She ignored Ariadne’s look of confusion. It took every ounce of her effort to paste on that false Zoe smile as she turned to face her brother.

Three years had changed Damocles. The Heir Apparent had a pure, chiseled, engineered beauty. Blond, glossy hair, perfectly styled. Strong brows like wings. Piercing dark eyes, strong features, an expressive mouth. A body molded to strength and agility, filled out with age into a mountain of a man. Perfect. Cruel. His black military uniform was immaculate and pressed, the golden buttons gleaming in the chandelier light. Each one marked his high rank and stature. No one in the galaxy could match the ones he wore—except for Eris. Once.

The rage simmering in her belly burned hot when his gaze touched hers. She thought about how easy it would be to take out a hairpin and, with one thrust into his throat, end his life. Skin was so delicate.

Stop it. Don’t compromise the mission. Do your godsdamn job.

Eris knew Damocles’s weaknesses—and one of them was a soft spot for beautiful women. Despising herself, she curled her lips into a charming smile. Don’t throw up. Don’t throw up.

Thankfully, the Commander dropped into a deep, stiff bow. Eris followed with a curtsy, holding out the glimmering fabric of her skirt. “The Negotiare here was just telling us about her assistants,” Commander Ronan said. “Have you met Zoe, General Damocles?”

<Oh silt,> Clo muttered. She must have seen him by Eris’s side.

Eris tried not to let her expression waver. Back when she had been chosen by their father to be general, her brother had been brigadier, one step below her. Now he had taken her place. Her title.

Damocles’s eyes shifted to hers. Cold, even when he smiled.

“I haven’t had the pleasure, no,” her brother said. His voice sounded deeper, rougher. “But I’ve heard enough about her to catch my attention.”

Maximus had come through.

She laughed Zoe’s sensual, throaty laugh, and reached out her hand, palm down. “Zoe Eirene-X-2,” she said. “It’s wonderful to finally meet you in person.”

Eris didn’t miss Damocles’s perusal of her clingy dress. She wished she were wearing something shapeless. Like a long coat. Or a sack of some kind. With a bag over her head.

“One of the Eirene cohort,” Damocles said, not yet moving to take her hand. “Not impressive genetic stock, that, even for a merchant aedifex class.”

No one seemed surprised by his blunt observation. After all, everyone there placed importance on the cohorts people were born into, and her class barely registered in their glittering world, except as a means to acquire goods.