Chapter 7
ARIA DAWSON
Control. Order. Structure.
These are the things I hold sacred—the things I claw back into my hands like rope from a storm tide. I enter the Ministry prep room with the posture of a blade, datapad in hand, blazer sharp, hair once again sculpted to an uncompromising twist.
This time, I come armed.
Not just with outlines and depositions. I’ve got follow-up questions carved into my mind like talons. I’m not letting this spiral again. He’ll talk. I’ll record. That’s all this is.
Then the door opens.
He’s late. And worse, he’s dressed like he just rolled out of some backroom shakedown. Black shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows, the fabric clinging to muscle like it was grown there. No tie. No jacket. Just raw, coiled threat in humanoid form.
And gods help me—I feel it again.
He sprawls in the chair like a king on a lazy throne, eyes glittering red under the low Ministry fluorescents. I don’t sit.
“Cutting it close, Rexx,” I snap, the datapad already glowing to life in my palm.
“Had to wring out the blood from my shirt.” He grins lazily. “Traffic was murder.”
I don’t dignify that with a response. Instead, I launch into my list. Names, sightings, timestamps. I hammer him with questions like I’m pinning down a rogue star. And for a while… it works.
He answers. Crisp. Detailed. Eerily compliant.
But then something flickers.
A timeline doesn’t match. The location of the Varaxx lieutenant during the last ambush doesn’t line up with his earlier statements. It’s subtle. A misstep. But I catch it.
I zero in. “You said he was at the Spire Club. But the prior record had him flagged entering the Luma Tower before the attack. Which is it?”
A pause. A twitch at the corner of his jaw.
And then he leans in.
Slowly. Quietly. Dangerously.
“You want these people behind bars or not?” he growls, low and guttural, like steel scraping over bone.
My stomach clenches—but I don’t retreat.
“Not at the expense of truth,” I say, voice cold. “You don’t get to rewrite facts because they suit your theater.”
His eyes narrow. For a moment, he’s not human. Not even Reaper. He’s rage, given form and teeth.
The silence stretches so thin it could snap.
But I don’t blink.
And finally he exhales. A sound somewhere between a sigh and a snarl. He leans back, rubs a hand over his jaw.
“You’ve got bigger balls than most of my crew,” he mutters. There’s a curl of something dark, maybe admiration, in his voice.
I arch a brow. “Thanks. I think.”
He smirks. “Meant as a compliment.”
I don’t answer.
Because the room still feels like it’s crackling. Because he let me see what’s under that polished predator’s skin for a moment—and part of me didn’t run.
And I don’t know what that says about me.
My hands are shaking.
Not from fear. No. That would be easier. That would mean I still held the high ground—the moral clarity of knowing I was in the right, standing tall against a monster.
But this?
This is adrenaline.
White-hot, bitter as liquor poured down the wrong throat. I don’t even notice I’m gripping the edge of the corridor’s wall until my nails dig into the reinforced alloy, and I have to unclench finger by finger.
I walked out like I was made of marble. Like his words didn’t rattle the bones beneath my skin. Like that little comment—about my balls, of all things—wasn’t carved with something dangerously close to respect.
But now that I’m alone, away from the watching eyes and his predator’s gaze, the truth rushes in like a broken dam.
I liked it.
Not the flattery. Or the heat in his voice or the curl of his smirk. I liked the challenge. The push. The friction. Like I could burn against him and still rise stronger from the ash.
That’s not justice. That’s corruption.
I should go back and file for reassignment.
I should do a thousand things.
Instead, I go home.
My apartment is a cold gray box. Not minimalist—sterile. Just the way I like it. Or used to. Now it feels clinical, like a crime scene.
I drop my bag, kick off my heels, and fall backward onto the couch, staring up at the ceiling like it has answers.
It doesn’t.
I replay it. Again and again. His voice. That subtle growl just under the words. The way his eyes tracked me not like prey—but like a rival. An equal.
My datapad dings. Case updates.
I don’t move.
I cover my face with the pillow. Press until my lungs tighten and my skin prickles from lack of air. Maybe if I suffocate the thoughts, they’ll die. Maybe if I block out the sound of his voice echoing in my head, I’ll forget the way my body reacted when he leaned in.
But I don’t forget.
I feel it in every pulse point. Every inch of skin he never touched but still managed to brand.
This isn’t happening.
But it is.
And I don’t know how to stop it.