He doesn't kiss her. He turns her chair and pulls her up, his hands finding the hem of her shirt.
The console’s cold light paints his face in stark relief as he pushes the fabric up, baring her stomach to the chilled air of the station.
‘The echo is a scar,’ he says, his palm flat and hot against her skin. ‘The source is the wound. You still want to listen?’
His thumb traces the frantic beat just below her ribs, and Nina knows this is the only answer she could give.
The air is so cold it raises gooseflesh. His hand is a brand. She can feel every callus, every ridge of scar tissue mapped against her.
Her own hands hang at her sides. She doesn’t push him away. She doesn’t pull him closer. She just breathes, watching his eyes in the electronic glow.
He’s watching her face, not his hand. His expression is stripped of its usual utilitarian mask. There’s a raw calculation there, an assessment that has nothing to do with soundwaves.
‘Is this the test?’ Her voice is thin, a whisper lost in the hum of servers.
‘The test was the spike. Your reaction. Your silence afterward.’ His thumb presses harder, finding the exact rhythm of her heart. ‘This is the consequence.’
He moves his hand. Not away. Up. The rough pad of his thumb drags over the curve of her rib, skating higher until it meets the lower swell of her breast, still covered by her bra and the bunched cotton of her shirt.
A tremor runs through her, involuntary. Her nipples pull tight, aching against the constriction.
Viktor’s gaze drops. He sees it. His own breath hitches, a tiny fracture in his control.
‘You’re afraid,’ he states, his voice low.
‘Yes.’
‘Good.’ His other hand comes up, cups the side of her neck. His fingers are cool. ‘Fear keeps you alive. This,’ he says, and his thumb sweeps a slow, deliberate circle over her clothed breast, making her gasp, ‘this gets you killed.’
He leans in. His mouth brushes the shell of her ear. ‘Which one is winning, analyst?’
Her mind is static. Her body is a live wire. The cold air, the hot hands, the relentless hum of the machines that listen for monsters. Her own want is a monstrous, echoing thing inside her.
She turns her head, just an inch. Her lips are a breath from his jaw. ‘You tell me.’
For a long moment, he is utterly still. A statue wired for violence.
Then he exhales, a warm rush against her skin. His hand leaves her neck, slides down her arm, and closes around her wrist. He pulls her hand up, presses her palm flat against his own chest, over the thick fabric of his uniform shirt.
His heart is hammering. A wild, frantic tempo that matches hers.
‘That’s your answer,’ he says, his voice gritted with something like pain.
He releases her wrist but doesn’t step back. Her hand stays on his chest, feeling the proof. The predator has a pulse. The shield has a crack.
Slowly, he reaches down and pulls her shirt back into place. The gesture is oddly formal, final. He smooths the hem with a precision that feels like a ritual.
When he looks at her again, the mask is back. The shadows are home in his eyes. ‘Your shift ends in twenty minutes. Go to your quarters. Lock the door.’
He turns back to the console, his broad shoulders blocking the light.
Nina’s hand falls to her side. The ghost of his touch burns on her skin. The memory of his heartbeat thrums in her palm.
She doesn’t move.
‘That’s an order, Flores.’
She walks to the door. Her legs feel unsteady. She pauses on the threshold, looks back at him—a silhouette against a constellation of lonely, blinking lights.
He doesn’t turn around.