I tell myself it's accidental.
We both know it isn't.
His breath catches. I hear it. A sharp intake, involuntary, the sound of someone who just got hit somewhere vulnerable. His bioluminescence flares against my peripheral vision—a spike of light visible even through his sleeve, bright enough that I know without looking that his marks just blazed with whatever he felt when we touched.
I keep walking.
Don't look back. Don't hesitate. Don't let him see that my hands are trembling, that my pulse is hammering in my throat, that every step away from him feels like walking through broken glass.
The door seals behind me with a pneumatic hiss.
I make it exactly seven steps into the corridor before my knees try to give out.
I lean against the bulkhead. Count my breaths. In for four, hold for seven, out for eight. The pattern that kept me sane in the dark places after Sigma-9.
My wrist still feels warm where he touched it.
I'm so fucked.
Chapter 6
Dexter
The transport is a tactical mistake.
I know it the moment I step aboard theWhisper—a courier-class vessel designed for stealth runs, not comfort. Cramped corridors that force proximity. A galley the size of a closet. Sleeping quarters separated by walls thin enough that I can hear breathing on the other side.
And Astra's emotional signature, loud as a siren in the confined space.
I should have insisted on a larger ship. Should have requisitioned something with proper separation, proper distance, proper fucking walls thick enough to block the constant hum of her presence.
I didn't.
Make of that what you will.
Lieutenant Kesh is loading our gear when I board, his bioluminescence pulsing with nervous energy along his forearms. Young. Twenty-three, maybe. Full Empri, born on one of the core worlds where they still teach that our abilities make us superior instead of complicated.
He looks at me like I'm a legend. Like the stories he's heard—thecampaigns I ran on the outer rim, the body count I accumulated, the reputation I earned for being willing to do what others wouldn't—are something to aspire to instead of warnings about what happens when you stop questioning orders.
"Commander Torrence." He straightens. Military precision that would be impressive if it wasn't so transparent. "The ship's prepped. Fuel cells at maximum, weapons systems green, course plotted for Gamma-7."
"Good." I scan the cargo manifest on my datapad. "Where's Specialist Torres?"
"Running final security checks with Ms. Venn."
Of course she is.
I move deeper into the ship. The recycled air tastes flat, metallic. Two days of breathing this. Two days in quarters close enough that I'll sense her every emotional shift, every moment of fear or anger or whatever else she's feeling.
Two days of trying not to do anything about it.
The corridor narrows. I turn sideways to pass a structural support, and there she is.
Astra. In the ship's small armory, checking weapon charges with Torres beside her. Specialist Carmen Torres, human, mid-thirties, face like carved stone and a resistance to Empri manipulation that suggests either training or natural immunity. I can barely sense her emotional state even when I try. It makes her useful. It also makes her someone Astra would trust.
They don't notice me immediately. I watch.
Astra's movements are efficient, economical. No wasted motion. She pulls a plasma rifle from the rack, checks the charge, replaces it. Her green eyes scan the inventory with the focus of someone for whom weapons maintenance is meditation.
