Preview

“Human beings are capable of almost unimaginable violence and cruelty, toward one another, and there is reason to believe that this dogged aggressiveness is grounded in our genes” –

David Livingstone Smith in The Most Dangerous Animal:  Human Nature and the Origins of War

CHAPTER ONE

Ulrich Wagner lies upon the rugged rock as the warm touch of the sun dries the remnants of the river’s embrace from his skin. In the distance, he can still see the high-tech compound, a fusion of ultramodern steel and untouched wilderness; the compound is out of place against the lush landscape, its sleek walls reflecting the dying light.

The compound looks wrong in this setting. It doesn’t belong here. None of them do. A fortress that pretends it’s untouchable, but every wall has a weakness.

Glass breaks. Steel rusts. Even fortresses bleed somewhere.

The waterfall drowns the forest in constant noise.

Do not be lulled by its beauty when I should be counting shadows.

It is too loud.

Too easy to hide behind.

A man could die listening to that sound and never hear his killer coming.

Still, I can’t ignore it.

The way the mist clings, the way the flowers burn with color. It’s a paradise that feels like a dare.

Enjoy it, soldier. It won’t last.

The reality of the mission presses down on him.

Too easy to forget what waits ahead. That place isn’t built on light—its shadows stacked on shadows. Every path veiled, every step a trap laid. And I wonder… does the rest of the universe have anything to match this?

Or is this the last perfect thing I’ll be allowed to see before it all burns away?

The lush foliage dances harmoniously with vibrant flowers, painting a tapestry of colors that defy the imagination.

Paradise always comes before the fall.

That’s what makes it dangerous.

The sun spills molten gold across the riverbank, painting the moss-slick stones in radiant sheen.

He inhales deeply, the smell of damp earth, crushed wildflowers, and the faint metallic tang of water fresh from stone. The scene is idyllic, unnervingly so.

The world conspires to remind me what he risks leaving behind.

Then there is her.

And yet even in all this splendor, I find myself lingering on the careless beauty of one figure rising from the crystalline pool.

She emerges with unhurried grace, droplets cascading from her hair, tracing rivulets down her half-bared form. Her skin glistens beneath the sunlight. Sunlight traces the curves of her body.

Fex. She is no mere woman; she is an element of the landscape, as inevitable as the river’s flow, as dangerous as its hidden undertow.

Her laughter rides the wind, light, designed to disarm. With a coy tilt of her shoulder, she reveals just enough of her bosom to make the gesture deliberate.

A weapon unsheathed.

Amazing how well she hides the steel beneath. She seduces as though it’s instinct. I wish I could hide as well as she does.

She is so clinical with her job, but when they are alone, she is pure emotions. I know this dance. How she seduces, tempts, tests.

I am Grand Commander Ulrich Wagner, an aviator, a commander, a leader of order, and I control my will. Even if none of the crew has seen it yet. I will not be undone by her seduction.

Her presence warps the air like heat before a storm. Even from here, I can almost taste her skin, salt clinging like the sea.

Temptation wrapped in sweetness. Poison meant to erode restraint.

She thinks it’s allure. I call it weakness.

The river beckons him with its cool hymn, but he holds his ground on the moss-covered rock, posture squared, shoulders tight with control.

He watches her like a hunter indulging in the prey’s daily routine.

Let her play. Let her believe she has swayed me. Anticipation is sweeter than surrender.

You know better, Ulrich.

Never let the enemy dictate the tempo.

Skran. Those eyes—every graxx time. Embers smoldering with mischief, daring me to lose control. She thinks I can’t see the trick, sweet as a pitcher plant—nectar hiding the drop. She’s part of the scenery, yes… but corrupted. The most dangerous thing here. And she wears it like beauty. 

The hush of the current deepens, punctuated only by the whisper of droplets striking the surface as her hand glides through the stream. The sound teases his ears—intimate, beckoning, an invitation whispered too close to resist.

She tilts her head—coy, practiced—the hint of skin offered like bait. A lure. She thinks I’ll bite. I’m no green cadet chasing first blood; I know the game. Her move is desire.

Mine is discipline.

And discipline wins.

Resist.

Always.

Always resist.

His gaze doesn’t waver, she says softly across the distance, her voice carrying like silk over stone:

“Are you going to join me, Commander? Or do you prefer to worship from afar?”

She plays it well. Too well. Intoxicating—that’s the danger.

