“And Jorath. Equipment malfunction.”
“Guidance systems can be sabotaged. Vehicles can be tampered with before deployment.”
“Rennix fell down a maintenance shaft. Broken neck.”
“Was the shaft secured? Lit? Had he used it before without incident?” I don't wait for answers I already suspect. “Four different methods. Four different cover stories. One conclusion. Someone is killing your people. Not randomly. They're targeting experience and value. Four separate incidents designed to resemble tragedy instead of strategy.”
“To what purpose?”
“Weakening House Draven without triggering open conflict. Pick off key personnel one by one. Let attrition accomplish what direct assault would make obvious. Avoid uniting your house against an external threat by making each death resemble misfortune rather than war.”
His attention shifts from the body to my face, and the intensity in his gaze presses against my skin. He’s not looking at property or evaluating an asset. He’s seeing me, the female who stands in his morgue and names the shape of the knife aimed at his heart.
The silver of his eyes has darkened, pupils expanding in the low light, and the predator focus in that gaze sends a shiver down my spine.
“Can you create an antidote? If you identify the compound?”
“Possibly.” The requirements cascade through my thoughts: the resources and access such work demands. “I'd need more sophisticated analysis equipment. Access to medical records, tissue samples before the compound finishes metabolizing. Access to Krel's records as well, in case the plasma shot was cover for a poisoning attempt that failed to complete.”
“You'll get everything you need, Maeve.”
The words carry command, but a quality beneath them resonates differently from the orders he has given before. This is a male extending trust he cannot afford to give.
“I'll also need the scene reports from all four incidents.” I push while the opening holds. “Jorath's transport logs. Surveillance footage from Krel's collection run. Rennix's maintenance shaft. Witness statements. Anything that might reveal how the attacks are being staged.”
“Done.”
“There's another question. Who has the capability to create this?” I tick through the requirements. “Xenobiology expertise. Pharmaceutical equipment. Intimate knowledge of Draveki physiology.” The implications settle between us. “This isn't amateur work. Whoever is behind this has serious resources, the kind most people on Vahiri Prime can't access.”
The silence that follows is heavier. Denser.
I turn the evidence over in my mind. Four enforcers targeted. Four different methods. Whoever is doing this has detailed information: patrol routes, collection schedules, which enforcers are experienced enough to be worth eliminating. That level of access does not come from outside observation. You can't learn shift rotations and transport assignments by watching the compound gates.
Which means the killer is inside House Draven. Or has a source who is.
Drazex's gaze returns to the body. What surfaces in his expression is not grief. Cold fury crystallizes in his gaze, an anger that freezes into purpose rather than burning hot.
When he speaks again, his tone is quieter. The words cost him.
“I need your help.” He meets my eyes, and the distance between us shrinks to nothing. “I need to find who is doing this before they kill again. Will you help me?”
Not a command. Not the order his position entitles him to give, that my contract obligates me to obey.
Will you.
A question. A request.
I should be thinking about the danger of involving myself in a conspiracy that could end with my death. The complication of entangling myself in Draven politics when I came here for my brother's debt and nothing more.
Instead, all I can focus on is how close he has moved. Close enough that his breath stirs the hair at my temple, and his heat wraps around me as my body leans toward him.
He’s watching me with an intensity that strips away my every defense. The silver of his eyes holds no coldness now. What burns there is hunger, barely leashed, and the knowledge that he wants me sends an answering pulse of heat low through my belly.
He asked instead of commanded. That restraint undoes me more thoroughly than force ever could.
“Yes.” The word escapes before I can catch it. “I'll help you find who is killing your people.”
His expression shifts. Relief. An easing of tension he refused to show. His hand rises, and for a single heartbeat I think he is going to touch me. His fingers hover near my jaw.
