Because I'm almost on time. Almost.
A week later on Tuesday... Yep.
That lovable heathen, @thefreelanceangel decided I could not exist in peace and thus has tagged and threatened my very writing existence with a call out post (I jest). Its like she knows that I have a...
Google doc sitting on the sidelines, finished, since January that I once CLAIMED I would upload to Ao3 in February... and then promptly...
I will gently offer you this morsel whilst I beg for forgiveness... and forget to upload it until next January... teehee
Toe to toe with him, invading his personal space with the force of a desperate, wounded predator, Vaniro was ready to fight him if he continued to push her, if he dared suggest her commitment was anything less than absolute. Her whole body shook–a full-body tremor stemming from the effort of keeping a tight, violent, bridle on those urges, on the need to shatter something, anything, to release the angry pressure building in her frame.
Blink threw up her hands.
“IT CANNOT—IT WILL NOT HAPPEN AGAIN.”
Rex remained impassive, a reaction which would only fuel Vaniro’s ire. That self-satisfied expression on his features was almost impossible to erase, a maddening smirk which suggested he was always five steps ahead of her. Blink’s jaw ached from the force in which she was clenching her teeth, a silent scream of frustration held back by years of ruthless self-control.
“You are correct. This will not happen again. I would certainly never expect my new Head of Security to permit such an occurrence.” Teeth bore as his smile truly bloomed–not a friendly curve of the mouth, but a predatory show of dominance that made her stomach curdle. His… what? Rex extended a work worn hand, the gesture slow and deliberate. His fingers cupped her features, cool against the sudden flush of her flesh, brushing a calloused thumb along her cheekbone. It was an intimacy a thousand times more tormenting than a slap. The Patriarch leaned in, his breath a warm whisper against the auburn stripes of her cheek.
Rex did not promote people; he aligned them. Permanently. He did not give pieces of his precious Trading Company away, let alone positions that held such critical weight, positions that touched the nerve-center of his operation. The man was a singularity, a self-contained universe of control. He tormented himself with the weight of all his duties, fueled by a paranoia that bordered on manic obsession. To delegate even a small, fractional portion of that immense burden–to entrust someone with the safety of his assets–was a monumental, almost terrifying show of trust, and also why he sought to rectify the Pilot’s intrusive use of his most precious time.
Until that moment, Blink felt as if she’d simply been an ace pilot, a hound, a loyal cog in the vast, well-oiled machine of his enterprise, disguised as the sheathed weapon often by his side. This, however, was something entirely more significant. It was a tether, a chain disguised as a beautifully ribboned gift, binding her to the highest echelon of his world.
His thumb smoothed another slow, possessive stroke against her cheek, and his voice was a low, velvet rumble which demanded his pilot’s focus. Rex’s jade gaze held her own captive. “What were you saying?” He murmured, the question purely rhetorical, “about caring? About mattering? …I forget. Refresh my memory for me.”
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