His heart begins to beat like soldiers running for cover.

Too easy to step in. To join her. To let go, to lose myself in her heat.

But the mission—always the mission.

That’s the legacy.

Not this. She’s nothing but a distraction. And distractions get men killed. 

“There’s a certain beauty in observation,” he says. “The river, the blooms, the sky. This is the last time we’ll see anything like it. And yet, you make the rest irrelevant. Perhaps it’s not the scenery but the company that makes it worthwhile. And sometimes, cherishing from a distance…” He pauses, “…is the only way to keep control of it.”

That should flip the table. Put her back in check. She plays at seduction—always has—but I know her angles too well.

In another place, another time, I might let her win, and I might even welcome it.

But the mission rules all.

And if I’m honest—skran—even without the mission, I’d still drive her off.

Doubt would rot it.

Rot me.

It always does.

Haven laughs.

She laughs too easily. That’s her weakness. But she thinks it’s my distraction. 

The waterfall thunders behind him, wild and unchecked.

The water runs free, careless, answerable to nothing. I envy it.

A commander doesn’t get that luxury. A commander savors the game—but he never loses it.

Not if he wants to be remembered.

The forest hums around them, the mingled perfume of wet soil and blossoms heavy in his lungs, the taste of her presence like heat in the air. He permits himself one thought, one indulgence he will never voice:

Drax, help me. She makes it so challenging. Every breath, every look—harder to remember the mission. I want to give in. To lose myself in her. To let her be the one place I don’t have to fight. But that would make her my weakness. And if she ever chose to use it… I’d be undone. I can feel myself slipping. Wanting. Weak. That’s what my father would call it.

I still remember the stink of oil and sweat on the hangar floor, my hands still trembling after a poor drill. His voice—low, cutting—echoes clear as the day it branded me: “Weak, Ulrich. That’s all you’ll ever be.”

The word still burns.

I will not falter in my mission.

Not for her.

Not for anyone.

“Well, what must I do—mm? —to coax the ever-serious Commander into setting aside his posture long enough to rescue a lonely physician from the grave peril of boredom?”

Her words wind through me like vines, tightening in the places I swore I’d sealed.

I should cut them away. I should. But that look—calm, certain—it’s the look of someone who knows victory has already been attained.

Drax, help me, I almost believe she does.

No. Enough. Let her think she’s won. Believing isn’t victory. And victory never belongs to her.

Haven kneels before him, lips pressing fire along his stomach and chest. Sparks catch. He lets them burn. The world disappears, and it’s just her heat against his skin.

No. Not yet. Enough.

Discipline.

Command yourself, Commander. Composure is survival. This is a mission. She’s crew—useful, perhaps. But it’s never necessary. She doesn’t get that power.

Fex… just this once.

Just a moment indulged.

To feel. To let go. To stop carrying the weight of humanity on my shoulders. To let her be the weakness I swore I’d never allow.

I want it. Drax. I want it.

Weak. Want is a weakness.

And weakness destroys legacies.

He takes a breath.

Bury it.

What was that?

A sharp rustle in the woods breaks the fragile spell. His body tenses, instincts honed over years of training snap to the fore. He rolls to his feet, throwing her to the side, instincts guiding him to seize his bag and vanish into the embrace of the wilderness.

*************

The allure of their banter evaporates as Haven scrambles onto the rocks, her hair dripping against her collarbone, making her wet skin glisten in the fading sunlight. Confusion etches across her face as she props herself on her elbows, scanning her surroundings for answers. Bewildered and disoriented, she calls out, “Ulrich,” her voice trails into the forest’s darkness.

Did they find us? He is meticulous about making sure we are never followed.

So much for the quiet I needed, I can already feel it—his paranoia edging in, ready to smother the rest of the night. Is it a thrill for him? The excitement of not being caught, that thin line he treads between desire and danger. If that’s the case, he carries it well, cloaking us in the tension he cultivates.

Most of the time, it results in nothing. Remember, it is just his instincts running too acute. But I am not sure today. Not now. No… this isn’t one of those times. I can feel it pressing in, the difference between fear imagined and danger real.

The last sunlight fractures through the canopy, catching in the sheen of water along her arms. She props herself on her elbows, breath quick, scanning the tree line. Eerie shadows dance between the tree trunks that stretch long and thin. Too quiet.

Where did he go?

“Ulrich,” she says. It vanishes into the trees, devoured by silence.

