Page 3

CHAPTER 3

SHOMUN

M y hand tingles where it rests against the small of her back. The silk of her blouse does nothing to mask her body heat. I guide her into the rear of my limousine, fighting the urge to let my fingers linger.

"Thank you, Sir." Her voice carries a hint of Louisiana in its cadence.

I slide in beside her, maintaining professional distance. The leather seat creaks beneath my weight. Even with the image inducer making me appear human, I still mass the same as a Vakutan warrior.

The DNA scan results flash across my mind again. Human. Definitely human. But that means nothing these days. The grolgath are clever bastards. They could have gotten to her, turned her into an asset. Those referrals worry me.

"Are you cold?" I ask, noting the goosebumps on her arms.

"No Sir. Just excited to start work."

The scent of her perfume fills the cabin. Jasmine and something deeper, muskier. My enhanced senses pick up the subtle changes in her body chemistry. She's aroused. That could be useful... or dangerous.

Silas Greer's name on her resume burns in my mind like a warning beacon. That smug corporate raider has been on Project Veritas's watchlist for months. Too many coincidences. Too many connections to known grolgath operations.

And now his former employee sits beside me, all wide green eyes and demure responses.

I need to keep her close. Watch her. Test her. The fact that I want to do exactly that for entirely unprofessional reasons just makes this more complicated.

The car pulls away from the curb. I keep my expression neutral, but my mind races through contingency plans.

The limo glides through the streets of New Orleans, the hum of the engine a low, steady backdrop. Claire shifts in her seat, her thigh brushing against mine for the briefest moment. The contact sends a jolt through me—sharp, electric, and entirely too distracting. I keep my face neutral, my gaze forward, but I’m hyper-aware of her presence. The faint scent of her perfume—something floral with a hint of spice—fills the space between us. It’s maddening.

She’s staring at me now, waiting for an answer. Her green eyes are wide, curious, and maybe a little wary. I can practically hear the gears turning in her head.

“May I ask where we’re going, Sir?” she says, her voice soft but steady.

I rattle off her address without looking at her.

Her eyebrows shoot up. “That can’t be right. That’s my home address.”

“I know,” I say, still not looking at her.

She blinks, her lips parting slightly. “Do you personally visit the homes of all your hires?”

“No.” I leave it at that, letting the word hang in the air like a challenge.

She narrows her eyes, clearly not satisfied. “I think I’m entitled to know why you want to see where I live.”

I turn to her then, my gaze sharp. “Claire, do you trust me?”

The question catches her off guard. She opens her mouth, hesitates, then shakes her head. “I’m sorry, Sir, but we have only just met?—”

“Precisely,” I cut her off, my tone firm. She flinches, and I can see the frustration flicker across her face, but she doesn’t push further. Smart girl.

The rest of the ride passes in silence. She stares out the window, her arms crossed, while I watch her from the corner of my eye. The tension between us is electric, charged with questions neither of us is ready to ask.

When we pull up to her building, I step out first, holding the door for her. She hesitates, her eyes darting to mine as if waiting for some kind of explanation. I offer none, and she finally gets out, her movements stiff.

I follow her up the narrow staircase to her efficiency apartment. The place is small but tidy, with a faint scent of lavender and old wood. She stands awkwardly by the door, her arms still crossed, as I glance around.

I pull out my compad, thumbing the screen to activate the scanner. The holographic interface glows faintly, casting a blue hue over my hand as I wave it slowly through the air. The sensors hum softly, analyzing the room for any signs of grolgath tech or residual energy signatures.

Claire’s eyes narrow as she watches me. “Are you… taking video of my apartment, Sir?”

I glance at her. Her arms are crossed, her posture tense. The worry in her voice tugs at something in me. I’m not used to feeling… anything, really, but this human woman has a way of cutting through my usual detachment.

“This isn’t a trick or a reprimand,” I say, my tone steady. “I’m a man with many enemies, and it behooves me to be extra cautious.”

She nods, but the tension doesn’t fully leave her shoulders. Her green eyes flicker to the compad, then back to me. “Okay. Just… let me know if you need me to move anything.”

“I will.” The compad’s readings come back clear—no grolgath tech, no hidden devices. It’s a relief, but it doesn’t mean much. Grolgath are clever. They could have her working for them without her even knowing it.

I tuck the compad back into my pocket and turn to her. “Show me your wardrobe.”

She hesitates for a moment, then says, “Yes, Sir,” and leads me to her bedroom. The room is small, cluttered, and smells faintly of lavender. Clothes are strewn over the back of a chair, and the bed is unmade. She grabs a handful of items and stuffs them into a hamper in the corner.

“Maid’s day off,” she says with a nervous laugh, trying to lighten the mood.

