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“I won’t be yours,” he hissed, though his voice lacked its earlier bite. He felt drained. Aroused. Confused. Scared. And that terrified him more than anything else in the room.

“No, you won’t be,” Daven whispered. “Unless you want to. Think of me as a mentor.” He leaned down until his lips brushed the shell of Ryneth’s ear. “I will show you the ropes of our planet. Your new home. The Academy. I’ll be the only person who can keep that storm inside you from tearing you apart.”

“What academy?” Ryneth snapped. “What are you talking about? I told you, I’m just a worker.”

“We both know that isn’t true.”

Ryneth wanted to demand an explanation, but Daven only looked amused, as if not understanding was exactly the point.

“And I told you, aethera, this is your life now.” Daven eased back, the pressure loosening just enough for Ryneth to breathe. Then his hand moved to the IV line. Long fingers lifted a small vial and clicked it into the port with a quiet snap. Ryneth stared as clear liquid slid into the tube and disappeared into his vein.

“D-did you just sedate m-me?” Ryneth stammered, his muscles already starting to slacken against the mattress. His head felt heavy, his vision beginning to blur.

Ryneth tried to hold onto the anger, but it was already slipping. His body felt heavier by the second. The air still curled around him, soothing and unyielding at once, holding him in place as the darkness dragged him under.

“Rest.” Daven traced Ryneth’s jaw with a ringed finger. “I’ll be right here when you wake.”

Ryneth had a sick, sinking feeling he was in far more trouble than he’d thought.

7

DAVEN

The Imperial was already waiting on one of the large couches when Daven walked into his uncle’s office, a glass of Spire Malt in one hand and a red-cinder cigarette in the other.

“You like him,” his uncle rumbled, smoke curling between them.

Daven helped himself from the sideboard. “He’s…fascinating.”

Well, that was the understatement of the year.

Milanov smiled, clearly amused, patting the free seat next to him. “Which is why I’ve given him to you.”

He spoke of Ryneth like a gift that had already been accepted. Daven was already wondering how much fight the gift still had in it, the faint hum under his skin sharpening in approval.

“So what are we dealing with?” Daven lowered himself into the seat. “Attica? Concordant? Attica and Concordant? Why take a labor shuttle bound for Helion unless they meant to use this planet for something?”

Milanov took a drag from his cigarette. “Good. That’s exactly the question. Kylix and Helianth are looking into it. They’ll update us as soon as they know more.”

As soon as they know more. Daven hated waiting for other men to know things. Even if those men were his family.

“Then how the fuck did they pull it off?” Daven’s jaw tightened. “A labor shuttle lifts off Düren, gets taken mid-route, and somehow still ends up in Helion airspace full of prisoners? Where did it land?”

Milanov didn’t answer immediately. He studied the fire instead. “So far, we know it was taken after departure from Düren,” he said at last. “By the time they moved on the workers, the shuttle was still about five hours out from Helion. We’re reconstructing where they brought it down. I don’t have answers yet.”

Daven’s fingers tightened around his glass. “And the ones in that skyscraper? How did they move that many workers into the city without anyone noticing? And where the fuck does Concordant fit into it?”

Milanov’s gaze cut to him. “Patience. Kylix and Helianth are already working the problem, and we’ll have answers soon enough. For now, we have thirty-two survivors in recovery and one very fragile witness under this roof.”

Daven swallowed the liquor without tasting it and accepted a cigarette. He took a few drags, then dipped his head back.

Very fragile witness.

Ryneth had tried to fry the monitor with static while barely able to sit upright. Furious. Feisty. Even half-drugged and weak, he had fought.

And Daven had put him back down anyway.

He drew from the cigarette slowly, letting the red-cinder haze blur the image of Ryneth glaring up at him, weak and furious, silver light snapping wild from his hands. He’d liked that look in his eyes. That refusal.