Riva’s vision snapped to the data-slate, the grainy image of the Lontar security guards burning into her mind. Tavin. They were at Tavin’s door. Adrenaline surged, a cold, sharp blade twisting in her gut. She launched herself towards the elevator, her bare feet slapping against the cool, polished floor of the obsidian suite. The doors hissed open, but before she could step in, a rumble vibrated through the floorboards, growing louder, closer. The private elevator, Brekkan’s personal express, was already ascending. Relief warred with a fresh spike of panic. Had he seen the alert too? Or was this another of his terrifyingly coincidental appearances?
Before the doors could part, a furious roar echoed from within Tavin’s room, a sound that bypassed the data-slate’s tinny audio and vibrated through the very structure of the building. Brekkan. His fury shook the corridor like an engine misfiring. Riva sprinted down the Zenith Wing corridor, ignoring the bewildered stares of the few nurses on duty. She rounded the corner just as the door to Tavin’s suite burst open. One of Maris’s hulking guards flew out, a blur of dark uniform and flailing limbs, colliding with the opposite wall with a sickening crunch. His partner, caught mid-stride, barely had time to register what happened before Brekkan Thrace emerged from the room, a predator unleashed.
Brekkan didn't speak. His face was a mask of glacial fury, eyes like chips of volcanic glass. He moved with a terrifying economy of motion, seizing the second guard by the front of his tunic. The man, twice Brekkan’s width, dangled for a moment, feet scrabbling for purchase, before Brekkan executed a brutal, precise throw. The guard slammed into the first, a heap of groaning limbs and shattered pride. Brekkan stood over them, chest heaving, his tailored charcoal suit somehow perfectly uncreased despite the violence. The sheer, unbridled power radiating from him silenced the entire corridor.
He spared a single, searing glance at Riva, a silent question in his gaze that promised swift retribution if she’d been harmed. Riva shook her head, her lungs hitching. He turned back to the two crumpled figures. “Inform Miss Lontar,” Brekkan’s voice was a low, dangerous rumble that cut through the silence, “that any further attempts to interfere with my surrogate, or my household, will be met with the full, devastating force of the Thrace conglomerate. And a personal demonstration of my displeasure.” He punctuated the threat with a savage kick to the wall beside the guards’ heads, leaving a deep indentation in the reinforced durasteel. Then, as if nothing untoward had happened, he smoothed his suit jacket and turned to Tavin’s doorway, his expression instantly softening to a carefully constructed neutrality.
Inside, Tavin, pale but alert, stared with wide eyes from his bed. “Brekkan?” he whispered, then saw Riva. “Riva! What was that?”
“Just a misunderstanding, Tavin,” Riva said, her voice a little shaky, moving to his side. She shot a look at Brekkan, who was already conferring quietly with a flustered head nurse. The adrenaline began to recede, leaving a hollow ache in her muscles. A strange craving began to bloom in its wake, an insistent, burning demand for something hot, spicy, and utterly forbidden.
Hours later, back in the Obsidian suite, the craving had escalated into an all-consuming need. Riva lay awake, staring at the muted cityscape outside her window. The memory of Brekkan’s raw power, his protectiveness, lingered, a strange warmth in her chest. But the hunger, sharp and specific, demanded her full attention. Not for anything served by the pristine Obsidian kitchen, but for a specific, blazing-hot street noodle dish she hadn’t tasted since her mechanic days, from a grimy stall tucked away in the lower sectors.
She tossed and turned, the scent of phantom chili and garlic torturing her. Finally, unable to bear it, she slipped out of bed. As she passed the biometric reader by the door, it chimed softly. “Subject Riva Joren, vital signs indicate elevated stress and atypical nocturnal activity.” Then, a deeper voice, low and gravelly, cut through the speaker. “And a significant calorie deficit, it would seem.”
Brekkan Thrace stood in the doorway of his own suite, dressed in a silk robe the color of midnight. His eyes, usually sharp and calculating, held a weary concern. “Can’t sleep?”
