“No. I would prefer it if you didn’t attack while you’re on board, of course, but otherwise you’re free to do as you like.” My eyes narrowed. After the footstool prank, I’d barely seen him use his ability. As powerful as he was, using it would be a habit—one he must be fighting. “You’ve already been limiting yourself.”

He nodded once. “It tends to make humans uncomfortable.”

He wasn’t wrong. Still, my sense of fairness made me offer, “Maybe don’t fling around a tornado of knives or something equally terrifying, but you don’t have to hobble yourself. We’ll get used to it.”

The corner of his mouth tipped up. “‘A tornado of knives’?”

“You could, right?” When he shrugged noncommittally, I continued, “Once Kee gets used to you, she’ll have you juggling full glasses of water while she tosses random things at you, just to see if you can catch them.”

The grin bloomed, softening the harsh planes of his face. “She would’ve liked my childhood tutor.”

It was hard to imagine Torran as a child. I wondered if he’d always been so quiet and serious or if something had happened to spark the transformation. I bit down on the questions I wanted to ask. Torran was a payday and nothing else. Anything more was far too dangerous.

I pushed the levcart out of the ship and down the ramp without another word.

Chapter Twelve

During the war, Bastion had been the Fed’s main operating base. It was two wormhole traversals from Valovia itself, but only one from the edge of inhabited Valovian space. Late in the war, FHP troops had eked out a forward operating base on the other side of the first wormhole, but Bastion had remained the stronghold.

Today, the forward base was gone while Bastion continued to grow. It was now one of the largest stations in human space, with the civilian population nearly matching the number of full-time military personnel. The nearest habitable planet—one of the reasons FHP forces had fought so hard for this sector—was over a day away.

The landing bay was full to nearly overcrowded. Ships were squeezed together with the bare minimum safety clearances, leading to tight, winding walkways. We joined the steady stream of people heading into the station.

Torran’s armor got us more than a few dirty looks. By the time we made it to the main airlock into the station, a two-meter gap of clear space separated us from the rest of the crowd. If Torran noticed—and how could he not—I couldn’t tell from his expression, which remained cool and distant.