Chapter 5
ARIA DAWSON
Courtroom four smells like old steel, cold air scrubbers, and ambition. The kind of place where reputations either burn bright or go down in scandalous smoke. I walk in like I own it, every click of my heels echoing off marble and glass like a warning shot.
Neutral palette, sleek bun, matte lipstick that means business. The shoulder pads on my blazer make me look like I could take a punch from a Gornak enforcer and not spill my kaf. My body hums with caffeine and the remnants of a restless night, but I wear it like armor.
He’s already there.
Lounging at the witness table like it’s a damn throne, one leg casually draped over the other, fingers steepled.
Black shirt open just enough to hint at the chaos beneath.
That shock of white hair is tied back, emphasizing the sharp line of his jaw and the coil of bone spurs running from his knuckles halfway up his forearms. Reaper couture.
He sees me. Winks.
My mouth goes dry.
Fury. I decide it’s fury. What else could it be?
The presiding judge drones on about procedural integrity and evidentiary sanctity, but I’m not listening. My eyes are locked on him, and his on mine. There’s a curl at the corner of his mouth—half amusement, half threat. I want to claw it off and kiss it at the same time.
The gavel slams. “Aebon Rexx is hereby entered into the Ministry’s High-Value Witness Protection Initiative,” Judge Torma declares, “effective immediately.”
And just like that, the devil is on a leash. My leash.
Later, in the prep room—a windowless space with brushed aluminum furniture and the scent of recycled air—I sit across from him, legs crossed, datapad in hand.
“We’re going to start with your statement,” I say crisply. “What you saw. Names. Dates. Specifics. Leave out the dramatics.”
Aebon leans forward, arms on the table, chin cocked to the side. “But the dramatics are the best part.”
“You’re not giving a monologue. You’re giving testimony.” I grind my teeth. “You want to live through this? Then you stick to the facts. Not the theatrics.”
“Come now, Counselor,” he says, voice like melted shadows. “This isn’t your first dance. You know damn well the facts don’t move people. Fear does.”
“You’re not on the street anymore.”
His eyes gleam. “Aren’t I?”
I lean in, close enough to smell that mix of smoke, weapon oil, and whatever hell-made cologne he uses. “No threats. No slang. No blood-soaked metaphors. If you try to ‘make an example’ out of someone, I’ll make one out of you.”
His laugh is low and dangerous. “You say that like I wouldn’t enjoy it.”
My fingers curl tight around the stylus. I hate the way my body reacts to his voice—tight in the chest, heat coiling low in my belly. I clench every muscle to keep it invisible.
“Start talking, Rexx.”
He does. But not like I want.
“I saw Oth Varaxx step out of the grav-car, his little rat-lieutenant in tow. They thought they’d surprise me. Instead, they got turned into a warning. You know what a pulse katana does to a pelvis? It doesn’t just cut—it melts. Fuses bone and steel. Beautiful.”
I slam the stylus down. “This isn’t a campfire story. Give me facts.”
Aebon leans back, hands spread. “I’m giving you the truth. Just dressed in something sexy.”
I glare. “Try naked honesty for once.”
He lifts an eyebrow. “Naked, huh?”
I groan. “This isn’t flirtation, you egomaniacal lizard.”
“You sure? Because your pupils say otherwise.”
I stand so fast my chair screeches across the floor. “We’re done for today.”
He doesn’t stop me. Just watches, eyes burning with something that isn’t quite mockery. Or maybe it’s too much of it.
And I walk out wondering if I’ve just lost control of the most dangerous client the Ministry has ever assigned.
Or if he’s just started to unwrap mine.
The compad hits my desk with a clatter loud enough to startle the cleaning drone. Its automated chirp of protest echoes through the empty corridor, but I don’t apologize. I’m too busy fuming.
My heart hasn’t stopped its erratic beat since the prep session. Since he leaned in close, lips parted just enough to let that voice roll over me like smoke, hot and heavy with implication.
I hate him.
I do.
He’s a manipulative sociopath. A killer wrapped in couture and bad intentions. He should disgust me. I should be immune by now. But all I can think about is the heat that came off him when he moved too close. The way my throat tightened—not with fear, not entirely—but with want.
That’s the worst of it.
Because my body—traitorous, humiliating body—reacted.
The desk feels cold under my palms as I brace myself, leaning over the mess of files and holoscreens. I squeeze my eyes shut. No. No. I will not spiral over this. Over him.
But my brain won’t shut up.
His smirk, that precise tilt of his head when I pushed back. The way he smells—like danger and midnight and something darkly decadent. His eyes didn’t leer. They devoured. And the sick thing is, part of me wanted to be consumed.
My knees had buckled when he loomed during the debrief, voice soft and deadly in my ear, outlining how he’d “carve truth into their bones.” I barked back that this was a deposition, not a vendetta. He only smiled.
A predator’s smile.
And my stomach fluttered like it was goddamn prom night.
I should report this. Should pull myself off the case.
But I won’t.
Because I don’t back down.
And maybe, deep down in some poisoned part of me, I need to prove I can control this. Him. Myself.
I lock the office door.
I won’t cry.
Not over the whisper of a fantasy that flickers behind my eyelids every time I close them.
I sit. Stare at the wall.
He’s unraveling me.
But I’ll burn the thread before I let him see it.