The door hisses again, just enough to let in the low murmur of military personnel setting up perimeter protocols. I hear Jorko’s voice through the wall — he’s barking at someone about floor wax and boot scuffs. I bite back a smile. He means well, even if he hovers like a broken hoverdrone.
“Almost done,” I whisper to no one, reaching for the last piece — the decanter for the Reaper bloodfruit liquor. It’s thick, syrupy, and smells vaguely like motor oil and cinnamon. It stains like hell. My grip tightens around the crystal handle as I set it on the tray with exaggerated care.
Then I freeze.
Out the viewport…a dot moves across the face of Storder.
A ship.
Sleek, black, and mean-looking. Like a predator in the high atmosphere.
TheReapers have arrived.
And suddenly my palms are sweating again. My legs feel shaky all the way to the reception room. I operate on auto pilot, my instincts taking over. Good thing I’ve done this job a million times.
Still, it’s difficult to do much of anything right now. I’m gripping the tray like it’s the only thing tethering me to the floor. My knuckles are white, and I’m positive if I loosen even a millimeter, I’ll drop the whole damn thing — glasses, decanter, bloodfruit syrup and all — straight to the polished deck in front of a warlord.
Because he’s here.
The delegation enters, and the atmosphere shifts like pressure before a storm. It’s not just the sound — though their footsteps hit hard, measured, echoing. It’spresence. Like they bring gravity with them.
Vokar steps in first, and every molecule of air in the room seems to go still.
Sweet stars above.
He’s… huge.
I mean, Iknewhe would be. I’d heard the rumors, the way soldiers and dock workers talked about him with reverence and fear. But nothing prepared me for seeing him in person. Vokar doesn’t walk — hemoves, like tectonic plates shifting beneath mountains. Towering. Broad. The lights overhead catch along the edges of his bone spurs — white and jagged like armor carved from frozen lightning. His skin is jet-black, not just dark but impossibly matte, like the void between stars. And those red eyes…
They find me.
Like a scope on a rifle. Hot, pinpointed, deliberate.
I swallow. The tray tilts slightly in my grip. One of the glasses clinks.
He stops. Dead center in the doorway. And just stands there, staring.
The others behind him — Reapers in various armor types, some scarred, some regal, all imposing — pause behind him, clearly waiting. But he doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Justlooksat me like I’m the only thing worth noticing in the entire damn galaxy.
Heat climbs my neck, crawling across my cheeks like a shameful brand.
I can’t look away.
Ishould. But my body won’t obey. My knees are locked. My throat dry.
And the tray — the tray is about to betray me.
He starts toward me.
Three steps and I swear the floor groans under his weight. My breath catches when he closes the distance between us, until he’s towering over me — his massive frame blotting out half the room behind him.
His eyes rake down, slow and invasive, over the line of my braid, the curve of my hips under my apron, the way my hands tremble. I’m wearing the standard-issue jumpsuit, but underthat gaze, it may as well be spun glass.
“You’re not Reaper,” he rumbles. His voice is smoke and gravel, low enough that Ifeelit in my ribs more than I hear it. “You’re not IHC command. You’re… soft.”
His hand moves — fast, but not sudden. His palm lands on my hip, engulfing it. Heat blooms where he touches me, all the way through the cloth. I squeak — an undignified, too-high sound — and nearly drop the tray. One of the glasses wobbles, but I manage to catch it with my wrist.
His grip tightens.
