Chapter Seven
MAEVE
The data tablet waits outside my door like a promise kept, placed in the center of my threshold by someone who wanted me to understand this was intentional.
Only one male in this compound would do something like this.
I carry it inside before unlocking the screen, some instinct warning me that what lives in these files shouldn't be seen in corridors where anyone might pass.
The screen asks for my fingerprint, and when I press my thumb to the sensor, it unlocks. He's already coded it to me.
Four personnel files. Four autopsy reports.
Security logs and patrol schedules and supply manifests spanning the past month, information that no property should ever see, the kind that could destroy House Draven if it reached the wrong hands.
He's trusting me with his vulnerabilities, and I have thirty minutes to make sense of that before I'm expected in the medical bay.
The shower runs hot for four minutes before the compound's water rationing kicks in, enough time to scrub the restless night from my skin and let the temperature soak into muscles that ache from tension I couldn't release.
I slept poorly, yesterday's revelations pressing down whenever I closed my eyes.
Torvin's contracted fingers. The injection site no one else noticed.
The hunger in intelligent silver eyes before he banked it and walked away.
I told myself not to think about that last part, but the thinking happened anyway, circling through the dark hours and replaying the moment his fingers hovered near my jaw. The restraint in his withdrawal. The rough edge to his words when he said he'd be outside.
Work has always been my refuge from things I cannot control, so I focus on the familiar weight of the med kit strap crossing my shoulder and my tension eases. Whatever else happens today, I have a purpose that doesn't require me to examine wanting a male to whom I'd best not think of in that way.
The attraction isn't merely foolish; it's the kind of reckless that gets people killed on planets like this one.
Wanting clouds judgment, and clouded judgment means mistakes, and mistakes on Vahiri Prime don't come with second chances.
The smart thing would be to lock whatever this is behind professional detachment and leave it there until my contract expires or my usefulness runs out.
The smart thing would be to stop noticing the way he moves, the timbre of his voice, the restraint coiled beneath all that violence.
I've already failed at the smart thing. I failed the moment I stopped fearing him and started wondering instead.
The medical bay doors slide open at 0658, and he's already there, seven feet of coiled stillness leaning against the central console with his arms crossed and his attention fixed on my approach. I wonder if he slept at all. If he ever sleeps.
Veth hovers near the surgical suite, his pale grey features carrying the particular tension of someone who doesn't understand what's happening and fears the answer.
“You're early.” Drazex's words roll through the medical bay. “I expected you to take longer with the files.”
“Then you should have sent less.” I stop three feet away, the distance that has become our default, close enough to speak without raising volume but far enough that I can't sense his temperature. “You’ve handed a lot of vulnerability to someone who's been here four days.”
“You earned it yesterday.”
Veth shifts in my peripheral vision, his confusion growing more obvious by the second. I speak to fill in the awkward moment. “The files you sent are a start, but I'll need the full archives to trace deeper patterns. And the records room access is restricted.”
“I'll be your access.”
He addresses his medic without looking away from my face. “Veth. This female has full access to all medical records and supplies. If she requires assistance, you will provide it. If she requires equipment we don't own, you will tell me.”
“Yes, my lord. Understood.”
Drazex shifts from the wall and stalks away. “Come.”
The corridor narrows as we move deeper into the compound, the amber lighting dimming to something closer to rust. He stops at a door that requires both palm print and retinal scan, and when it slides open, the air that escapes carries the stale chill of climate-controlled storage.
The records room is smaller than I expected, a single console dominating the center with storage units lining every wall.
Screens and data ports and decades of House Draven's secrets compressed into a space barely large enough for the equipment it holds.
I move to the console and begin pulling up the files that match what he sent to my tablet, cross-referencing dates and names and causes of death while the larger picture takes shape in my mind.
He doesn't leave.
I expect him to. He's granted me access, pointed me toward the work, fulfilled his end of whatever bargain we've struck. There's no reason for him to remain in this cramped archive while I sort through toxicology reports and incident timelines.
