hissing and spitting sparks. “Just down this way. It’s been a while since I’ve been here.”

The tiny apartment was almost bare, except for a single table and chair, a small bed and an unplugged cool storage unit. The place smelled like forgotten time.

He closed the door softly, and leaned back on it, watching her as she gazed around the sad little space.

His eyes narrowed as he watched her moving cautiously around the apartment, touching a chair, the window sill, her face carefully neutral.

“Yeah, it’s not much, but there’s more privacy here than we’d ever get on a ship.”

She met his hungry gaze fearlessly and smiled, just a little. He felt his body respond, from the pit of his stomach to the tips of his fingers. His hands balled into fists as she took a single step towards him. He didn’t move from his position against the door, his body tense and strained with want.

Now this was a feeling he remembered – aching and twisting inside as he watched her. More often than not, she was at the side of Mical, that Hutt-licking suck-up, so fracking perfect in every way. Like he knew what she needed. Like he knew what she deserved. He fawned and toadied and … and … supported. Bastard.

He grabbed her hand as she approached and spun, pushing her back against the door, his long fingers wrapped around her jaw.

And she…she just took it, soaked it all in with a gentle touch here and a soft word there. Mical’s worship. Bao-Dur’s obedience.

They couldn’t see what she really was – the hunger that stood toe-to-toe with his own. They wanted a goddess. They wanted a general. He just wanted her.

With her body soft against his, he flexed his arm a little, and threw her across the room. She landed in a heap, long legs and graceful arms sprawled like a child’s doll. He didn’t even remember crossing the floor to her, to stand over her. Her wide eyes, the colour of storm clouds, were full of tears.

He didn’t care. Because he knew.

He had seen her tears before. The others might believe her invincible, but he could feel the pain roll off her, the anger and frustration. Fear. Despair to match his.

It rose up from her skin now, as he hauled her upwards onto the bed and pinned her down with one knee. Her body trembled under him.

She understood what it meant to be helpless. She understood why a man might make desperate choices.

“Atton?” Her voice was a hoarse whisper, her throat vibrating beneath his hand.

And yet, the way she looked you in the eye and still expected the very best from you … it was like a blast of snow in a Tatooine desert. It made you gasp and wake up with a jolt.

“Atton!”

He had felt the same way that day – when he’d confessed everything to her, every vile, putrid thing. She had looked into his eyes and seen her own death there. She didn’t flinch. Not once. She’d placed her slender hand on his cheek and her cool touch had reached under his skin, calming the rage and panic.

“Get. Out. Of. My. Head!”

Those eyes, the colour of stone, tore the snarl from his lips. Her mouth absorbed it as he looked for solace and absolution in her body.

***

Even in a city where scum never sleeps, there exists a quiet moment between the vomiting of spice-fiends and the morning ablutions of regret. In that dim space in time, Atton Rand stirred in his bed, aware of every soft footstep in his small apartment. She was gathering her clothing, her armour against the approaching day.

“You have to go.”

She had to leave. He knew it. Had always known it. Knew, too, that he offered her nothing but his own weakness.

Which was why, when she stood before him, storm clouds breaking into rain …

“I’m not leaving without my money, you fracking maggot.”

…and stumbled over her invitation, her desire …

“It’s in the cooler, schutta. Take it and get out of here while you still can.”

… no matter how much he wanted to follow her into the very heart of darkness, itself …

“You’ve got serious problems, you perv. You know that?”

…he had refused …

“Whatever, dungcreeper. Just be ready next week.”

... and found his own darkness on Nar Shadda. Without her.