Page 162 of Tracked and Taken

Thane nods, slow.

“Understood, Florence.”

His head turns. His golden eyes find me.

“Vosk.”

“Thane.”

“You took the contract.”

“Signed without reading.”

“Copy.”

A beat.

His gold eyes go to the spot at my throat where Natalie’s mark is.

Everyone looks.

“It suits you.”

“Mm.”

“It also explains why you came back into this office looking like the most insufferable male in the sector.”

“That predates the bond, Thane.”

“Tell your mate I owe her a thank-you, when she next has the time.”

“Copy.”

He returns to his teacup.

Petra brings the tea over and slides it onto the arm of his chair. She pats his shoulder once. Brief. The pat a younger sister gives a six-foot-eight older brother who has just walked through the door for the holidays. The corner of his mouth moves the smallest distance Korrhai mouths move.

Petra goes back to her desk. On the way past mine, her foot, without breaking stride, without looking down, with no visible commitment to the gesture, gives the leg of my reinforced chair a small kick.

The kick is the kick a younger sister gives an older brother’s furniture for having kicked it.

My tail uncoils a quarter inch toward nothing in particular.

I file the uncoil as involuntary.

Petra, behind me, sits at her desk. Maurice resettles. Petra says, mostly to Maurice and not at all to me:

“Maurice approves.”

Maurice does not, of course, react.

Across the office, the corner of Thane’s mouth moves another quarter inch.

JINX, on the public channel, with a tone about to be insufferable on his own behalf: “BRICK?”

A click on the office speaker. New register, heavier than SPROUT’s, slower, calibrated for the Korrhai chest cavity.

“JINX.”