{Gait}

Pehton headed down to Infernus block. She wanted to make good on her promise to Sagan. Otherwise, the young woman’s entreating eyes threatened to haunt the Lyrik’s conscience forever.

Razor’s eyes on the Seamswalker certainly would. Lust failed to describe it. Desire, also, not strong enough. Devour. That was it. The Pain Curator wanted to consume the most overpowered Progeny. No offense to Rayne.

It hurt Pehton to watch him lead the sweet girl away. So, delivering the message to Korac hopefully absolved the Executive Warden.

Right?

Fuck.

Exiting the lift, she mentally prepared herself. What would it be tonight? Leather? Denim? Or altogether nude? The Icarus haunted a few of Pehton’s dreams, himself—

Korac slept curled on his side, facing her. As she spied him sleeping, he frowned and clenched the sheets. No, even shirtless, there was nothing sensual about how small he looked. Standing, the man towered over her. Asleep… whatever struggle he faced in his nightmares reduced him to a mere mortal like the rest of them.

“Contaminant thug.”

Admittedly, Pehton never once heard so much prejudice in Razor’s voice until that moment. Something about Sagan smelling of Korac bothered him in particular.

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Well, if the Lyrik got any say, she’d ask Sagan to rub all over her suitor before every engagement with Razor from hereon.

Fuck that guy—

“No!” Korac cried out as he bolted upright in his bed. Frantically, he searched the cell as if re-acclimating to his surroundings. He locked eyes with her through the nacre-deterring energy shield.

Pehton took a step back, caught.

As if relieved by her presence, he relaxed and fell back onto the pillow with a sigh. One arm across his eyes. Voice deep with exhaustion despite waking up only seconds ago, “How can I help you, Executive Warden?”

She opened her mouth to ask if he was all right, then thought better of it. “Sagan—”

At the mention, the Icarus sat up abruptly and gave her his full attention. Pale gray eyes grew focused, alert.

Pehton couldn’t stop herself. She barked out a laugh. It was so endearing and hilarious at the same time.

He quirked a brow at her disrespect, but brokered no defense. “What about her?”

“She—”

The communicator in the Lyrik’s palm vibrated her entire body in a sensation similar to electrocution.

Instant. Terror.

It only activated on that frequency for intergalactic emergencies. Without another word to Korac, Pehton opened the missive. A three-dimensional model of events played in her palm. Events on Earth.

“What the fuck is happening, Executive Warden?” Korac watched the same display as her. He knew.

Pehton shut down. Professional mode meant distancing herself. No adrenaline. No, that’s what they wanted. Panic and distress. She wouldn’t give them that. Never again.

Another missive followed. With her voice remote, Pehton announced, “I’ve been summoned to Enki. They’re considering the attacks an act of war against the entire Vast Collective given that Earth is a junior applicant.”

As if he recognized the shift in her, Korac asked softly, “Pehton, where is Sagan?”

Oh.

Shit.