Silk & Sabotage

The palace at Sonhane was dressed in celebration. Servants hurried through mosaic-tiled corridors, carrying folded silks in the colors of both flags. Amber chandeliers glowed overhead, and somewhere in the distance, a violin echoed against ancient stone. Two weeks remained until the most politically charged wedding in recent history — and every corner of the palace buzzed with nervous joy.

But far from the laughter and lights, behind a locked steel door deep in the east wing, Mia Veyra sat alone at a war table meant for generals.

The folder before her bore no seal. No name. Just a wax-red thread wrapped tightly around thick black pages.

She'd received it an hour ago. Not through official channels, but slipped discreetly into her hand by a palace gardener she'd never seen before — eyes too sharp for his job, posture too straight. She had known before opening it that something was wrong.

Inside were time-stamped images: heat-map overlays, drone captures, infrared signatures. A border ambush, brutal and surgical. Rica soldiers caught in crossfire — some still with their weapons holstered. The report claimed "enemy insurgents," but Mia saw the truth buried beneath redacted lines.

The ambushers were Rica men. Her eyes caught one name in the shadows — a known traitor. Bought.

And then came the image that made her breath halt.

Lucas Drax.

Blood smeared across his face. Pale. Barely conscious.

His body slung between two medics as they rushed him toward a helicopter. His thigh — soaked in crimson.

The report listed a through-and-through gunshot wound to his upper right thigh. No arterial tear. No fracture. "Stable," they wrote. As if that one word could mean anything to her now.

He hadn't told her he was deployed. He wasn't supposed to be near that zone. The entire operation had been off-book — a whispered favor to the generals, perhaps. Or something darker.

Mia leaned back in her chair, fingers still pressed to the image. Her jaw was tight. Her chest? Hollow.

Someone had set him up. Not to kill him, no — just enough to bleed Rica, remind them who still held leverage before the alliance could be sealed in white silk.

And she had a gut-deep suspicion of who had whispered that command.

But suspicion wasn't evidence. And this wasn't the moment for emotion. It never was.

So, she folded the file shut, stood, and gave one simple order to her aide:

"Prepare a private package. No tracking. Medical grade."

Six hours later, in a military hospital across the border, a crate arrived with no manifest. The contents were clean, sterile, and priceless.

Inside: a vial of a rare clotting serum, banned for foreign export.

And a note, unsigned:

Use this on the commander. Do not record this shipment.

No one questioned it.

No one dared.

Three days passed.

Lucas Drax stood on the balcony of his guest chamber, wrapped in twilight and gauze.

He looked different — the kind of different that comes from watching death pass too close. His shirt hung unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled, a soft white bandage tight against his upper thigh. The painkillers dulled the ache but not the weight of what had happened. Or what it meant.

The official report was vague. "Minor ambush. Unidentified hostiles."

But the silence from command told him everything he needed to know.

He wasn't meant to come back in one piece.

And yet — someone had saved him.

The clotting serum used in his emergency treatment wasn't standard issue. He recognized it instantly — a high-tier formula made only in Lina Loas. Smuggled into a Rican base in the dead of night.

He hadn't asked where it came from.

He already knew.

The door behind him creaked open. He didn't turn.

"You're early," he said.

He heard the click of her heels. Smooth, deliberate.

Not rushed. Never rushed.

"You look like shit," Mia Veyra said calmly.

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. He still didn't look back.

"You should see the other guy."

She stepped closer. Her eyes swept over him — the mess of him — not like a doctor, not like a fiancée, but like a strategist assessing damage.

Her gaze landed on the bandage peeking out from under his pants. His thigh.

She said nothing, but he felt the heat of it — the awareness between them.

"I heard you were injured," she said. "They told me it was minor."

"It wasn't."

"But you're here."

"And you're not asking why I was sent there."

"Would you tell me if I did?"

He finally turned. Their eyes met, and everything between them fell very still.

"No."

She moved beside him, resting her hand lightly against the railing, her shoulder brushing his. Just enough contact to spark something unspoken.

"Then I won't ask," she said.

But the silence between them buzzed — not empty, not cold.

Loaded.

"I saw something," Lucas murmured. "When I was bleeding. In the field."

"What did you see?"

"You," he said, voice low.

Her lips parted. She didn't expect that.

"You were there. I don't know why. I just… thought of you. Like ghost."

Mia said nothing for a moment. Then she exhaled slowly, voice softer.

"That means i matter."

He looked at her, eyes darker now. Searching. Hungry for answers he didn't know how to ask.

"And what does that make us, Mia?"

She stepped forward — slowly — closing the space between them until her body was just in front of his. Her fingers brushed the hem of his shirt, then dropped, almost teasing the fabric covering his thigh.

Lucas didn't move. Couldn't.

"A mistake," she whispered. "A promise. A distraction."

Her hand settled lightly on the side of his thigh — not hard enough to press the wound, just enough to feel the tension there. The heat.

His breath caught.

"A salvation," she finished.

He swallowed hard, pulse hammering just beneath the surface.

"You don't have to touch me like that," he said.

"I know."

Her thumb traced a line just shy of the bandage, then lifted.

Then, without warning, she leaned in and pressed her lips to his jaw — slow, deliberate, just over his pulse.

Not a kiss. Not entirely.

But enough.

"You're still bleeding, Lucas," she said. "Just in places I can't reach."

"Are you trying to fix me?"

She leaned back, voice softer now.

"No. I'm trying to keep you alive long enough to fix yourself."

Her dress brushed his leg as she stepped back, fabric catching lightly against the bandage.

He hissed — not from pain.

She smiled.

Not kindly.

Then she walked to the door, pausing at the threshold.

"Get well soon, Captain Drax."

She didn't turn as she said it.

"You've got a wedding to survive."

Then she was gone.

And the ache in his thigh wasn't the one haunting him anymore.