Chapter 30
TASK
SFS POLARIS
As Task returns from his latest interrogation of a Rev they’d discovered on board, he breathes a sigh of relief.
He’d thought that being away from Nexarium would give him space to breathe, perhaps allow him to take on a slightly different role than the one he was used to playing — the governor’s personal assassin, the yes man, the would-be heir accepting orders without question.
But since meeting Kit, since talking to Tullia, since finding the strange correspondence in his room, he’s started to wonder more.
Questioning Draven has never gone in Task’s favor, and he doesn’t particularly want to wind up the victim of a lashing again, even if he perhaps deserves it.
He does, after all, have a cord of wickedness running through him. To not even remember the number of people he’s killed, to feel only iciness when he creeps upon rebel hideouts in the dead of night knowing what he is about to do, it’s fucked.
He is not a good person, despite what Voss tells him, and every ‘good’ thing he does is just trying to make up for all the bad he’s brought into the world.
If he’d had a real choice, perhaps he wouldn’t have become an assassin.
Perhaps he wouldn’t have the blood of hundreds on his hands.
But he is, and he does, and there isn’t a way out for him.
Not so long as House Dormius rules, as Nexarium commands the Consortium. As long as Draven continues to speak of making Task his heir. It will be worse, he knows, if he ever has to take the mantle. All he’s ever wanted is to be powerful, and yet now he finds himself apprehensive.
He needs to get a grip. This is how it will go, and he needs to accept it.
He enters his quarters, pulling out the stash of wooden disks he’d hidden under his bed.
He hasn’t woven in weeks, and it’s taking a toll on him.
But when he’s with Kit, the pain matters less.
He’d been less careful with her recently, allowing her touch now and again, and every time her fingers had brushed his own, her hand had rested on his forearm, it was almost pleasant.
He longs for it now, even as he knows it’s bad for him.
He’s gotten himself into a losing situation.
He reaches deep into the well of himself to pull out a vine of the pain and presses it into the disk, hanging his head.
Kit
Kit finds him sitting in the common area, lounging on the couch with the top of his tunic unbuttoned, his neck slightly exposed.
One of his legs is crossed in a figure four over the other, and he leans back against the black leather couch, lazily.
He’s holding a glass filled with amber liquid, and he raises it in her direction as she enters, as if to toast her.
The lights are dim, and dusky colors pour in through the circular window on the far end. The sky is streaked a purplish-navy, and she thinks she can see Vermaxian glowing in the distance.
She sighs. It’s been a long day, and after everything — the pagadium not working as quickly as she’d wanted, the battle with the Fever — all she wanted was to find Task. And here he is. She tries not to read too much into that desire.
“I walked every floor looking for you.” She drops down onto the couch next to him, too tired to walk back the admission.
“Unfortunately, you’ve found me,” he replies, taking a sip of his drink, looking at her over the rim of the glass. Her breath catches in her throat as his azure eyes lock on to her. The way he stares at her, unflinching — it feels like he can see into her soul.
She swallows, her throat sticky. She’s always tongue-tied around him; he makes her lose her words.
She hates it. She’s can name every virus in the Consortium’s recent history, but when it comes to him…
she doesn’t know. He’s hot and cold. He insults her and then apologizes.
He gets a rare ingredient she needs and then refuses to speak to her for days.
He looks at her like that but loses his mind when they come close to touching.
But when she’s with him like this, just the two of them, she swears she can feel his walls crumbling.
“Is Knox alright?” Task asks, looking away from her as he asks the question.
“For now,” Kit nods. She wonders if he knows. Whether word had gotten out about the Fever, about Grayson’s death. Perhaps she should tell him.
“I’m glad,” Task says, though he sounds far from it. He shakes a strand of icy blonde hair out of his eye and leans forward to refill his glass with the whiskey on the coffee table in front of him. “Drink?”
“Please,” Kit says. She’s not a big fan of whiskey, but since that appears to be the only drink on offer, she supposes it will do.
She focuses on his hand as he pours her a whiskey — his long fingers, somehow both delicate and masculine, his veins shimmering just below the surface.
