Chapter 4
Haid
She's beautiful when she wakes up angry.
Not that I should be noticing. Not that it matters. Not that I give a single fractured damn about anything beyond what she can do for my people, for the salvation she represents wrapped up in soft skin and curves that have no business being on a woman who can terraform dead worlds with a thought.
But I notice anyway, watching her through the security feed as consciousness returns in stages.
First the twitch of fingers against silk sheets, because yes, I put her in the best quarters on the ship, the ones usually reserved for ambassadors and dignitaries, not prisoners.
Then the slow blink of eyes adjusting to the dim lighting I'd set to ease her transition.
The moment awareness floods back and she bolts upright, hands flying to her throat where the injection site still shows a faint mark.
Her first instinct isn't to scream for help, isn't to let panic override rational thought and dissolve into hysteria the way most civilians would when waking up on an unfamiliar ship in unfamiliar quarters with no memory of how they got there.
That tells me something important about the woman I've just abducted, something that makes this whole situation simultaneously easier and infinitely more complicated.
Her second instinct isn't to cry, isn't to let fear leak out through tears and trembling hands, isn't to collapse into the kind of helpless despair that would make her easier to manage, easier to control, easier to convince that cooperation is her only viable option.
That tells me considerably more about who Ksara really is beneath the carefully cultivated public image of the goddess-touched princess who smiles prettily for cameras and attends charity galas in dresses that cost small fortunes.
Instead, she goes perfectly still, gaze sweeping the room with methodical precision.
Taking inventory. Cataloging exits, potential weapons, weaknesses in her confinement.
The same way I'd assess a combat situation, except she's doing it in a sleep-rumpled dress that probably costs more than my ship's entire weapons array.
"Clever girl," I mutter to the empty command deck.
The room I've put her in is nothing like a traditional brig.
No bars. No force fields crackling with lethal voltage.
No stripped-down cell designed to break the spirit before the body follows.
Just clean lines and comfortable furniture, a private refresher, a viewport showing the star-scattered void beyond.
A dinner tray I'd delivered while she slept, complete with actual fresh food with greens and fruits synthesized from our limited hydroponics, not the protein paste most of my crew subsists on.
I'd thought it would reassure her. Prove I'm not the monster she probably thinks I am.
Instead, she stares at the unlocked interior door leading to the refresher like it might bite her, then turns her attention to the one locked panel separating her quarters from the rest of the ship. Her jaw sets in a way that sends warning signals firing through my tactical assessment centers.
She stands. Smooths her dress with hands that barely tremble. Walks to the bed and starts stripping the sheets with sharp, efficient movements that speak of someone who's solved problems before, someone who doesn't freeze when things go wrong.
I lean forward, magnifying the feed. "What are you planning?"
She twists the silk sheets into a rope. Tests the strength with a hard yank that makes her shoulders flex beneath that ridiculous formal gown. For a moment I think she's going to try hanging herself, and my hand moves toward the emergency override before I can stop it.
But no. She's tying one end to the bed frame, measuring the length against the distance to the viewport.
"You think I'm stupid enough to make the viewports breakable?" I ask the screen, even though she can't hear me. "They're reinforced durasteel composite. You'd need a plasma cutter."
She seems to reach the same conclusion. Stands there holding her makeshift rope, staring at the viewport like she's calculating angles and trajectories and finding all of them wanting.
Then she lets out a breath that fogs the reinforced glass, drops the sheets in a silk puddle, and turns to survey the room again.
Her gaze lands on the dinner tray.
I watch her walk to it, watch her fingers ghost over the selections I'd personally approved. Real fruit. Actual vegetables. Protein that didn't come from a vat. Then she picks up the fork, turning it over in her hands like she's examining a precision instrument rather than eating utensil.
"No," I say out loud, because I know that look. I've worn that look. That's the expression of someone who's about to do something creative and destructive in equal measure.
She kneels by the door panel. Wedges the fork into the seam where the electronic lock interfaces with the wall. For a civilian, for someone who's supposed to be nothing but a pampered minister's daughter, she shows a remarkable understanding of how security systems function.
