Chapter 3
ARIA DAWSON
The universe has a sick sense of humor.
I scroll down the directive again, just to be sure my sleep-deprived brain didn’t conjure this out of spite.
The mug shatters when it hits the floor.
Hot ceramic and liquid splash across my bare feet, but I barely notice.
My pulse is already doing acrobatics, ears roaring with the shriek of disbelief.
The bastard. The kingpin. The man who’s danced circles around my courtroom with that smug smile and reptilian grace—he’s going to be a witness now?
And I’m supposed to protect him?
My boots thud against the tile like war drums as I storm out of my apartment, slamming the security lock with a hiss of frustration.
The air outside still smells like cold metal and neon fumes—Goldwin’s ever-present perfume.
I take the transit platform direct to the Ministry, and it’s all a blur of motion: people parting, faces blurred, my fingers clenched white around my case satchel.
By the time I’m standing in the Minister’s office, the anger has morphed into something colder. Sharper.
He’s an older man, grey hair slicked back, lines carved deep into his cheeks like grooves worn by perpetual disappointment. Minister Valtari doesn’t look up when I enter, just gestures for me to sit.
“I trust you’ve read the directive.”
“I read it,” I say, voice clipped. “Doesn’t make it less insane.”
He finally meets my gaze. His eyes are old, but not soft. “You’ve been tracking the Centauri Sect for nearly five cycles. You know their structure. Their habits. Rexx is offering testimony that could dismantle two-thirds of the Nar’Vosk Syndicate’s leadership. That puts him in play.”
“He’s a criminal.”
“He’s an asset.”
I stand. “He should be in a cell.”
Valtari leans forward. “He should be dead. But he isn’t. And right now, he’s the only one who can give us leverage before the streets drown in blood. You want justice, Aria? Sometimes it’s ugly. Sometimes it walks into court wearing bone spurs and tailored suits.”
My jaw tightens until it aches.
“Why me?”
“Because you know him better than anyone. And because I need someone who won’t be charmed into stupidity.”
The room is too bright. The walls too close. I force a breath past the lump rising in my throat.
“I want it in writing. If he steps out of line, I’m authorized to drop him.”
Valtari nods once. “Done.”
The ride to the secure sector takes less than fifteen minutes, but it feels like eternity in reverse.
The aircar vibrates with the hum of reinforced shielding, and I can feel the security drones tailing us like ghost shadows.
When we land on the roof of the old courthouse-turned-safehouse, I’m met by two Centauri enforcers in civilian attire—dressed down but still lethal.
They escort me down a private corridor, past retinal scanners and DNA-coded doors. At the end of the hall, behind a wall of shimmering translucent steel, he waits.
Aebon Rexx.
Seated, as usual, with that boneless arrogance that says I’m in control even when I’m caged. He’s dressed in dark slacks and a silken shirt unbuttoned just enough to make a point. His red eyes lock onto mine the moment I step in.
“Well, well,” he purrs, voice smooth like smoke. “They sent my favorite prosecutor. What a treat.”
I don’t sit.
“I’m not here for small talk.”
He stands, slow, unfolding to his full height like a thundercloud dressed in silk. “Pity. I was looking forward to catching up.”
“I’m your legal liaison now. You follow my protocol, answer my questions, and stay out of trouble—or this protection deal evaporates, and I throw you to the wolves with a smile on my face.”
His grin widens. “So passionate. I missed this.”
“Shut up.”
He walks closer, stopping just shy of the barrier line. “Tell me something, Aria. Do you ever dream about me?”
My pulse jumps, traitorous.
He tilts his head, watching me like I’m a particularly intriguing riddle. “Because I dream about you. Not always the same way. Sometimes you’re chasing me with cuffs and fire. Sometimes… you’re not chasing me at all.”
I force myself not to react. Not to blink. “This is war, Rexx. Not flirtation.”
“Everything’s both, in my experience.”
I turn to leave. “Be ready to talk tomorrow. We start at zero-six hundred.”
“Sweet dreams, Counselor.”
I don’t respond.
But I hear his chuckle echo down the corridor as the doors seal behind me.
And gods help me, part of me wants to hear it again.
The dream is not violent. That’s the first betrayal.
There’s no blood under my nails, no courtroom buzzing with tension, no walls echoing with the sound of his laughter laced with menace.
Instead, the world is soft. Blurred. I’m somewhere warm, the lighting amber, flickering like the reflection of fire on polished stone.
The smell is musky, deep, with something sharp beneath it—leather, smoke, heat.
And him.
Aebon is there. Not as I’ve seen him, not cloaked in menace and bone, but bare-chested, silent, eyes not crimson but deep and molten like half-cooled magma. His skin catches the low light like obsidian. He walks toward me, slow, deliberate, not with swagger but gravity, like I’m the axis he orbits.
My dream self doesn’t back away. I step toward him.
His hand lifts, and instead of seizing, it grazes. Fingers feather-light against my cheek. It’s absurd. Those hands—those monstrous, lethal hands—should not be gentle. But here, they are. They trace the curve of my jaw like he’s memorizing it. Like I’m something precious.
He leans in.
I don’t stop him.
His lips brush mine and it’s nothing like I imagined. There’s no fire, no clashing of teeth and fury. Just heat. Depth. Want. His breath against my skin is a question and a promise.
“Aria,” he murmurs.
I wake up soaked in sweat, my sheets tangled around my legs, heart pounding so hard I swear I can hear it echo in my skull.
“Fuck,” I whisper, shoving the blankets off.
The room is cold, sterile. My tiny apartment, bare and utilitarian by design, suddenly feels too tight. Too sharp. The dream lingers like a ghost, like vapor clinging to skin after a storm.
I move to the sink, splash water on my face, gripping the edges like they might anchor me to something real.
What the hell is wrong with me?
I’ve chased this man for years. I’ve catalogued his crimes, listened to the wails of his victims’ families, spent endless hours piecing together shredded evidence and testimonies burned into ash by corruption. I know what he is.
And yet, my body aches with something primal.
Not love. Not even lust.
Obsession.
I press my forehead to the mirror. “Get it together, Dawson.”
This can’t happen. Not when the stakes are higher than they’ve ever been, when lives are on the line and he’s become the epicenter of the most dangerous power play this city’s seen in a decade.
My skin remembers the brush of imagined fingers. My mouth remembers the warmth of lips that never touched it.
I slam my palm against the glass.
No.
I won’t be another story whispered in backrooms. Another tragic name attached to the legend of Aebon Rexx. I’m not that weak. I don’t fall. I fight.
Tomorrow, I confront him. He’ll see what’s behind my eyes, and he’ll know that whatever this thing is between us, it doesn’t make me soft.
It makes me dangerous.