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His file opens on the screen. Onyx Mercer. Calder. Medical sponsorship, full coverage. Sponsorship status is open.
The photograph looks back at me with the careful, neutral expression of someone who knew exactly when the camera would flash. Same blond hair. Same green eyes. Same pretty face.
And none of it explains the scanner.
I know what I saw. There’s something wrong with this file, and I could probably find it in ten minutes if I started pulling at the right pieces.
I don’t. Putting my seal on him now would make Dad notice. More importantly, stopping him here would ruin the interesting part.
I want to see what he does when he thinks he got away with it.
“Ninety minutes until deployment.”
Seren comes up beside me, a drink in each hand. His gaze drops to the file just before I close it, and he passes me my glass.
Ryven appears on Seren’s other side with his own drink. His eyes flick to the file I just closed. “Already a favorite? Or are you still deciding whether you want to chase him, break him, or fuck him?”
I snort. “I don’t have favorites.”
“No.” His grin widens. “You have fixations. Usually, you wait until the second checkpoint before getting one.”
“Fuck off.”
He laughs and opens the next file on his slate.
For the next hour and a half, the three of us work through the names the Houses sent up. Ryven takes the candidates wanted for labor contracts. Seren gets a stack from families seeking marriages, guards, and household appointments. Mine is a mix of everything.
The requests are never subtle.
Strong enough for the mines. Educated enough to tutor children. Pretty enough to marry. Quiet enough to live in someone else’s house without causing trouble.
One House wants a candidate with medical training and doesn’t care what planet he came from. Another seeks a husband for a daughter who has already rejected three. A third sends back the same file twice, asking whether the candidate’s limp will worsen with age.
I take a sip and mark him unsuitable.
Ryven glances over. “Too damaged?”
“Too expensive. They’ll spend more to keep him functional than they’ll ever make back.”
“Light, that’s fucking cold, even for you.”
I hand the slate back. “You asked me whether they’d buy him, not whether I’d invite him home to dinner.”
Ryven snorts. “Remind me never to end up on one of your fucking lists.”
“You’d be overpriced.”
“See? There it is again.”
Seren takes the next file from the stack before Ryven can continue. “Can we finish before you two start flirting?”
“Fuck off,” we say together.
That’s how time goes. Faces, histories, debts, bodies. What they can do. What they cost. What someone might want them for if they survive long enough to be bought.
By the time our glasses are empty, the deployment clock is almost out.
Ryven closes his slate. “It’s time, guys.”