Her pulse thunders.

A minute ago, we were playing the game of who breaks first. And he tosses me off. It’s perfect; we’re finally relaxed and forgot about the mission. And now? His paranoia takes center stage. Or is it paranoia? Have they found us? Did we lose caution for a moment too long?

The questions circle without answer, gnawing at her stomach.

The forest glows unnaturally beneath the setting sun, a false beauty. Shadows sway like living things.

If there is someone out there, and he is confronting them...Graxx. I am wearing nothing.

She fumbles with her clothes, fingers clumsy on buttons. Her ears strain for rhythm or a sign that it is nothing more than the wind. But the leaves don’t rustle aimlessly; they whisper with intent.

Control yourself. Focus.

What was that? It was closer this time.

Footsteps?

Too deliberate to be wind.

She stills, heart in her throat.

There it is again. Louder this time. Closer.

The sound builds—more insistent this time. Not random. Not harmless. Urgent.

If we’re compromised, I won’t have time to think if it is them, I’ll have to move. There’s no cover left. If it’s Ulrich, why didn’t he signal?

Footfalls breaking the underbrush. Her throat tightens. She freezes, her mind calculating whether to flee or hold. The figure bursts from the tree line. Her muscles tighten, ready to bolt.

Wagner. Drax. Why do you always have me remember ‘the river’s honest,’ and other code words if you will not use them?

Her stomach turns and relaxes. Relief cuts sharp through her, but it doesn’t last.

“What happened to our code...” she begins to say, when her own thought stops her.

He has his pistol in his hand. He is moving as if this were a combat simulation. He discards the weapon as if tossing his sneakers in his gym bag.

“What’s wrong?” she says.

“Move,” Wagner orders.

Here we go again. Graxx, Ulrich. Can we not enjoy a moment without suspicion creeping in? I work too hard to keep indulging these delusions. Statistically, not everyone is out to get you. A mind as vigilant as yours will corrode itself.

She exhales, steadying herself.

No—that isn’t fair. Not entirely. Your family is a different equation. Your father-his shadow, justifies your paranoia. With him, the fear is not imagined. It’s earned. But not everyone is your father.

She hesitates just long enough to notice the absence of detail, the blank space where his answer should be.

Okay, so we will ignore that.

  She obeys, feet falling into stride beside him. They abandon the river and its enchanting serenity and retreat into the forest’s shadows where the light can’t follow. The river fades behind them, the forest swallowing all traces of where they had been.

I hate when I fall into this pattern—following like some lost child, rationalizing his every move. It’s reflex now, the way I construct reasons for him and call his paranoia vigilance. Maybe it isn’t only him. Perhaps it’s me who craves the danger, who finds the line between desire and threat sharper than I want to admit. Even knowing it’s an illusion, I still step toward it.

Others would say this proves everything they warned me of. They see Ulrich as reckless and unstable. But I refuse to let their suspicion dictate mine. I will not see him through their eyes. He deserves more than the shadow of his father hanging over every judgment. Not everyone is his father. And not everyone is mine.

Her voice pushes against the silence: “I’m sincerely worried. Do you suppose they tracked us?”

Wagner pauses too long. Her stomach twists.

He doesn’t know. Which means my margin is even smaller. Too small.

“Did we get caught?” she presses.

Wagner, with a confident and unwavering smile, says, “Whether I know or not is irrelevant. What matters is we don’t risk it. We are too close to falter now.”

I hate it when he smiles at me like that—confident, dismissive, as if the decision were already made and my part in it predetermined. It’s condescension dressed as reassurance. I am not important enough to know. Not trusted enough. Not necessary beyond utility.

That does ease my fear, sir. Too close to fail—but close to what, exactly? His version of the mission? His legacy?

She swallows the questions; her throat tightens.

I am nothing more to him than a variable that supports his image of himself. No. Stop it. Don’t become one more voice accusing him. Don’t judge him through other people’s fears.

“We’ve got forty-eight hours left,” she says, but she can hear the desperation. “Perhaps it was just an animal. Did you see anyone?”

But he is already in motion, unbending, his silence answering more than his words.

She follows because she has no choice. Her hand is clasped by Wagner’s like handcuffs. The contact would typically be a comfort, an act to steady her, but the firmness of Wagner’s grip lets doubts churn beneath.

He’s running as though the entire world is at his heels. Running from something—or concealing something. And now I’m tethered to him, not by choice, but by his hand.