Sparks fly. She jerks back, dropping the fork with a clatter that carries through the audio feed. Examines her fingers where the electrical feedback left faint burns. Then she picks up the fork again and tries from a different angle, using the hem of her dress as insulation this time.
More sparks. The panel flickers. For half a second I think she might actually manage to override the lock through sheer stubborn ingenuity, which would be impressive and deeply inconvenient in equal measure.
The system reboots. The lock holds. She rocks back on her heels, jaw tight, fingers clenched around a fork that's now slightly melted at the tines.
"Fuck," she says with perfect clarity and precision, enunciating each letter like she's delivering a formal speech before parliament, and I surprise myself by feeling the corners of my mouth threaten to lift, an almost-smile that catches me completely off guard.
Almost, but not quite.
Because this is a problem. She's supposed to be breakable. Malleable. Someone I can reshape into salvation through fear and necessity. Not this. Not someone who wakes up in enemy territory and immediately starts plotting escape routes with bedsheets and silverware.
I tap the intercom. "That was a decent attempt."
She goes rigid. Spins toward the ceiling where the speaker grille is embedded, eyes narrowing as she searches for the camera she clearly knows must be there.
"The fork insulation trick was smart," I continue, keeping my tone neutral, letting the synthesized edge of the ship's comm system strip some of the warmth from my voice. "Most people don't think to protect themselves from electrical feedback. You've done this before."
"Go fuck yourself." Her voice is steady. No tears. No pleading. Just pure, crystallized anger wrapped in perfect diction.
"Eventually," I allow. "But first we need to discuss your situation."
"My situation?" She laughs, and it's sharp enough to cut. "You mean the situation where I've been abducted by a glorified kidnapper in a tin can who thinks fancy sheets make him less of a criminal?"
The titles she's assigned me echo through the bridge, glorified kidnapper, tin can, and I have to admit, they're not entirely inaccurate.
Though the insult to The Cerberus strikes deeper than the one aimed at me.
This ship is a masterwork of stealth engineering, every line and system refined over years of modifications.
But I suppose to someone who's just woken up in an unfamiliar quarters, stolen from everything she knows, the distinction between a state-of-the-art vessel and a tin can is rather academic.
I should be irritated. Should remind her who has the power here, who controls every breath she takes while she's aboard The Cerberus. Should make her understand exactly how precarious her position is, how easily I could make her regret that clever mouth.
Instead I lean back in my command chair, reassessing. "You're not what I expected."
"What, you expected me to swoon? Weep prettily into these extremely expensive pillows while I wait for you to explain your tragic backstory and demand I save your dying planet?"
Every muscle in my body locks down. "What did you say?"
"Please." She's pacing now, gestures sharp and contained in the limited space.
"You think I can't connect the dots? You show up at a diplomatic ball, bypass security that should be impossible to crack, identify and extract the one person at that entire party with bio-kinetic abilities strong enough to matter on a planetary scale.
This isn't random. You didn't take me for ransom.
You took me because you need something only I can do. "
Clever. Too clever. This was supposed to be simple, take the asset, transport her to Erebus, let her see the dying world and the dying people and let guilt and compassion do the work fear couldn't.
But she's already ten steps ahead, already building the framework, already understanding the shape of the cage I'm building even if she doesn't know all the details yet.
"And if you're right?" I ask carefully.
"Then you're an idiot." She crosses her arms, glaring at the camera she still hasn't located.
"Because whatever you think I can do, whatever miracle you're expecting, I can't perform it under duress.
Bio-kinesis doesn't work like that. It requires connection.
Willingness. You can't force someone to love a place into living. "
Love. The word sits wrong in the sterile air of the command deck, too soft for the hard edges of what we're doing here, what I'm doing here.
"Who said anything about force?" I counter, keeping my tone deliberately neutral, as though we're discussing agricultural policy rather than kidnapping.
"You literally drugged and abducted me," she fires back without missing a beat. "Or did I imagine the part where I woke up on a ship I didn't board, headed somewhere I didn't agree to go?"