{???}

Red. Pale green. Orange and green. Gray. Brown.

Carpet. Hardwood. Rock tile. Glass tile.

Black sheets. White sheets. Blue. Red. Green. But never violet. Not until now.

Shifting. Always shifting. The revolving scenery. People. Lives taken. Lives granted. Bodies in motion. But nobody like her.

The Seamswalker slept soundly in silken sheets the color of her eyes. The bed, suited for twelve, swallowed her frame, slighted from all the activity since her first arrival on Gait. The rest of the room painted in black, pitched in darkness.

The man known as Razor observed the beauty who slept in his bed with such fascinating trust and abandon. Spent from her encounter with the surgeon. Triss kindly prepared the girl for him. Their audience—Matt, a delightful enigma by his own rights—monitored the alien’s propriety through the cameras and all their many vantages.

Protect her virtue.

Unnecessary. The Pain Curator wanted little to do with her admittedly enticing body. He admired her sharp mind and reveled in her kind heart.

If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

Both desirable.

But the true aim lie in his reflection of her soul. Such a pure entity that around him she cracked. The splintered shards made the most beautiful mess.

The man known as Razor leaned against a steel column supporting the glass floor above his room. Idling in her presence, he soaked in a sigh that escaped her lips. Soft. Feminine. Deep asleep.

Unaware of the destruction she wrought.

He waited to deliver the news. A supportive ally in the war against Imminent. Matt attested to the assassination attempt from Celindria, generously bolstering Sagan’s faith in the Pain Curator. But it suited his purpose for her to entertain the adage, “The enemy of my enemy is my friend.”

And that vindictive viper, Celindria, could go straight to—

With a shift in the sheets, Sagan slipped out from under them. Toned legs exposed from the hem of his silk shirt. The textile mills on Lukemore dyed it for him to match her eyes. So very long ago.

Let her return to her lover smelling of vanilla and darker things.

The Pain Curator approached the bed with his hands in his pockets to appease her chaperon and prevent Matt’s intrusion. He knelt at the bedside and counted the blond lashes closed softly against lightly freckled cheeks. Even with an audience, the temptation to kiss her clenched his fists. Not to know her taste; although he considered it many times. No. He wanted to leave his taste on her.

He couldn’t wait to ruin her. The Atheneum would suffer in the reflection of her shattered soul. Broken. Worse than dead.

Never would the man known as Razor allow his carefully constructed empire to fall. Not to the likes of the Atheneum. And not to the likes of the Progeny.

Not even to the Seamswalker.