Chapter 1 #2
A human woman is chasing two small children across the room—one with a ridged forehead, one without.
Another woman laughs in a doorway, talking to someone I can’t see.
The smell of cooking food fills the air, something savory and unfamiliar that makes my stomach growl.
Deep Xylan voices rumble from somewhere further in the compound, mixed with the higher pitch of children’s shrieks and laughter.
I catch movement in my peripheral vision. A figure in a doorway, arms crossed, watching me with an expression that’s anything but welcoming. I look away quickly, but I can feel his eyes on my back as we walk.
“I’ll introduce you to everyone at dinner. First, I’ll show you to your room so you can settle in,” Chief says. “Then—”
He’s cut off by the sound of heavy footsteps from a side hallway. A deep voice, sharp with irritation.
My breath catches.
I’ve seen Xylans. Plenty of them. But something about this one.
.. He’s massive, even for a Xylan. Shoulders that could block a cargo door and built like he was carved from the same rock he mines.
His skin is that warm golden-brown I’ve seen on other Xylans on Timbur, but somehow on him it looks different.
Harder. Like armor. Same ridged forehead, same clawed hands as every other Xylan I’ve encountered.
But his presence. He fills the entire room just by existing in it.
His features are sharp. Harsh. A face that looks like it’s never smiled and has no intention of starting now.
Long dark hair is pulled back from his face, exposing the full force of his expression.
Which is currently aimed directly at me.
His eyes land on mine—hazel, I notice, lighter than I expected—and they’re cold. He’s also wearing green gloves of the unmated. “This is her?” His voice is a low rumble. “The journalist?”
“Trunk.” Chief’s voice holds a note of warning. “This is Ines Vieira. Ines, my brother Texon.”
I step forward, professional smile firmly in place. I’ve perfected this smile over years of difficult interviews. It’s my armor. “Thank you for agreeing to—”
He crosses his massive arms. “I didn’t agree to anything.” He cuts me off without hesitation. “I was assigned.”
I keep the smile fixed. “Well. I appreciate your time either way.”
He doesn’t respond, just looks at me like I’m something unpleasant he discovered on the bottom of his boot.
Awkward silence stretches between us.
One of the children runs past, completely oblivious to the tension, shrieking with laughter.
Chief clears his throat. “Trunk will show you to your room and explain the guidelines for your stay.”
“Guidelines?”
“Rules,” Trunk corrects flatly. “Come on. I don’t have all day.” He turns and walks away without bothering to check if I’m following.
I look back at Chief. He gives me a half-shrug that seems to say I tried. He was outvoted, and he’s not happy about it.
Great. So I’m stuck with the one brother who absolutely, definitely, did not want me here. I grab my bag and hurry after Trunk. His legs are approximately twice the length of mine, and he’s walking like he’s trying to set a land speed record. I practically have to jog to keep up.
“The compound is bigger than I expected,” I say, trying for conversation.
Grunt.
“Chief mentioned you’ve expanded over the years.”
Another grunt.
“How many children live here now?”
“Three, sometimes four, with more on the way.”
“That must make for a lively household.”
He stops so abruptly I nearly crash into his back. I catch myself just in time, stumbling slightly. Whew. That would have been embarrassing.
He turns and looks down at me. And I mean down. I consider myself average height for a human woman, but next to him I feel tiny.
“What exactly are you here to investigate, Ms. Vieira?” His voice is ice. “Our parents’ murder, or our family?”
I meet his glare.
You’re not the scariest interview I’ve ever had, buddy. Not even top five.
“Both. But I also want to help you investigate the unexplained murder of your parents,” I say evenly. “But context matters. Understanding your family helps me understand the case.”
“You don’t need to understand my family.” His voice could freeze plasma. “You need to ask your questions, get your answers, and leave.”
“I’m just trying to—”
“I know what journalists do. They did it before. After my parents died, reporters crawled all over Timbur, asking questions, pretending to care about truth.” His jaw is tight.
The ridges on his forehead are furrowed deep.
“And then they wrote whatever made the best story. Turned our family’s worst nightmare into entertainment for strangers. ”
“I’m not those journalists. I am a professional and I take my ethical obligations seriously.”
“They all say that.” He turns and keeps walking.
I follow in silence.
We reach a door at the end of a hallway, and he pushes it open without ceremony.
The room is small but clean. A bed that looks surprisingly comfortable.
A small desk. Basic amenities. Clearly a converted storage space, but someone made an effort, giving me a stack of fresh bedding, a small plant in a container, a clean towel folded on the desk. Better than I expected, honestly.
Trunk stands in the doorway, arms crossed over his massive chest and lists the rules.
“Meals are at set times in the common area. Don’t be late or you don’t eat.”
I nod.
“You don’t enter the mines without escort. That escort is me.”
Another nod.
“You don’t interview family members without me present. And you are not allowed to record us with any audio or visual equipment. You can take notes of what is said, that is all.”
“That seems—”
“You don’t access family archives without permission.” He barrels right over my objection. “You don’t wander the compound alone at night. You don’t—”
“Is there anything I am allowed to do?” I can’t quite keep the edge out of my voice.
His expression doesn’t change. Not even a flicker. “You’re allowed to do your job. Within parameters.”
“Your parameters.”
“My family’s parameters.” He meets my eyes, and his gaze is hard. “You’re a guest here. Act like one.”
We lock eyes. Neither of us backs down.
“I’m going to find the truth about what happened to your parents,” I say quietly. “Whether you help me or not.”
“Truth.” He says the word like it tastes bitter on his tongue. “Everyone claims they want truth. What they really want is a story that confirms what they already believe.”
“That’s not me.”
“We’ll see.”
He turns to leave. Pauses. Points at the wall to my left. “My quarters are next door. If you need something in the night, knock.” His eyes narrow slightly. “If you try to wander the compound alone, I’ll know.”
So much for any late-night investigating. “Good to know I’ll be so...” I pause, choosing my words carefully. “Well-supervised.”
Is that a twitch at the corner of his mouth? No. I must have imagined it.
“Dinner is in one hour. Don’t be late.”
And then he’s gone.
I stand in the small room, heart pounding, processing what just happened.