I grunt, unimpressed. Her smile fades, and she opens the closet door. “It’s mostly thrift store stuff,” she admits, gesturing to the rows of clothes inside. “I know you’ll probably want me to upgrade my wardrobe.”

I step closer, inhaling deeply. My Vakutan senses pick up nothing unusual—no grolgath scent, no hidden devices. The closet is just a closet. I scan the walls and floor, checking for hidden panels or compartments, but everything is clean.

“Your apartment is… acceptable,” I say finally, closing the closet door. “But we’ll discuss your wardrobe tomorrow. You’ll need to look the part if you’re going to work for me.”

She nods, her expression a mix of relief and uncertainty. “Yes, Sir.”

I take one last look around the room. For now, I’ve found nothing suspicious, but that doesn’t mean I can let my guard down. Claire Redding is an enigma—one I intend to solve.

The boutique is exactly what I expected—opulent, exclusive, and utterly overwhelming for someone like Claire. She stands in the center of the room, her arms stiff at her sides as a swarm of tailors and assistants descend on her like vultures on fresh prey. One of them kneels at her feet with a measuring tape, another circles her with a critical eye, muttering about her complexion and the hues that would best complement her.

Claire’s eyes dart to me, wide and unsure. She’s out of her element here, and it shows. Instead of retreating into her usual demure composure, she looks to me for reassurance. A small crack in her facade, and it’s all I need.

“You’re fine, Ms. Redding,” I say, my voice calm but firm. “You’re in the very best of hands.”

Her shoulders relax slightly, and she offers a shy smile. It’s small, hesitant, but real. Something warm and unfamiliar stirs in my chest. Approval? Protectiveness? I push the feeling aside. I don’t have time for sentimentality.

The lead tailor, a wiry man with an impeccable mustache, steps forward with a bolt of fabric draped over his arm. “Now, Ms. Redding, we’ll start with a classic pantsuit. Something tailored but not too severe?—”

“No,” I interrupt, my voice sharp enough to make the man freeze mid-sentence. “No pants. Skirts only, and above the knee unless style demands otherwise.”

The room goes quiet. Claire’s head snaps toward me, her green eyes narrowing. “Excuse me?”

I meet her gaze without flinching. “Skirts, Ms. Redding. It’s a professional requirement.”

Her cheeks flush, and her lips part like she’s about to argue, but then she presses them together and looks away. She understands. Good.

The tailors scramble to adjust, shuffling through racks of dresses and skirts with renewed urgency. Claire stands stiffly as they measure her again, her face still pink. I watch her closely, noting the way her hands clench and unclench at her sides. She’s flustered, maybe even angry, but she’s not fighting me. That’s progress.

The lead tailor returns, this time with a sleek pencil skirt in a deep emerald green. He holds it up for approval, and I nod. “Yes. That will do.”

Claire’s jaw tightens, but she doesn’t say a word as she takes the skirt and disappears into the dressing room. I lean against the wall, crossing my arms, and wait.

When she emerges, the skirt clings to her hips in a way that’s both professional and undeniably alluring. The tailors fawn over her, adjusting the hem and pinning the waistband, but I barely notice. My eyes are fixed on her. She’s beautiful, but it’s more than that. There’s a spark in her now, a defiance that wasn’t there before. It’s intriguing.

She catches me staring and raises an eyebrow. “Happy, Sir?”

“Very,” I reply, my tone even. “But we’re not done yet. Let’s move on to the blouses.”

The afternoon sun catches in Claire's honey-blonde hair as we exit the boutique. Her new outfit - a cream silk blouse and that emerald pencil skirt - transforms her from mousy accountant to corporate goddess. The sight stirs something primal in me, something I thought long buried under centuries of discipline and duty.

I clench my jaw. Human women are a pleasant diversion, nothing more. A night of passion, then onto the next mission. That's how it's always been. That's how it should be. But Claire...

The way she moves in that skirt sets my blood on fire. The slight sway of her hips speaks of untapped sensuality waiting to be unleashed. Dangerous thoughts for a Vakutan warrior. More dangerous still for a Veritas operative with a mission.

She has power over me. The realization hits like a plasma bolt to the chest. This slip of a human female has worked her way under my scales without firing a shot.

No. I am her superior, her master. I will mold her into the perfect assistant, train her to my exacting standards. And if she proves trustworthy, perhaps...

I shake off the thought. "You may have the rest of the afternoon off," I tell her as we reach the car. "Enjoy it, because starting tomorrow at five AM you belong to me. Do not be late."

The drive to her apartment passes in charged silence. I watch in the rearview mirror as she exits the car, her new skirt highlighting every curve. She stands on the curb, watching my departure with those mesmerizing green eyes.

One way or another, I will solve the Claire enigma.