He’s dressed in his dark bone armor, plates shifting slightly as he moves. The ridged metal gleams, cold and harsh. But around his eyes — those burning red eyes — I see something else. Curiosity. Surprise. Something deeper.
The weight of his gaze presses against me. I feel it like gravity.
I raise my chin. My back straightens.
“You get my body,” I say, voice flat but strong, like steel pulled from fire. “That’s all.”
He flinches. Or maybe only his jaw tightens — I can’t tell. The rest of him stays still. Dangerous. Controlled.
“You want more?” I continue, carefully. “Then you’ll have to earn it.”
Silence settles like dust. The empty chairs around us—human and Reaper alike—watch us. The air tastes stale: recycled oxygen, metal, the faint scent of burnt incense leftover from diplomatic negotiations. My throat feels rough. My pulse pounds in my ears.
He doesn’t answer. Doesn’t move. Just studies me — as if trying to weigh the weight of my words.
I bite back a memory — a swirl of sensations from nights before: damp skin, heat, bone against flesh, his voice low and possessive. I keep it locked behind my teeth.
If I surrender again — I lose more than clothing. I lose control. I lose me.
“You think this is some bargaining chip?” I murmur. “This… this isn’t me being weak, or scared. It’s me being honest.”
I glance down at the polished floor. Foreboding reflections ripple under the lights. My own face, drawn and mapped in chrome and shadow. In the glass I’m small. Framed by metal and suits and alien bone — but small. Fragile.
Yet I stand.
He steps closer. The groove of his armor creaks softly. The scent of him rises: metallic, primal, iron-and-bone and something darker, deeper. A smell that’s heavy and binding.
“You took the easy way,” I say, voice shaking. But not with fear. With anger. With clarity. “When you came into my quarters, you scared me a little at first, but you were honest. Real. You demanded me with your roar. Your power. You didn’t ask if I’d come. You claimed.”
Steel creeps into my voice.
“But now? Now you’ve used yourpoliticalpower to put me in a position where I can’t say no.”
“You are free to do whatever--”
“If I said no, Vokar, what would you have done?”
The question hangs there between us like a curtain of flame. He doesn’t answer, so I do it for him.
“Vokar, would you have slain Kintar and Rection? Dragged your clan into a war you can’t hope to win in the long run?” I shake my head. “You put peace, and the lives of a lot of innocent people in MY hands. That…that pisses me off.”
Silence pushes between us again. I can hear my own breath.
Then he doesn’t move. He just — watches.
I draw a breath. Then another.
“I might have said yes,” I whisper, almost to myself. “If you’d asked me, before all this show and bone and blood. Maybe I would’ve said yes.”
His eyes flash. Shock? Regret? I don’t care.
I turn — not quickly, but deliberately. My shoulders squared. I walk away, heels echoing across the floor, each step measured.
Halfway out of the chamber I glance over my shoulder.
He remains. Still. The picture of controlled tension and quiet power. The red glow of his eyes under the harsh lights. The bone spurs catching reflections, casting fractured light across the table.
Then I keep walking.
