He returns his attention to his display. He's dismissed me. The conversation is over because he's decided it's over, and I rise from the chair that was designed to make me small. I walk the fifteen feet of open floor, and I don't look back.
Chapter Three
MAEVE
The room is larger than any posting I've had since I left the military. A bed with actual sheets, pale grey fabric that looks soft enough to be real cotton rather than the synthetic weave most of Vahiri settles for. A window sealed against the canyon wind but offering a view of the neon-scattered depths, lights blinking in the perpetual darkness below like stars that forgot which way was up.
The guard left me at the door without ceremony, his footsteps already fading down the corridor. I'm alone. And I survived Vahiri Prime's Chief Enforcer. An achievement many cannot claim.
Drazex Draven is dangerous, built to intimidate with every inch of his seven-foot frame. Broad shoulders, thick with muscle, tapering to a narrow waist. Clawed hands that could open my throat before I registered the motion. Large black horns that could slash open anyone from neck to abdomen. Silver eyes that tracked me through our negotiation with predatoryfocus, missing nothing. But he listened. He reasoned. When he walked me to these quarters, he matched his stride to mine without comment, slowing when my lungs burned against the thin atmosphere and my legs struggled to keep pace with his. He offered terms when he could have offered death, and there was sharp intelligence behind that cold gaze, a mind weighing variables and outcomes.
He is also, inconveniently, handsome.
The angular planes of his face, the charcoal skin with its faint silver undertone, the contained power in how he held himself through every moment of our exchange.
I noticed. I shouldn't have noticed. I drag my attention back to the room before that thought can take root and study every surface, every corner, every shadow where a threat might hide. Carved stone forms the ceiling, smooth and dark, and recessed lighting casts everything in warm amber. Storage compartments line one wall, their doors seamless with the rock. The bed sits against the far wall, positioned away from the door but offering a clear sightline to the entrance. There is a small table beside it.
The door locks from the outside. I checked before Drazex left, a casual glance that revealed the mechanism's direction. The window doesn't open. The seal is visible from here, glass meeting frame with no catch or hinge. A comfortable prison is still a prison, no matter how fine the linens.
I cross the threshold and let the door slide shut behind me. I place my med kit on the table before anything else. The familiar weight leaves my shoulder, and a twinge of unease moves through my chest at the separation, but I need free hands to explore.
My reflection catches in the bathroom mirror. Three days of negotiations and terror carve shadows under my eyes, sharpened the angles of my face until I look like the field medic I used to be rather than the woman who thought she'd left that lifebehind. The water runs clear and warm when I test it, a luxury so absurd in this context that laughter catches in my throat. Hot water. Running hot water.
I splash my face and let the warmth soak into skin that's been dry and tight since I landed on this dust-choked planet. The oxygen supplements in my cargo pocket press against my thigh, a reminder that I should take one. I will later. When I'm certain no one is watching.
Back in the main room, inventory begins in earnest. Storage compartments holding nothing but space, waiting for belongings I don't have. Linens that are indeed real cotton, or close enough that the difference doesn't register under my fingertips. Ambient lighting that responds to motion, brightening when I move and dimming when I hold still, tracking me like a patient predator.
No surveillance devices that I can detect, though detection means nothing here. If the stories about Vahiri's intelligence networks are true, their technology outpaces anything I learned in military training by decades. Watching is a given. The mechanism is invisible.
The mattress gives beneath me when I sit on the edge of the bed, a softness that makes my spine ache with an emotion close to grief. How long since I've slept on anything that wasn't military-issue or worse? The field hospital cots on Thessaly were thin foam over metal frames. The transit berth that brought me to Vahiri was barely wider than my shoulders. This bed is large enough for two. Every muscle screams for collapse. Twelve hours of unconsciousness, minimum. The exhaustion has teeth now, biting into bones, dragging at eyelids.
The door chimes. I'm on my feet before the sound finishes, arm reaching for a weapon I no longer carry. Automatic. Trained into my reflexes where a chime at the door meant incoming wounded. Shoulders down. Breathing steady.
“Enter.” I'm glad my voice sounds close to normal.
The person who steps inside is not a guard. She's Draveki, tall and sharp-featured like all her species, but civilian softness lives in her posture rather than military tension. Silver eyes scan me once, assessing, and whatever she finds seems to satisfy her.
“I'm Teshra. I manage the private wing's household operations.” A pause, precise as punctuation. “I'm here to explain your parameters.”
Parameters. Not rules. The word choice lands with the weight of corporate policy rather than prisoner restrictions. Interesting.
“I'm listening.”
She nods, crisp and professional. “You may not leave the compound without an escort assigned by Lord Draven. You may not access restricted areas, which are marked with red designation panels. You may contact no one off-world without explicit permission. You report to Lord Draven. No one else.” A beat. “I will arrange your medical bay access tomorrow, after you meet your brother.”
Tomás. Tomorrow morning. “Understood.”
Teshra watches me, expression unreadable. Then she inclines her head, respect or dismissal impossible to tell, and leaves.
The footsteps fade. Silence resettles.
Three restrictions. Three fears. They don't want me running, don't want me discovering their secrets, don't want me calling for help from outside. The structure of the rules reveals the shape of what they're protecting, a negative space I can map by its edges.
No off-world contact means they're worried about external interference. Restricted areas means things worth hiding. Direct reporting to Drazex means my handling isn't being delegated. I matter enough to warrant direct handling.
I sit back on the bed as evening settles over the canyon. The rational choice would be rest. Waiting has never been a skill I've cultivated.
The door responds to my palm. They're not keeping me caged in this room. The cage is the compound itself, and within it, I have the illusion of movement. I step into the corridor before I can talk myself out of it, because lying in that too-comfortable bed staring at carved stone ceilings will drive me to madness faster than any alien crime lord.
