“I thought you were off-duty,” I say, voice tight.
He steps by, doesn’t close the door. Heat radiates off him. Steel and dark skin. The faint scent of forest soil clinging to him — from the fields outside.
“Thought I might find you here,” he says. Voice low. Quiet.
I close the suitcase. The rabbit goes back inside. The smell of stuffing, cotton, dust sealed away.
“You look… distant,” he says.
I shrug. Lie. “Nothing serious.”
He moves closer. Claws do not glint. No threat in them. Instead he reaches up. Folds a stray curl behind my ear. He brushes his fingers across my cheek — careful. Gentle.
“You know I guard you,” he says. “Inside and out.”
I swallow. The air tastes like metal, fear, comfort.
“Yeah,” I whisper.
He pulls me close. I feel bone-spur ridge against bare skin — cold at first, then warmth as his muscles shift. The cloak around us folds — a cocoon.
“You rest,” he says. “No more fears tonight.”
I nod, hear my heartbeat heavy.
I close my eyes. I let the damp hum of the world lull me.
I slipfrom the shadows of the corridor into the little data-nexus alcove near the communications hub; the low hum of servers and the scent of warm if slightly stale air surrounds me. I’m not supposed to be here. Not allowed near these feeds. But something in my gut — cold, hard, insistent — told me I need to hear. I press my boots against the grated floor, crouch low, keep my breath quiet, my heart quieter.
Fingers sliding over keys and holo-slate controls, I override the superficial access layers — nothing fancy, but enough with what I know from cleaning rooms and sweeping corridors. The panel screen flickers, the soft glow lighting my face in pale blue. I toggle channels, another, then another. Static. Hums. Then a whisper — harsh, low, velveted with threat and smoldering anger.
I freeze.
I pull the feed louder with trembling fingers.
“...turn the clans back to claws… no soft-skins walking our halls… no more pussy-pet dancing... blood and bone, like we were born for.”
The words rasp through the speaker crackle.
“Trebuchet says we get the numbers. Workers are distracted — supplies diverted. Crack this human-alliance open, and we tear down the softening influence.”
I hear ARp-codes. Names: “Dock Ten Forty-six,” “Haul convoy LZ-3,” “Redsong hold,” ugly, guttural gutturals. I taste bile.
I lean forward, hand over my mouth. The metal plating under my palm feels cold. My heart hammers so loud I think the entire hub can hear it.
They talk about me. About Vokar, about his “pet.” They call me a softness that must be razed. A weakness. A symbol of betrayal — to bone, to clan, to tradition.
I don’t know how long I sit there — the world tilts, the numbers on the screen spin, the clacking of my teeth against panic tastes like cold iron. But I know I must act. Not scream. Not bolt. Not run. Act.
I swipe the slate clean. Erase records. Logout. Quiet. Invisible.
Then I walk.
The courtyard is empty— pre-dawn hush, the night still clutching half the compound in shadow. The only sound: distant hum of life-support, a soft breeze brushing against recycled metal, and my own boots stepping swiftly across plating.
I find him in the garden again — where last we stood beneath alien pines, where light touched bone and skin alike. He’s leaning against a railing, shoulders hunched just enough to make me worry.
“I need to see you,” I demand before I’m even near enough for whisper.
