Dexter
The conference roomsmells like her. Gun oil and antiseptic and something underneath that's just Astra, a scent I catalogued six years ago and never forgot. I'm standing at the viewport, watching the docking bay crews clear wreckage from the Vex attack, when Zane's voice cuts through my attempt at not thinking about the blood she drew from my throat.
"You're not listening."
I turn. My brother sits at his desk, surrounded by displays showing the station's vital signs like he's monitoring a patient on life support. His marks glow faint along his forearms. Irritation, maybe. Or stress. Hard to tell with Zane anymore.
"I'm listening."
"Then tell me why you're really back."
I could lie. I'm good at lying. Six years of military contracts taught me how to wear any face that keeps me breathing. But Zane's abilities are sharper than mine, his control better. He'll taste the deception before I finish the sentence.
"You asked me to stay. I stayed."
"That's not an answer."
No. It's not.
I move away from the viewport. Sit across from him. The desk between us is Vaelor crystal, dark blue shot through with silver veins. Our father's desk. Everything in this office still carries Malachar's fingerprints, and Zane hasn't changed a single piece of furniture. Superstition or paralysis, I don't ask.
"The Vex attack was coordinated," I say instead. "Three entry points, simultaneous breach. Someone fed them the shield rotation schedules."
Zane's marks flare brighter. There it is. The anger he's been containing since I walked off that transport with his security chief's blood under my nails.
"I know. Astra's running the investigation."
Of course she is. Astra would run this station single-handed if Zane let her, fueled by fury and the need to prove she's un-fucking-breakable. I'd know. I'm the one who made her need to prove it.
"She shouldn't be running anything alone," I say. "Not if there's a mole."
"She has a team."
"She has you." I lean forward. "Brother. I can feel what you're broadcasting from here. You're in love with a human woman who was cargo three weeks ago. That's either the best strategic move you've ever made or?—"
"Don't."
The word stops me cold. Not the content. The tone. Zane doesn't often use that voice on me, the one that reminds everyone he's the heir and I'm just the weapon he points at problems.
I raise both hands. Yield, for now.
He exhales. Leans back. When he speaks again, his voice has lost its edge, replaced by something that sounds dangerously close to hope.
"She's more than I expected."
"They always are."
"Talia's different. She doesn't flinch. She doesn't perform." His marks pulse soft, steady. The Empri tell for genuine feeling. "She fights me. Every step. It's..."
"Honest," I finish.
He nods.
I think about Astra in that corridor. The knife at my throat. The way she looked at me like I was every sin she'd ever committed wearing skin. No performance there either. Just rage distilled into a blade.
Honest doesn't make it easier. Sometimes it makes it worse.
"The Vex situation," Zane continues, pulling up tactical displays. "Astra believes they were testing our response times. Not trying to take the station. Just measuring."
