“Whose little toy are you?” he asks, tone almost lazy. But there’s an edge. Like a knife playfully pressed to a throat.
My lips part, but no sound comes out.
“General Rection’s staff are not toys,” Ambassador Kintar snaps from behind him, voice tight. I hadn’t even noticed him walk in. “And I would thank your Excellency not to touch the personnel.”
Vokar doesn’t turn. Doesn’t flinch.
His thumb strokes once along my waist. I shiver. Not from fear. From somethingworse. Something dangerous.
Possibility.
Then — just like that — he releases me. The absence of his hand feels like ice water dumped down my back.
As he steps past me toward the table, one of his lower bone spurs catches the hem of my dress.
Rrrrrip.
A tearing sound too sharp, too loud in the suddenly silent room.
My skirt splits up the side, the fabric parting like tissue until the waistband of my undergarments flashes stark white against my thigh.
Oh God.
My breath hitches. My hands fly down, trying to pull the fabric closed. But my apron’s too narrow, and the tear’s too long. Heat floods my face. I want to disappear. To fold in on myself and vanish through the floor.
Nobody says anything.
Not Kintar. Not Rection. Not the Reapers.
Vokar turns his head just enough to look at me again. A flicker of something dark in his eyes.
“I see what’s been hidden,” he murmurs. And then he smiles — a slow, razor smile — before taking his seat.
I barely manage to set the tray down without shaking the table. I can’t feel my legs. My hands are still trembling, and my heart is slamming so hard against my ribs it feels like it might leave bruises.
General Rection clears his throat pointedly. “Let’s begin.”
The meeting starts.
I stand to the side, hands clutched behind my back, my face burning. Kintar launches into his usual diplomatic spiel — traderoutes, resource allocations, mutual benefit, cultural exchange. His voice is measured and smooth, like he’s practiced it in front of a mirror a hundred times.
But I don’t hear most of it.
I feelhim.
Vokar keeps glancing over at me. Not subtle. Not accidental. Like he’s marking me.
I don’t understand it.
I’m no one. I’m a girl with a mop and a busted skirt and scars under her sleeves she won’t show to anyone. I’m not tall or fierce or the kind of beautiful that makes men stop in their tracks.
But he saw me.
And now I can’t look at anyone else.
CHAPTER 4
VOKAR
