Kintar is speaking again.
I hear him. I even understand the sounds he's making — flattened vowels and spit-shined syllables about cooperation, shared goals, sustainable trade routes through neutral sectors.
But it’s all noise.
There’s only one thing in this room that holds my interest, and it’s not the fragile diplomat wagging his surgically altered chin at me. It's the tiny human girl standing by the refreshments cart, cheeks pink, fingers twitching like she can’t decide whether to run or curl into a tighter knot.
Her scent…
By the old gods, I could drown in it.
Clean linen. Vanilla. And something wilder underneath. Fear, maybe. But not the kind that curdles — it’s electric. Bright. Like sparks before the fire.
I drag my gaze from her, force myself to glance at Kintar as he drones on about "intercultural protocol." His mouth moves like a puppet's. He gestures too broadly, trying to fill the room with presence he doesn’t possess. The Reapers behind meremain still, but I can feel Yorta’s irritation in the way he doesn’t quite breathe.
Kintar finishes his current soliloquy with something about "synergistic values" and looks to me expectantly. I lift one brow.
"You done?" I ask.
Kintar bristles, like a puffed bird. "The IHC expects a formal reply?—"
I hold up one hand. Not high. Not aggressive. Just enough to make him pause.
Then I turn.
Not to him. To her.
She’s just finished pouring a drink. Her hands are steadier now, but she glances sideways like she knows I’m watching. Her braid swings behind her shoulder as she moves — a soft, gold ribbon I could wrap twice around my fist.
"Come," I command.
She hesitates. I hear the intake of her breath. But she walks.
Gods above and below, she walks.
Not with grace. Not the glide of a courtesan or the stomp of a soldier. No, she’s uncertain. But she walks to me.
Her tray’s balanced perfectly. Not a drop spills.
I take the glass without looking at it. My fingers brush hers. Warm. So small.
She steps back, clearly trying to maintain distance.
I won’t allow it.
My hand drops. Quick. Deliberate.
Smack.
The sound echoes. Not loud — but sharp. The curve of her ass trembles under my palm, just once. I see the shock ripple through her. And then — the bloom.
Her blush is full and fierce, spreading across her cheeks and down her throat like fire chasing dry brush.
General Rection chokes on his own breath.
Kintar slams both hands on the table. “This is outrageous! She’s not— You can’t?—!”
I lean back in my chair and sip from the glass.
