Page 143 of Reaper Said Mine

“You’re doing weirdly well.”

“I will inform the rumor network.”

“Please don’t.”

I lift her hand and press my mouth to her knuckles. The gesture is gentle, but the promise beneath it is not. Her breath catches. I want to tell her every dangerous thing inside me. I want to name love again, not for corridors or gossip or children, but for the woman standing in front of me with fear in her eyes and courage in her spine. I do not. Love that demands an answer is only another kind of pressure, and the galaxy is already pressing on her from every side.

Instead, I lower her hand and keep holding it.

“Tomorrow,” I say, “we let them see enough to become confused.”

Her eyes brighten. “That may be our most useful strategy yet.”

“They expect weakness.”

“Let’s give them a problem.”

I smile then, slow and sharp. “That I can do.”

Outside the viewport, lightning splits the Badlands in silence. Inside the room, the dead relay banks reflect our joined hands in cracked glass, making a dozen broken images of the same impossible truth. The risks around us are multiplying. Theryki is recalculating. Dawson is circling. Zune is hiding knives inside money. Gobold is hoping for the kind of crisis soldiers can solve by aiming at it. Every faction has learned my heart has a name now, and every one of them will try to turn that knowledge into leverage.

Let them try.

I am done mistaking love for weakness simply because cowards know how to threaten it.

Ursa squeezes my hand once, and together we stand in the old signal room while Guyver Station carries our rumor through its bones toward every enemy listening.

CHAPTER 19

URSA

The upper gallery is full of polished manners, expensive drinks, and people who would absolutely shove one another out an airlock if the lighting made it look dignified.

Amber lanterns float beneath the curved ceiling, casting warm light over black metal walls that have been draped with Coalition silks, Alliance banners, and station-made woven panels meant to soften the fact that everyone is standing inside a warlord’s fortress after somebody tried to murder a high-ranking ambassador through the plumbing. The air smells of spiced wine, roasted root vegetables, ozone from hidden shield emitters, and Narra’s excellent food arranged on tables no one is foolish enough to approach without watching everyone else take the first bite. Music hums from old Reaper strings somewhere behind a privacy screen, low and mournful, threading beneath diplomatic laughter like grief wearing formal clothes.

I stand near the gallery rail with a cup I have no intention of drinking, my compad tucked under one arm, and a smile on my face that has enough teeth in it to discourage casual conversation.

Gnash is ten paces away speaking with Wilcox and one of his security officers, massive and composed in a black coat cut to accommodate the pale bone spurs along his forearms. Every person in the room is pretending not to watch how often his attention returns to me. They do it badly. Diplomats are excellent liars when words are involved, but their eyes are amateurs.

Theryki watches best.

She stands near the opposite wall in deep bronze robes that make her green scales glow like polished jade under the lantern light. Her golden eyes move from Gnash to me and back again with surgical patience. She no longer looks amused by the bond between us. That may be the most concerning development of the evening. Amusement means underestimation. Concern means recalculation.

A Coalition aide approaches me with a tray of small savory pastries and a smile so bright it might have been generated by committee.

“Ms. Ramone,” she says, “may I offer refreshment?”

“No, thank you.”

“They are quite safe. Prepared under station supervision, I believe.”

“I’m sure they’re delicious.”

Her smile trembles around the edges. “Ambassador Theryki hopes you are recovering well from yesterday’s terrible incident.”

“Does she?”

“Of course.”