General Rection scoffs. Old bones clicking in his chair.
“You can’t treat a civilian like a bargaining chip,” Rection snarls.
I smile. Low. Cold.
“You think this is barter.”
“No —” Rection begins.
I raise a hand. The bone-spurs along my fingers catch the light, reflect it like ivory.
“You listen,” I say. “This is not bartering. This is claiming.”
My words drop into the room like stones into a deep well.
I shift so the stream of light from the viewport lands across my face. My red eyes narrow, fixed on Freya’s calm stare.
“I don’t negotiate feelings. I don’t haggle for flesh or flesh-time or favors. I take what is mine.”
A tremor passes through the room. Diplomats shuffle. Voices hush. The ambient hum of the ship seems distant. The only sound is my own breathing.
She doesn’t flinch. She doesn’t look away.
She meets me. Quiet. Defiant.
I hold her gaze for a long moment.
Then — I nod.
“Let the terms stand,” I say.
Silence lingers. Thick. Heavy. Like iron in the throat.
Then the meeting resumes. The negotiators, rattled, hurry to rearrange their charts. Credits, allocations — meaningless now.
I turn slowly, back to the viewport. The swirl of Storder’s atmosphere beyond looks like storm-clouds of green and silver. Lightning flickers in the gas bands below.
I taste it — metal and ozone, promise and gravity.
I let my armor go slack. Not weakness — awareness.
I feel the ghost of her scent again.
Soft, warm, real.
Mine.
I breathe, deep.
And I wait.
CHAPTER 9
FREYA
They’re arguing again.
Kintar, Rection, all the various hangers-on from both sides, and in the middle of it all, Vokar. He sits as if his patience is inexhaustible. Yet, I know that if he doesn’t get what he wants--namely me--not only will these negotiations break down, but the IHC people might not even make it out of the room alive.