His tunic sleeves are pushed up to the elbow, revealing his forearms, and she imagines seeing him like this every day after work.
Casual, relaxed. He finishes pouring and refills his own glass.
“Cheers,” he says, raising his glass to hers and clinking it gently.
“Cheers,” she echoes, though it feels wrong to say it after the way things unfolded today. “Thank you for your help.”
Task locks eyes with her. “Anything for you, love.”
Her stomach somersaults. She wishes he wouldn’t say things like that to her. She doesn’t feel like it’s fair, not when she doesn’t know what it means.
He smiles a bit, the right side of his mouth lifting, and then looks back into his glass. Kit takes a sip of her drink, coughing a bit as the whiskey burns down her throat.
Task smirks at her. “Too strong?”
“Of course not,” Kit sputters, her eyes watering slightly. She takes another sip to prove a point and tries very hard not to cough again.
“It does the job,” Task says. “And I think we both could use it after today, no?”
Kit startles. So he does know.
“You think anything gets past me?” Task asks, tilting his head and smiling. “I command a platoon of Guardians on this ship, Luminary Hart. They see everything.”
Kit isn’t sure if that’s supposed to be a threat, or simply a statement. She feels defiant, though, wants to hear it from his lips. “And what did they see today?”
Task shrugs. “Something they’ve never seen before.”
Kit is quiet, chewing on her lip.
“How’d you manage to subdue it?” Task asks. He’s staring at her intensely, and she feels naked under his gaze. Does he know about her power too?
“I…I don’t know,” Kit says. Not a complete lie.
“Hmm,” Task muses, a little glint in his eyes. He grabs the whiskey from the coffee table again, pouring another fifth into his glass. “Another?”
The liquid has settled in her stomach and her limbs are warm. Task has removed the top layer of his uniform entirely, and sits in only his undershirt and trousers, his hair mussed, his eyes alight with laughter.
Somehow, it’s already midnight. They’ve been talking for three hours, and now they’ve devolved into that silly laughter that starts to happen after drinking too much.
Kit isn’t even sure what they’re laughing about at this point, but she’s just glad they are.
Task’s words are a bit slurred, and she’s fairly certain she’s not much better off.
“Okay,” Task says suddenly, standing up from the couch and moving carefully around the coffee table. “You have to show me.”
Kit laughs, looking up at him. “Show you what?”
“The waltz,” he says with mock seriousness.
“You, Hand to the Governor and major of the Nexarium Force, member of the High Council of Nexarium, don’t know how to waltz?” Kit raises her eyebrows at him, disbelieving.
Task shakes his head, a lock of blonde hair falling over his eye. “Do I look like someone who’s been educated in the art of ballroom dancing?”
“You’re basically a prince!” she says. “Isn’t that an area all nobles take classes in or something?”
“Not this noble,” he says, his hand outstretched. “Now, come on. You told me you love to dance, and you’re going to show me.”
This was a turn of events Kit was not expecting.
She knocks back the last of her whiskey and stands up on slightly wobbly legs.
Task reaches for her waist to steady her, his large palm wrapped around her middle.
She thought he didn’t want to touch her.
Or that he didn’t want her to touch him?
She’s not sure anymore what the case was, or why he’d created this stupid boundary, because his touch feels amazing.
A rush goes through her where he holds her, lightly.
“Okay,” she says, trying to steady herself and get hold of her mind again.
“Basic position.” She holds out her hand, and he places his inside of it.
He smells like mandarin and coriander and cedar, and she breathes it in.
She thinks she might melt here, into the floor of the fourth-floor common area.
“Now what?” he asks, looking down at her, his eyes meeting hers.
She pauses for a minute, feeling his hand at her waist, his other in hers. “I thought you said —”
“Fuck what I said,” Task growls, his voice an octave lower.
“We’re dancing.” He feels tense to her, but she ignores it, because he’s touching her, and she likes it.
She doesn’t want him to let go. A gentle warmth rolls through her body, starting at her toes, and she resists the urge to shiver with pleasure. “Now what?”
“Now you lead,” she says. “It’s a simple box step. I trust you know how to count?”