Page 75 of Reaper Said Mine

“We raid. We steal. We take captives. We have been cruel. We have built songs around men who should have been warnings instead of legends.” His claws rest against the table, black and curved, but his hands remain still. “If I tell you the galaxy helped make us this way, that does not wash blood from our hands. It only explains why there is so much of it.”

I forget, for one dangerous second, that I am supposed to be interviewing him rather than staring at him like he has just opened a hidden door in the floor.

“That may be the most politically inconvenient answer anyone has ever given me,” I say.

“Good.”

“Good?”

“Convenient answers are usually traps with perfume on them.”

I breathe out despite myself. “You and I may have the same opinion of press releases.”

“I have never trusted anything written by the committee.”

“Yet you’re negotiating a protectorate agreement with the Coalition.”

His expression hardens just slightly. “I am listening to an offer.”

“Ambassador Theryki believes you’re doing more than listening.”

“Ambassador Theryki believes many things that help Ambassador Theryki sleep.”

“That is not a denial.”

“No,” he says. “It is contempt.”

I glance down to mark the time stamp, mostly because I need half a second to keep my face under control. “What does the Coalition offer you that piracy and independence cannot?”

“Recognition.”

The word is plain, but not simple.

“Legal recognition?” I ask.

“Borders. Trade standing. Defense obligations from powers who would prefer I remain useful rather than dead. A seat at tables where men like Zune already poison decisions about my people without needing to say our names.”

“And what do they get?”

“Access. Leverage. A blade they can point toward the Alliance, the Combine, or anyone else who misbehaves near the Badlands.”

“You know that.”

“I am not young enough to mistake a leash for jewelry.”

My mouth twitches. “That line will test well.”

“Do not make me sound charming.”

“I think that’s beyond my control at this point.”

His gaze fixes on me with a heat that has nothing to do with the vents. The bond between us pulls tight, not like a chain and not like a command, but like gravity discovering a new center. My skin prickles beneath my sleeves. I can still feel the ghost of his arms from when he carried me out of the feast, the impossible security of his strength, the public shock of his claim wrapping around us while diplomats stared and Reapers sang low in their throats.

I look down at my compad because cowardice has many forms, and apparently mine is pretending to check audio levels.

“You are blushing,” he says.

“I am warm.”