Page 91 of Reaper Said Mine

“It was during a mutiny.”

“Still sweet.”

I feel my mouth twist into a smile despite myself. “You have strange standards.”

“I’m standing on a Reaper station after being publicly claimed as a soulmate by a warlord while investigating a multipolar diplomatic crisis. My standards are undergoing revisions.”

The corridor ahead narrows, and the warmer market air gives way to the cooler breath of administrative decks. I should leave her here. I should return to the annex, let her continue her work under guard, and think of nothing except relay needles, departure holds, factional pressure, and the war waiting behind every polite message.

Instead, I stop at the threshold between market and corridor.

Ursa stops too. She looks up at me with that fearless, infuriating honesty, and I know exactly why every manipulation around me now feels more poisonous than it did before. Theryki flatters. Gobold threatens. Zune hides behind money. Wilcox calculates. Even my own people sometimes soften words because they know my temper and need my favor.

Ursa does none of that.

She tells me when I am wrong. She asks where grief has taken command. She looks at the monster and refuses to pretend the man beneath it is innocent merely because he is wounded.

That kind of honesty is rarer than mercy and twice as dangerous.

“I will be in negotiations for several hours,” I say.

“I figured.”

“Eat real food.”

“I had a bun.”

“That bun looked hostile.”

“It was fine.”

“It was smoking.”

“I like regional cuisine.”

“It hissed at you.”

“That was steam.”

“It had opinions.”

She smiles, and there is sunlight in it, though no sunlight reaches Guyver Station. “I’ll eat, Gnash.”

“Good.”

“And you should try not to let Theryki bait you into promising away your defense corridors.”

My eyes narrow. “You listened to yesterday’s access briefing.”

“I’m a journalist.”

“You accessed restricted briefing summaries.”

“I accessed poorly secured briefing summaries.”

“That is theft.”

“That is research.”