Chapter 9 Hektor
Hektor
Another desert.
Dry heat, cracked horizon, and a sky that looked like it had forgotten rain existed. Solkaris. Basilisk territory. He’d been here before, twice, but the welcome was always the same: Scorching air, dust that clung to skin, and a stillness that felt like the land itself was holding its breath.
Twelve hours on the road. Even for a Drakkon, too long.
His muscles pulled tight when he stepped out of the vehicle, spine popping in protest as he stretched.
The Stonestare Suites loomed in front of him: Sandstone walls, obsidian accents, runes carved into pillars so old even the elders no longer remembered who first etched them.
It was a fortress disguised as hospitality.
He barely blinked before a voice sliced through the lobby—
“Hektor!”
He knew that voice immediately.
Too bright, too eager for this wasteland of stone and silence.
Zara.
He controlled the instinctive softening of his expression, forcing the neutrality back into place before turning. But she was already on him, fast, small, warm, half-hugging his side like she’d been waiting hours just to pounce.
“There you are,” she said, breathless with familiarity.
He gave a restrained nod, one arm moving stiffly to return the greeting. A pat, technically. Neutral. Very professional. Somehow, even that felt too intimate with her pressed so close.
“Zara,” he said, voice even.
She beamed up at him, all sun and unapologetic welcome. “We’ve been waiting for you to get here! Liora and Elian are already in the lounge doing what they call ‘social reconnaissance.’ I think that just means ordering the strongest drinks they can find.”
He grunted. That sounded like them.
But his attention, traitorously, remained on her.
Her cheeks were pink from the heat, curls loose around her shoulders, eyes bright with excitement instead of exhaustion. Whoever was on the road working and then greeted someone like that?
Not normal.
Not human.
Not safe.
“Long drive?” she asked, tilting her head.
“Tolerable,” he replied. Which, in Drakkon terms, meant unbearable.
She nudged him with her elbow, light, quick, too familiar. “I missed your enthusiasm. Truly.”
He exhaled through his nose. “I’m here to work, Zara.”
“And I’m here to make that work very difficult,” she said sweetly, already looping her arm through his as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
He stared down at the point of contact, at her fingers against his sleeve, small and sure and extremely not-regulation.
“Zara,” he warned.
“Yes, Hektor?” Innocent. Weaponized.
He didn’t shake her off. He told himself it was because they were in public, in a basilisk stronghold, where touch signaled alliance and safety. Nothing to do with the spark rushing up his arm.
Nothing at all.
“Let me get checked in,” he said, stepping toward the carved front desk.
She remained attached.
Of course she did.
This assignment was going to be hell.
And, he admitted to himself, grudgingly, the kind he was beginning not to dread.
“Wait, before you check in,” Zara said, tugging lightly at his sleeve.
He paused. Never good when things were prefaced like that.
She cleared her throat, smoothing her hair in a way that was far too rehearsed to be innocent. “So…remember the basilisk I told you about? The one I’ve been messaging with?”
His jaw flexed. Unfortunately, yes.
Out loud, he answered flatly, “What about him?”
She brightened, or blushed, if he was admitting the truth, which he ignored. Except he didn’t ignore it. His mind replayed all the details she’d spilled about that flirtation, and each word that had made his blood heat with something he refused to label.
“Well…” she began, rocking on her heels. “He lives here, and I met him.”
Hektor blinked once. Then twice. Internally, he felt a shift: cold, sharp, unwelcome.
Of course she did.
“And?” he asked, voice as steady as carved stone.
“And his name is Pythorus,” she said, nearly dreamy.
He repeated it, “Pythorus.” As if tasting the syllables, testing them for threat, rank, potential violence.
Then, worse, she added, “It turns out he’s actually the fixer we’re supposed to work with here.”
She was glowing now, electric with the kind of excitement that made Hektor’s spine lock. He felt it then, that early dread he should have known to expect the moment she asked him for basilisk dating advice.
He could not react. She was watching him too closely. And she had learned too much: how to read the flicker of a muscle in his jaw, the shift of his gaze, the tension in his shoulders when he was irritated.
So, he shut it all down.
Neutral. Blank.
Drakkon discipline.
“You’ve met him,” he repeated.
She nodded. “Yes. And he’s…well, he’s very charming.”
Hektor’s molars met.
“Incredibly respectful,” she continued.
His brow twitched. Once.
“And enthusiastic about working with us. But especially about—well—me, I think.”
He knew that blush now. Catalogued it as intimately as his own armor.
She was waiting for him to crack, to react, to show anything.
He said nothing.
Exactly nothing.