Riva hesitated. “I… have a craving.” She felt ridiculous, a high-society surrogate admitting to a hankering for slum-dog street food. “For something very specific. And very unavailable.”
He studied her for a long moment, then a faint, almost imperceptible curve touched his lips. “Prepare to depart. I’ll drive.”
Fifteen minutes later, Riva found herself in the passenger seat of Brekkan’s armored groundcar, its sleek black chassis cutting through the predawn streets. The city, usually a dense lattice of neon and transit lanes, lay quiet beneath the low rumble of the vehicle’s engine. Brekkan, now in a perfectly tailored dark suit, navigated the labyrinthine back alleys of the industrial sector, far from the gleaming towers of the executive elite. He stopped before a nondescript, shuttered stall with a hand-painted sign proclaiming ‘The Fiery Serpent.’
“This is it,” Riva breathed, a rush of nostalgia washing over her. “But it’s closed.”
Brekkan merely stepped out, his tall figure commanding even in the deserted alley. He knocked once, sharply, on the corrugated metal shutter. No response. He knocked again, harder, then simply inserted a blank Thrace enterprise credit chit into the narrow gap at the bottom. A moment later, the shutter rattled open a crack. A wizened, sleepy face peered out.
“We’re closed, rich boy. Come back after sunrise,” a gruff voice grumbled.
Brekkan’s expression was unyielding. “I require a double portion of your ‘Crimson Viper’ noodles. Extra heat. Prepared immediately.” He let the blank chit drop into the crack. The vendor’s eyes, initially hostile, stiffened as he recognized the Thrace crest. He snatched the card, his gaze darting from the chit to Brekkan’s imposing figure, then to Riva in the car. He disappeared back inside, muttering. Soon, the rhythmic clatter of a wok and the tantalizing scent of chili and garlic began to emanate from the stall.
Brekkan leaned against the car, arms crossed, a sentinel in the pre-dawn chill. Riva watched him, a strange lightness filling her. “You didn’t have to,” she started, but he cut her off.
“You require sustenance. And rest. The last thing I need is you pacing the suite, developing… eccentric appetites.” His tone was clipped, but the underlying concern was unmistakable. “You were worried about Tavin.” It wasn’t a question.
“He’s my anchor,” Riva admitted, the words spilling out before she could censor them. “My whole world revolves around keeping him safe. I… I’m sorry about the ruckus tonight. I know it reflects poorly on me, on the… arrangement.”
Brekkan’s gaze softened almost imperceptibly. “Bloodlines are often chaotic. And worth fighting for. My grandmother, Zora, was similar with my mother. A force of nature, protecting what was hers.” He paused, then continued, a rare vulnerability in his voice. “I only ever wanted to honor my line. To secure the legacy. Sometimes, I forget the personal cost.” He looked out at the darkened alley. “The high-stakes market weaponizes everything. Even something as simple as blood.”
Riva found herself nodding. “It’s why I have to be so careful. Tavin needs this. He needs me.”
“And I need you to be well.” His gaze met hers, intense and direct. “Regardless of any other consideration. I expect you to prioritize your health, and the health of the heir. Without question.”
The vendor finally emerged, holding two steaming bowls of noodles. Brekkan paid him with another blank chit and brought the bowls back to the car. The aroma alone made Riva’s stomach rumble. She took a delicate bite, then another, the spicy heat a welcome burn on her tongue. It was exactly as she remembered, a raw, unapologetic explosion of flavor.
As Riva slurped down a long, chili-coated noodle, a flash erupted from a darkened alcove across the alley, barely a whisper of light in the dimness. It was gone before she could register it, but the fine hairs on her arms prickled. A high-resolution image, crisp and clear, landed on Pike Gannon’s data-slate. It captured Brekkan Thrace in a custom suit, standing guard over a shadowy woman in his armored car, her face illuminated by the car’s interior light. Her head was tilted back, lips parted around a noodle, revealing a distinct, quarter-sized grease-burn scar just beneath her left ear, a mark not present on Shae Joren’s medical records.