“We’ve solved that problem,” Korzyn grits out.
I tilt my head. “Have you?” I smirk, just because I know it pisses him off. “Have you really?”
He’s silent, and I almost cheer as his jaw tightens.
Unfortunately, I don’t have time to hang around here and chat. My contact is waiting for me to get on his boat.
“Look, Korzyn, I don’t want to argue with you. I need to get the control chip back to Alexis so she can start working on that ship and we can get off this planet. Unfortunately, I can’t trust your guards not to be working with the Dokhalls, and if they get the chip, they’ll either attempt to take the ship by force or destroy the chip out of spite.”
His face looks like it’s carved out of granite. “I don’t care.”
“Excuse me?”
“I don’t care who you trust. I’ve made a deal with Arix, and that deal includes protecting your worthless life.”
I roll my eyes. “Not if I can help it.”
He grins, and this time he looks genuinely amused. I attempt to ignore what it does to me to see the hard lines of his face relax, those eyes lightening.
“You can’t.”
I frown, but suddenly I’m spinning in place, Korzyn’s hands expertly twirling me until I’m facing the wall. I slam my head back, and he curses as I make contact with his face.
The scuffle is as quick as it is brutal. Within seconds, he has my hands caught in one of his, and he’s deftly tying them behind my back.
I briefly consider screaming. If Vivian saw the commander manhandling me this way, she’d lose her shit. All it would take is one of Vivian’s wide-eyed glances at Arix, and he’d order Korzyn to let me go.
Unfortunately, my pride doesn’t allow it. I’m trained. I’d bet on myself against almost anyone in a fight. But I let myself be trapped against this wall and distracted, allowing Korzyn to get into the perfect position to pin me.
I fight to keep my voice steady. “I’ll kill you for this.”
Korzyn laughs, his voice low and muffled. I’m guessing he doesn’t want to risk waking up my cousin and her sugar woogams either.
“You can try.”
The words are wet, and despite myself, I grin.
“Nose a little sore, Korzyn?”
He leans forward and wipes his face against my cheek.
“Ew!”
His blood is warm, and I struggle instinctively, but it’s too late. My wrists are bound.
Maybe I should just suck it up and scream. I’ll collect the tattered remains of my ego later. I open my mouth only to choke as Korzyn takes the opportunity to shove a piece of material into my mouth, his hands quick as he ties it.
I slam my head back again, but he’s not falling for that move twice. I’ll have one hell of a bruise on the back of my head already, and he now knows I’ll happily ring my own bell if I have to.
He throws me over his shoulder, ignoring my “oof” as his hard muscle digs into my belly. I shift in an attempt to knee him, but he clamps his arm around my legs. Then the bastard slaps me on the ass with a laugh and saunters down the hall.
My eye begins to twitch. I’m about to explode from either rage or sheer mortification.
Korzyn’s quarters aren’t far from mine. I should’ve known the commander would stay close. After all, he’s made sure to follow me around since the moment I got here.
Thankfully, there are no guards outside Korzyn’s door. Obviously, he’s decided he doesn’t need them. Or maybe he doesn’t trust them. Either way, I’m saved from the humiliation that would occur if anyone else witnessed this nightmare.
Korzyn throws me onto his bed, and I wiggle until I’m on my back, staring up at him. He looks very pleased with himself, and there’s something dark in his eyes as he scans me, lingering on the gag in my mouth.
“I think I prefer you like this,” he says, and I glare at him so hard I’m surprised his head doesn’t explode from my fury alone. “Now. Let’s discuss what’s going to happen next.”
Korzyn
When I first learned how to grip a sword, I was young. So young I could barely lift it. My trainer had little patience and less empathy, and I was expected to swing that sword for hours each day.
My hands suffered. A particularly nasty blister formed on my palm beneath my thumb. Each day after training, I would bandage it, and it would begin the healing process only to pop open the next day. Eventually, it grew so large I had to hold my sword with my nondominant hand.
Years later, when I spoke to my trainer, I asked him why he wouldn’t allow us to see the healers, who had balms that would have taken the pain from our blisters.
He laughed. “Would you have learned to swing your sword this skillfully with your left hand if your right did not pain you so?”
I glowered at him and stalked away, furious at his answer.
That blister plagued me, making it impossible to use my hand. Each time it got close to healing, I would be told to pick up my sword, bursting the protective layer and producing teeth-clenching pain. Eventually, the wound became infected, and my trainer had to relent and allow the healers to treat it.
The scar is now thick—a reminder that with every wound comes a healing. A hardening.
The female currently tied up on my bed reminds me of that blister.
Each time I see her, my protective layers burst and my jaw aches from clenching my teeth.
She is a stone in my shoe.
She glowers at me, and I allow myself a few moments to
