"She did."
"You liked it."
I can't quite hide my own smile. "She's got teeth. That's useful."
"She's also mine. Remember that."
"Hard to forget when she's wearing your mark like a collar."
Zane's expression goes flat. I've crossed a line I didn't know existed. Interesting. The possessiveness is stronger than I calculated.
"The mark isn't a collar," he says, voice gone cold. "It's a connection. There's a difference."
I raise my hands again. Second time today I've yielded to my brother. That's a record.
"Understood."
He studies me. I let him. I've got nothing to hide from Zane, not really. He knows what I am. What I've done. The calculations I make that he refuses to. He's known since we were children and I told him, matter-of-fact, that if I had to choose between saving him or saving the station, I'd save the station.
He looked at me like I'd grown a second head. I looked at him like he was soft.
We've been complementary ever since. His conscience. My ruthlessness. Together, we might be one functional leader.
"Astra's running the security brief in twenty minutes," he says. "You're expected."
"I'll be there."
"Dexter." He waits until I meet his eyes. "She's not going to make this easy."
"I know."
"She might try to kill you. Again."
"I'm counting on it."
His marks flicker. Confusion. Maybe concern. "Why?"
Because if she's still trying to kill me, she's still feeling something. And feeling something means the door isn't completely closed.
I don't say that. Zane wouldn't understand. He's never had to calculate his way back to someone's heart from the outside.
"Because," I say instead, "it's what I deserve."
My new quartersare three corridors from Zane's. Smaller. Still obscenely comfortable compared to the places I've been sleeping for the last six years. The bed is too soft. The air smells recycled but clean. The viewport shows a slice of stars I used to navigate by.
Home. For certain definitions.
I drop my gear on the bed. Standard loadout. Two plasma pistols, combat knife, the neural jack that lets me interface with tactical systems. Everything I own fits in one bag. That's deliberate. You can't be tied to places when the mission might take you somewhere else on six hours' notice.
Except I don't have a mission anymore. Just a station. A brother who needs me. And a woman who wants me dead.
I sit on the edge of the bed. Let myself feel what I've been containing since the docking bay.
Six years.
I've thought about Astra Venn every single day. The calculation I made. The choice. The ninety seconds I had to decide whether to go back for her or complete the extraction. Thirty percent chance of saving her. Eighty percent chance of failing the mission if I tried.
The math was clear.
