Sabine
Twenty-four hours later, the shift started like any other. Except it didn't. The memory of the previous night—the crack of bone, the name Conclave, the weight of Varrick’s protection—clung to me like a second skin.
The forty-five thousand credit tip sat in my account, real enough. The house had taken their thirty percent, leaving me with thirty thousand. More than I'd saved in five years. But it wasn't the credits that occupied my thoughts.
It was his reaction. Conclave. Most people went quiet when they heard that name.
Varrick had turned violent. He hadn't just protected me from a drunk; he'd reacted to a threat I couldn't see.
And that meant his protection wasn't a choice. If he was a player in that dangerous of a game, then being near him put me on the board. The warmth I’d felt from his attention was now mingled with a sharp, cold edge of fear.
I dealt opening hands to a table of Nexian merchants, running the shuffle on autopilot. Varrick arrived during the third hand, taking his usual seat. No mention of last night. Just a fifty-thousand credit buy-in and those red eyes watching me work.
We fell into our rhythm immediately, a silent conversation played out in prime numbers and mathematical constants. The other players fled the strange energy at the table, replaced by new ones who would soon do the same.
It was during a lull that Kreeg appeared. He leaned against the table, but his usual forced casualness was gone, replaced by a new urgency. His questions were more specific now, not about “unusual players,” but about the Vinduthi at my table. About me.
“The Administrator wants to know about your new regular,” he said, his voice low.
As he spoke, his hand rested on the felt, fingers tapping a deliberate, unnatural sequence. One-three-two. I cataloged it automatically. It wasn’t a nervous tic. It was a signal. For whom, I didn't know.
When he left, I risked a glance at Varrick.
He hadn't been watching Kreeg, but his body had gone rigid.
His hands gripped the edge of the table, knuckles white.
The green traceries on his skin were a stark, unmoving pattern against the sudden tension in his muscles as his eyes followed Kreeg's retreating form with a predatory focus I had never seen before. He knew what that sequence meant.
“That's twice now,” I said, my voice quiet, dealing the next hand to ground myself.
His attention snapped back to me, the cold fury in his eyes receding, replaced by that intense focus that always made my pulse skip. “It won't be the last time.” He placed his bet. “You're under my protection. That's not something you can undo.”
The presumption of it, which yesterday would have felt like arrogance, now felt like a grim necessity. He wasn't marking territory. He was building a wall.
“I don't need protection,” I said, the words feeling weak even to me.
“Need and have are different things.” His red eyes met mine. “You have it regardless.”
The warmth that spread through my chest now was terrifying, tangled with the chilling realization that he was right. I was in danger, whether I wanted to be or not.
The rest of the shift passed in our usual mathematical dance. But underneath the numbers, something had changed. Every bet he placed felt like a shield. Every card I dealt felt like an acceptance of the terrible, thrilling risk he represented.