Page 22 of Shadows of Stardust

Fates, those eyes.

Maybe I was wrong about her not possessing any natural weapons.

Glinting like shards of broken sea glass, they strip me bare and guilty.

Which, on its face, is nonsensical. I’ve got nothing to feel guilty about, but I’d never know it from the way she looks at me. Like I’ve crawled out from some stinking cesspit to ruin her day, specifically.

Infuriating human.

Marva gives Roslyn a long, assessing look—one Roslyn bears with an admirable amount of calm, given how intimidating the older Nexxan female can be.

“Fine,” Marva says, albeit skeptically. “Rhevar, you stay here to walk production through exactly what happened. Sella, please see Roslyn back to her bungalow.”

The Vas-Greshiran gives Roslyn another dejected, longing look.

Roslyn misses it entirely.

She’s still too busy staring murder at me, at least until Sella brushes another concerned touch over her shoulder, which seems to snap Roslyn out of it.

Giving Marva a curt nod, she turns to leave with Sella trailing right behind.

“And you,” Marva says, jerking her chin at me. “Check in with your supervisor. He’ll want an explanation of what happened here.”

A wave of bitter irritation settles over me, souring my gut.

“Fine.”

With that, production springs into action.

Marva pulls Rhevar aside for a chat, a handful of junior producers redirect the cameras, and the rest of the night’s show goes on like nothing has happened at all.

I’m forgotten in the lurch, standing rooted in the sand for a few long moments before I begrudgingly trudge off to whatever bureaucratic bullshit waits for me in the Security Director’s office.

I’m never more acutely aware of how far I’ve fallen than when I stand in the small, pathetic office that serves as the headquarters for Mate Match security.

Once, I took my orders from the Auxiliary Grand Council itself.

Delivered in the Command Hall on the massive space station that serves as the Aux’s center of operations, those orders took me to distant galaxies and planets on some of the sector’s most sensitive missions.

The assignments I carried out with the unit I commanded turned the tides of wars, returned hostage diplomats to their home planets, ended roiling conflicts before they could eruptinto all-out violence. I traveled from one side of the Seventh Sector to the other, and my name meant something.

Imeant something.

But now, standing in the low, perpetually flickering yellow light of Director Brivik’s office, spine straight and hands clasped behind me because I haven’t lost all sense of propriety and personal pride, disgust churns my gut.

Disgust for this assignment, disgust with myself, disgust for all the mistakes that brought me here.

“So what,” Brivik says in an unpleasant, nasally voice, “you thought you’d decide to play hero? Big warrior stepping in to save the day?”

I clear my throat, barely swallowing back the wave of bitter bile that wells up at being forced to answer to him.

“No, sir. I was patrolling and happened to see the altercation. Roslyn—the human female—seemed like she was in trouble, so I intervened.”

“Patrolling?” He raises a sardonic brow. “And paying special attention to her?”

I don’t answer, but Brivik seems particularly fond of listening to himself talk, so it doesn’t bother him.

He chuckles, and the sound of it is like slime and oil against my skin. “Believe me, I know how much of a fascination she is amongst the cast and crew.”

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