She watches Wagner glance over his shoulder, checking the shadows for any in pursuit. The sprint to the car leaves her lungs raw.

Ulrich, slow down. You’re not leading me anymore, you’re dragging me.

Wagner halts suddenly, and her momentum carries her into his back. He glances over his shoulder.

Don’t look at me like that. You were dragging me, of course, I’d run into you when I can’t even keep up. Graxx.

Wagner’s head turns sharply, scanning the darkness, every muscle taut with vigilance. Paranoia seeps from him in every movement, wrapping around them like a second skin.

What am I going to do with him? Be patient. Remember—be patient.

When he decides they’re clear, he jerks her forward again, pulling her into motion. They burst from the tree line, and Wagner sprints toward the car without hesitation. He flings the back door open, tosses his bag inside, and snaps her door wide.

Graxx, Ulrich. You don’t have to push me.

Before she can tuck her legs inside, he slams the door shut, circling the vehicle like prey still at his heels. He drops into the driver’s seat; the engine growls awake as the door closes. The car lurches forward, already in motion before she has drawn a full breath.

She adjusts in her seat, her damp fabric sticking to the seat, heart still pulsing with unanswered questions. She tries to breathe, but her lungs are raw and on fire from the sprint.

“We must opt for patience. I…" Wagner says.

Of course, it’s you. You. You. Always about you. It is always about you. Every calculation bends back to your legacy, your shadow, your father. I have just as much to lose as you, but all you weigh is the mark you’ll leave, the proof you’ll carve above him. If only you knew. You’re already just like him.

Wagner continues, “we have to be part of this mission.”

Ah, so you caught yourself this time. But your reflex betrayed you; it let me glimpse how you really feel. You brakked rakkdrivv. And here I am, wondering if I’m the one being paranoid now.

“Nothing matters. We must be cautious so I can lead this mission.”

The phrasing makes her stomach tighten.

Nothing matters? Why am I here—sitting beside you? What were we, just minutes ago? Remember, he’s in a delusional state. He doesn’t control what he says. Patience.

She presses the thought down before it escapes her mouth. Silence feels safer.

Wagner drives as if he is solving a labyrinth of misdirection, every turn another layer of Wagner’s caution. She sits quietly.

Silence. Typical. Control through silence as much as through command. He speaks in bursts of command and retreats into nothing, as though control was measured in words withheld.

The car hums beneath them, steady, unfeeling.

My clothes cling cold, and pine and river water are still sharp on my skin. It should be over. It isn’t. His paranoia lingers, filling the cabin like smoke.

Statistically, the chance of a real threat was low. A rustle, nothing more. But he never treats it as nothing. And I keep following. Why? Because of loyalty, by duty, by necessity, by something I don’t name. Graxx. Because I let him drag me.

You promised yourself patience. Don’t see him through their eyes. Don’t become another voice accusing him. He deserves more than that. But still, if he doesn’t know what’s out there, what chance do I have with him?

Nothing matters, he said. Nothing. why am I here beside him? What were we a few minutes ago when his hand found mine? He doesn’t even hear himself. A delusional state. He doesn’t control what slips out. Just patience.

She exhales, quiet enough not to draw his glance.

I hate it when I do this, follow like a lost child, and rationalize his every move. Maybe it isn’t only him. Maybe I’m the one who needs the line between desire and threat to feel sharp. Even if I know it’s an illusion.

The car turns again, another needless curve.

He thinks it keeps us safe. Maybe he’s right. Perhaps it’s nothing. But the danger feels real enough in my chest. Real enough, I keep choosing this seat beside him, even when I know the cost.

Wagner says, “I believe we have successfully eluded any unwanted attention, Tori.”

Just humor him. Arguing won’t shift anything—it never does. At least he’s settling now, the edge softening, the delusions dissipating.

The car glides to a halt before a formidable gate, where they patiently await clearance. On the left side of the gate, she always reads it. Each time with the same amount of pride as the first time:

Ft. Armstrong

United Solaris Concord

Orbital Sentinel Complex

At the gate, the ritual unfolds with mechanical precision: ID cards, protocol, scrutiny. Wagner retrieves his card marked with USC Aviator and the red bar of top-secret clearance, a silent emblem of the secrecy they live inside. Haven pulls hers from her pocket. Nearly identical, though the name printed is hers alone: Dr. Victoria C. Haven.