Try to be polite

Kira straightened, setting down her water cup with deliberate calm. She'd known she couldn't avoid him forever on a ship this small, but she'd hoped for at least one morning to herself. He wore only a fitted shipsuit, cropped to leave his legs and arms bare and scintillating slightly in the gym's lighting. His presence immediately made her aware of the alienness of the space, the way it was sized not for her kind, but for his, and, of course, that irritating, pervasive musk.

"You're up early," Kira said, making no effort to hide her displeasure at his arrival.

"Officer," he acknowledged with a slight nod. "I hope I'm not interrupting your routine."

"Not at all," she replied coolly, moving toward the squat rack. "Just finishing my warm-up." She began loading plates onto the bar, determined to focus on her workout rather than his presence. Forty-five kilograms on each side—ninety total. A challenging but manageable weight for her.

He moved to the free weights with that liquid grace that made her skin prickle. From the corner of her eye, she watched him select a pair of dumbells. To her discomfort, he chose a spot where she could see him clearly in the mirror as she positioned herself under the bar.

Kira centered herself, focusing on form as she unracked the weight and began her first set of squats. The bite wound on her side radiated that strange warmth through her torso, but caused no pain as she moved through the exercise.

"Impressive technique," he commented after her fifth repetition. "Your form is exceptional, and your physique is remarkable for a human woman."

She racked the weight, turning to face him directly. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Merely an observation." He curled the dumbell he'd been holding—she realized with a jolt that the weight was 90kg, the same weight she was squatting—with seemingly effortless motion. "Most humans from the Core Worlds lack the strength training regimen you've clearly maintained. They aren't known for bothering with physical arts."

Something about his phrasing made her pause. "I don't recall mentioning I was from the Core."

A slight smile played across his reptilian features. "Your appearance is quite distinctive. Pure human lineage, unmixed with any of the common frontier adaptations. I'd be willing to bet you're a Core World Purebreed."

Kira felt a chill despite the room's warmth. That was the term slavers and other unsavory types used for humans from any of the Sovereign Lines, the noble founding houses of the Empire. Her bloodline was one of the minor ones, but even so, it wasn't common knowledge—it wasn't even in her official personnel file. The implications of him knowing this made her stomach tighten. In the Outer Rim territories, women with her genetic profile fetched astronomical prices on the black market. Her previous undercover work had nearly gone catastrophically wrong twice because of it. Somehow, she doubted he was betting or guessing. He knew.

"You seem to know a lot about me," she said carefully, returning to position under the bar. She needed the weight, needed something solid and real to ground her as her mind raced.

"I make it a point to know who's hunting me." Another effortless curl, the muscles in his scaled arms barely showing strain. "Lethbridge Lineage, if I'm not mistaken. True First Heritage. Quite rare."

The only way he could know that was through highly illegal DNA profiling. The kind of profiling slavers did to verify merchandise.

"That's classified information," she managed, pushing through another set of squats, using the exertion to mask her growing unease.

"Is it?" He sounded genuinely curious.

She re-racked the weight, and picked up the cup. She only meant to take a sip, but her mouth felt so dry, she ended up downing half of it. Spotting the water dispenser, she made her way over to it, skirting the space he occupied in the gym.

"That's the kind of information it's illegal to possess. Illegal as a separate charge from what you've weaseled out of."

"Ah, well, I suppose that would be a concern if it was found in my possession." He set down the dumbell and selected another, even heavier one.

The water she'd drunk was making itself known entirely too quickly, a pressure building in her lower abdomen even as she refilled the cup. She tried to ignore it.

"You know," he continued conversationally, "in all my years of business, I've only encountered three women with your particular genetic profile. The bidding wars were intense."

"I'm not merchandise," she snapped, immediately regretting engaging with the bait.

"Of course not." His agreement came too easily. "You're the officer who succeeded where others failed. Quite remarkable, actually. Most humans lack the physical capability to subdue someone of my species."

The doubt slipped into her mind like a blade. He was right—the strength difference between them was obvious. Even now, watching him casually curl weights that she struggled to squat, she found herself playing their fight back in his head. How had she gotten the drop on him? She returned to the squat rack and rolled her shoulders.

"I got lucky," she said, settling under the bar again.

"Did you?" His eyes met hers in the mirror. "I don't believe in luck, Officer Leyland. I believe in preparation and opportunity."

Her bladder was becoming increasingly insistent now, the pressure building to an uncomfortable level. She needed to finish this set and get to the bathroom, but something about this conversation felt important, like puzzle pieces shifting into almost-recognizable patterns.

"What are you suggesting?" she asked, completing her final rep with burning thighs.

"Nothing at all." He set down his weights and selected a towel, wiping his scaled chest with careful precision. "Merely expressing admiration for your accomplishment. It's not every day one is bested by such a uniquely valuable opponent."

The phrasing made her skin crawl. Uniquely valuable. The exact terminology used in slaver manifests to denote genetic rarities.

"I need to wrap up," she said, racking the weight with perhaps more **** than necessary. Her bladder was now painfully full, the memory of last night's bathroom ordeal making her anxious about a repeat performance.

"Of course." He inclined his head respectfully. "I've enjoyed our conversation, Officer Leyland. Perhaps we can continue it later."

As she gathered her things, the pressure in her bladder becoming increasingly urgent, she couldn't shake the feeling that something about her so-called victory had been fundamentally wrong. He was stronger, faster, more experienced—and apparently had been tracking her with an intensity that went well beyond mere awareness of a pursuing officer.