Just schooled stillness, eyes forward, posture controlled, instinct locked behind training older than kingdoms.
Zara narrowed her eyes. “You’re being very…calm.”
“I am calm,” he answered.
“You’re never calm,” she muttered.
He almost smirked. Almost.
Inside, something growled. A territorial, ancient rattle he refused to let reach the surface.
This was work.
This was a mission.
He would not lose focus over one basilisk flirtation.
Even if Pythorus was here.
Even if Zara would be working beside him.
Even if Hektor already wanted to turn that basilisk to stone and bury him in the Solkaris dunes.
“Let’s proceed,” he said, voice thick with command.
Her lips curved, not bright this time, but knowing.
She felt it. The restraint.
And she liked it.
Damn her.
She followed him to the desk, silent now, but humming with suppressed satisfaction.
This desert was going to be torture.
And Zara, he realized with a grim internal curse, was going to enjoy every grain of it.
The next morning sat heavy in his head, like dust that refused to settle, as he ate alone in the hotel café.
Quiet. Blessedly quiet.
No triplets. No Zara leaning into his space with sparkling eyes and impossible questions. No Elian or Liora whispering innuendos just loud enough to infuriate him.
Just coffee, overcooked eggs, and the dry air of Solkaris clogging his lungs.
He’d told them all last night that he needed rest. They hadn’t protested, though Zara had pouted, but they’d let him go. And he had, in fact, slept. Somehow. Though his dreams had been fractured and restless, sandstorms and basilisk eyes and Zara laughing over something he couldn’t see.
He took another sip of dark Solkarian coffee and scanned the café.
Basilisks everywhere.
Coiled lower halves hidden beneath tailored fabrics, scaled cheeks catching the pale gold of morning sun, forked tongues flicking between words. Elegant, controlled, lethal beings sipping tea and reading news tablets like civilized diplomats instead of the venomous warriors they also were.
And somewhere among them: Pythorus.
He shut that thought down so fast he almost felt the slam inside his skull.
No use wondering which basilisk she had batted her lashes at. No reason to imagine the handshake, the smile, the flirtation she’d probably perfected just to needle him.
Zara was a co-worker. At best, an accidental friend. An annoying accidental friend.
He repeated that like a mantra, stabbing at his eggs.
He was not here to monitor her dating life. Not here to glare at any male with scales. Not here to intimidate a basilisk fixer because his tiny pink-cheeked colleague thought his tail was “interesting.”
He was here to work. Officially. Professionally.
Entirely unbothered.
He set his fork down with precision and rolled his shoulders, grounding himself the way he’d been trained: spine straight, mind empty, blood cooled.
Focus.
A shadow fell across the table.
“Good morning!” Zara chirped, sliding into the seat beside him with entirely too much enthusiasm for someone in a land made of heat and stone.
He closed his eyes briefly. Of course.
Liora and Elian sat opposite them, both barely hiding grins that were way too knowing for this early in the day.
And behind them, scaled, golden eyes bright, smile confident…stood a basilisk.
Hektor didn’t need an introduction to know.
Pythorus.
Zara beamed. “Hektor, this is—”
“I know,” Hektor said, voice like granite.
Pythorus extended a hand, respectful but amused. “An honor, Drakkon of the High Ridge.”
Hektor took it, grip just shy of bone-grinding. “Likewise.”
Zara winced.
Elian muttered, “Oh gods.”
Liora sipped her tea like it was going to be a show.
Pythorus only smiled wider.
And Hektor, stone-faced and silent, cursed the morning, the desert, and his decision to join a team endorsed by Eros.
This was going to be a long assignment.
After the food arrived, and the siblings finished making exactly the kind of pointed comments that now grated along Hektor’s nerves, he cut clean into the conversation.
Work. Logic. Distance.
“Report,” he said flatly, ignoring Zara’s bright eyes and Pythorus’s entirely too pleasant smile.
Pythorus folded his hands neatly. “We’ve searched the western reaches of the sandstone quarter. A few suspected bloodlines, nothing confirmed. Yesterday, we expanded toward the lower caverns. Still no viable descendants.”
Zara nodded along, leaning, just slightly, toward the basilisk.
Hektor forced his jaw to stay relaxed.
Why would he even register that?
Why would it matter which way she leaned?
Focus.
Pythorus continued, competent, composed, annoyingly smooth. “I thought today we’d push farther out. The deeper tunnels haven’t been touched in years. And now that you’re here, Hektor, well, we can accelerate.”
Hektor grunted. Neutral. Disinterested. Entirely unbothered.
Zara perked up. “Farther out? That sounds incredible—”