He remains anyway, leaning against the door frame with his arms crossed, tracking my movements with that predator stillness.
The position blocks the only exit. I'm not certain if that's intentional or instinct, whether he's keeping others out or keeping me in.
Both, probably. The answer is usually both with him.
A dark stain marks his sleeve near the shoulder. Blood. Not fresh, but recent enough that he hasn't bothered to change.
“You're injured.”
“It's nothing.” He doesn't move from the doorway.
“It's blood.” I cross the space between us before I can question the impulse. This is what I do. This is who I am. “Let me see.”
I reach for his sleeve. He doesn't stop me.
The permission in his stillness registers somewhere beneath my ribs. He's letting me touch him. From what I've observed, he doesn't let anyone touch him.
I push back the fabric and find a shallow gash across his bicep, the edges already knitting with Draveki healing speed. It doesn't need treatment. I know this. My fingers stay pressed against his arm anyway, my pale skin stark against charcoal.
“Sparring session,” he says. “A junior enforcer needed correction.”
“And you let him land a hit?”
“I was distracted.”
His gaze drops to where my hand rests against his arm. The muscle beneath my palm is warm, harder than human tissue, and my pulse responds to the contact in ways I can't hide from someone who can scent arousal.
“Distracted by what?”
I shouldn't ask. The question escapes anyway. His pupils expand, silver swallowed by black. He doesn't answer with words. His body answers for him.
I release his arm. Step back. Return to the console and the files waiting on the screen.
Minutes pass. Ten, then twenty. I pull up autopsy images and cross-reference patrol schedules and try to ignore his attention on my back. The silence presses down until my nerves stretch thin enough to snap.
“You need something?” The question comes out sharper than I intend, brittle with an awareness I can't shake from that moment at the doorway. He's too large for this room, too present, and his proximity reaches me across six feet of stale air in ways I'd rather not examine.
“Observing.”
“Observing what?”
“How you work.” He doesn't move, doesn't shift, doesn't do any of the small restless things humans do when they're waiting. “You have a system.”
“Most people do.”
“Most people don't color-code their findings.” A flicker crosses his face, not quite a smile but the shadow of one. “You've used three different shades of yellow.”
Of course he noticed. I turn back to the console, putting the screen between us like armor. “Different levels of confidence. Light yellow means probable, standard yellow means possible, and dark yellow means I'm guessing. I don't appreciate guessing.”
“And the red?”
“Questions. Things I need to understand before the picture makes sense.” I pull up the timeline I've been building, the pattern of incidents laid out in damning sequence.
“Enough to be certain this isn't random.
Whoever's doing this has inside access and xenobiology expertise, and they're working through a target list.”
He's silent for a moment, processing what the shrinking intervals mean. “They're getting confident.”
“Or hurried. Either way, someone else will die soon unless we identify them first.”
“What do you need?”
I pull up the analysis I started this morning to show him the gaps in the data. “I can't synthesize a counteragent or build a detection system without specialized tools. I'll need better equipment than what’s here.”
“Make a list.”
“Here it is.” I transfer the requisition document to his tablet with a gesture, organized by priority tier because organization is the only thing that anchors me when everything else threatens to spin beyond control.
“The items at the top give the most analytical power for the least expenditure. Bottom items are optimal but not essential.”
He scrolls through the list, claws tapping against the screen. He keeps them retracted around me, I've noticed, the tips visible now as dark curves against the tablet's edge but controlled.
“You also created a budget analysis.”
“I made you an equipment requisition.”
“With four different priority tiers and a cost-benefit breakdown.” The corner of his mouth curves in a way that transforms his face. “You included projected timelines for each tier.”
“Different equipment means different analysis speeds. If you want results in days, you need the first tier. If you can wait weeks, tier three is sufficient.”
“And if I want results now?”
“Then you need all four tiers, and I need to stop sleeping.”
The almost-smile fades, replaced by something I can't read. “You've already slept poorly.”
It isn't a question, and I don't bother pretending otherwise. “The files kept me busy thinking.”