Page 32

Margaret Elmsleigh stares back. Unflappable. Untouched.

I unlock the door and step back out.

Hours pass, and I refuse to sit in the war room waiting for a fever to strike. I keep moving. We secure the lower levels. The engineers weld thick steel plates over the breached ventilation shafts, the bright-blue sparks raining down onto the concrete. I coordinate the casualty reports from the medical bay, redistribute the guard rotations to cover the compromised sector, and manage the grim logistics of burying the dead in the sealed catacombs beneath the palace.

Three hours pass. Then six.

The Ghorvek virus takes minutes to turn a human. I give it hours, ensuring the incubation window closes completely.

I drink bitter, recycled coffee from a chipped mug as I review inventory manifests. My mind remains sharp. My vision stays clear. The cuts beneath the fresh gauze throb with normal, human healing. No black veins creeping up my neck. No madness clouding my thoughts.

The pathogen failed again. I am still immune. My secret is still safe.

A prickle moves across the back of my neck.

I don’t need to turn around to know he is there. The air in the room shifts. The human soldiers quiet their conversations, giving a wide berth to the superior creature leaning against the concrete wall.

I finish reviewing the page, sign my initials at the bottom, and hand the clipboard to Quartermaster Higgins.

Then, I turn.

Orien is watching me.

He has cleaned the Ghorvek blood from his skin, dressed once more in the form-fitting soft fabric designed to cling to every ridge. The glowing orange filaments along his throat pulse in a slow, steady rhythm. He’s just… staring.

His gaze sweeps over my pristine sleeves, lingering on my left arm. He knows I lied. The suspicion rolls off him in waves. He is dissecting the timeline, analyzing my adamant refusal of his medical scan, wondering exactly what secret I’m hiding. He knows the concrete wall didn’t tear my clothing.

But it’s not just suspicion I see in those otherworldly eyes.

No, the heat is undeniable. It’s raw and heady, stripping away the oxygen in the space between us. When his eyes meet mine, the hunger in them makes my breath catch. It is the same look he gave me when he cornered me against the war room table. The look of a male who has found something he intends to keep.

I fold my hands behind my back, digging my nails into my palms.

Orien pushes off the wall, taking a single, slow step toward me before stopping. The distance between us remains vast, yet the invisible tether pulling us together practically hums with tension.

He wants to unravel me. He announced his intentions clear as day. I watch the slow, predatory tilt of his head, the slight parting of his lips. Does the alien actually desire the ice-cold human commander? Is the possessive fire in his eyes a genuine biological reaction? Or is this another tactic? A calculated performance designed to flatter me, to lower my guard, to seduce the secrets out of my mouth so he can hand them to his prince?

A spymaster uses whatever weapon serves the mission. He told me himself that he collects secrets. My immunity is the greatest prize on this dying planet.

I hold his gaze, refusing to look away, refusing to let the flush rise to my cheeks.

If this is nothing but an interrogation technique, he will eventually fail. I will never surrender my blood. I will never become a specimen for the Avaren to study, regardless of the heat I feel when he looks at me.

But a quiet, treacherous voice whispers in the back of my mind as the stare stretches on.

If it is a show… I will be oddly disappointed.

9

ORIEN

Two human weeks have passed since Margaret Elmsleigh supposedly cut her arm on a concrete wall and lied to my face about it. It has been a dance of avoidance so intricate it belongs in a military textbook.

At three in the morning, the Hampton Court bunker feels less like a fortress and more like a tomb. The corridors are silent and chilly.

I walk into the war room carrying two heavy crystal glasses and a bottle of glowing, bioluminescent blue liquid. I synthesized the glasses from the Veil’s stores, alongside the Vasari spirits. Vasar is a water planet, and its alcohol tastes like salt spray and starlight. It is a rather potent drink, and I’m uncertain about human tolerance for it, so I produced a milder iteration.

Maggie sits alone at the massive metal table. The map of the British Isles spreads out before her, illuminated by the harsh glare of a single desk lamp. The dark circles under her eyes look like bruises, and her signature red lipstick has faded into a soft stain. She wears her flawless white shirt, buttoned to the collar, the long sleeves pristine.