Deliberate. Slow.
“She serves, does she not?” I ask. My voice is honeyed gravel. “I thought service meant... proximity.”
“Youassaulteda civilian staff member,” Kintar snarls.
“No,” I say, setting the glass down. “I touched what belongs to me.”
Rection practically growls. “She’s not yours. She’s not anyone’s, you alien bastard.”
“Language, General,” Kintar hisses. “You’re not helping.”
Freya — that’s her name, I’ve heard it said — is standing there, frozen. Her hands are still holding the tray, knuckles white again. But she hasn’t stepped away. Hasn’t run.
Her lips part. Just slightly.
She doesn’t speak. But her eyes meet mine.
Defiant. Curious.
Gods, I want to hear her voice when she moans.
“Your Excellency,” Kintar says tightly, “shall we resume?”
I don’t look away from her as I speak. “Of course. Continue.”
She takes a step back. Two. Then turns, walking away like the tray weighs a ton.
I watch her go.
Every step.
Only when she reaches the far wall do I allow my gaze to return to the table.
“Where were we?” I murmur.
Kintar glares. “Discussing the logistics of joint patrols.”
I nod as if I care.
But in my mind, I’m already imagining how she’ll sound when I press her down beneath me.
And how she’llburnwhen she realizes I don’t take what’s mine all at once.
No.
I savor.
The momentthe doors seal behind the humans, the air loosens—just barely. The stink of diplomacy fades, but the girl’s scent lingers like heat on metal. I roll my shoulders once, letting the bone-crests along my back click softly into place. My armor feels too tight, too hot, too damn… confining.
I should be reviewing the meeting logs immediately. Making tactical sense of the humans’ rambling propositions, the resource charts, the nonsense about neutrality corridors and provisional mining rights. That is what a warlord does: he weighs, he cuts, he rules.
But my gaze keeps drifting to the space where she stood.
Small thing. Soft thing. The kind of creature a Reaper could inadvertently crush with a careless shift of weight. And yet—she didn’t flee when I touched her. Didn’t crumble when my voice rolled over her. Her blush was fire. Her stare—when she managed it—was a flare in the dark.
I’ve seen warriors who couldn’t hold my gaze half as long.
Yorta clears his throat behind me. A gravel sound. “Warlord.”
