Mid-shift, security appeared. Two guards, neither of them familiar. “Ms. Reeves? You're needed on Level 17.”
My stomach dropped, but I kept dealing. “I am mid-shift.”
“Floor manager approved the interruption. This is urgent.”
They escorted me through sections of the casino I had never seen. Level 17 was all harsh lighting and institutional walls. Security offices that smelled like fear and industrial disinfectant.
Chief Kellan waited in an interrogation room that was not called an interrogation room. “Sit,” he said. “We have a situation.”
He activated a holo-display. Three guards in medical beds, conscious but wrong. They stared at nothing, occasionally whimpering, rocking in place.
“Found this morning on Level 14,” Kellan said. “Near your quarters. They are traumatized. Cannot say what happened. Will not say what happened. But before they went silent, one kept repeating your room number.”
The blood in my veins turned to ice, then fire. Varrick. He had done this. The thought was terrifying and thrilling all at once.
“I do not know anything about it,” I said, meeting Kellan's eyes steadily.
“No threats? No unusual attention? No one who might… protect your interests?”
That last question carried weight. Kellan knew something. Or suspected.
“I am a dealer,” I said. “I deal cards. I go to my quarters. I sleep. That is my life.”
He studied me for thirty seconds that felt like hours. Then nodded. “If anything comes to mind, you will inform security immediately.”
“Of course.”
They escorted me back to my table. I finished my shift on autopilot, my mind spinning through implications. Three guards. Traumatized, not dead. A message to anyone else who might consider me a target. Varrick had turned psychological warfare into art.
After my shift, I should have gone to my quarters. Should have maintained the distance I had promised myself.
I went to the observation lounge.
He stood at our usual window, silhouette carved from shadow and nebula light. He did not turn when I entered, but his shoulders shifted. Awareness.
“You did not knock,” I said.
“You did not open,” he responded.
I moved to stand beside him. Not touching. Carefully not touching. “Security questioned me about three traumatized guards.”
“Did they.”
“What did you do to them?”
“Made them understand consequences.”
“They were catatonic.”
“They were planning to hurt you.” His voice carried no emotion. Statement of fact. “Now they will not.”
Silence stretched between us. The nebula painted colors across the glass, across his face when he finally turned to look at me.
“I cannot stop thinking about you,” I admitted. The words fell out like stones I had been carrying. “About that kiss. About the way you look at me like I am something worth protecting.”
“You are.”
“I am an indentured dealer with crushing debt and a dead sister.”
