Recognition flashes across his face — not immediate, not dramatic, just that subtle narrowing of the eyes that saysI’ve seen you somewhere I shouldn’t have.
“Mara Ellison,” he says slowly.
Every muscle in my body goes rigid.
She doesn’t answer.
Neither do I.
His hand drifts toward his comm.
“This deck is restricted,” he says, voice cautious now. “You’re supposed to be under civilian hold.”
I step forward before he can finish.
Position myself between them.
Close enough that he has to tilt his head back to meet my eyes.
“Leave,” I say.
He blinks. “Commander Tatek?”
“Correct.”
Confusion flickers. Then calculation.
“Sir, I—this civilian is flagged?—”
“She’s under my protection.”
The words come out low.
Not shouted.
Not threatened.
Final.
His hand freezes halfway to his comm.
“That’s not in the record,” he says carefully.
“It is now.”
“Might want to check your authority on?—”
I lean in.
Let just enough of what I am show through the discipline.
Vakutan don’t bare teeth when they threaten.
We go still.
We go quiet.
We let the other being understand, on a biological level, that this situation will end badly for them if they continue.
