LITTLE COMET
Jasmine
My new prison smells like a luxury spa run by a serial killer—Ozone , undercut by some expensive incense that probably costs more than my entire miserable life.
I step out, relic-cuffs humming around my wrists like they’re thrilled to be there.
The guards—faceless Lugra drones in matte black—flank me but don’t touch.
Smart.
I’m in the mood to bite fingers off.
The shuttle ramp drops with a theatrical hiss.
◆━━━━━━━◆
At the top of the ramp stands Enkor Sharru.
He looks exactly like every warning Jack ever slurred into a bottle: late-thirties facade stretched over something ancient and amused.
White hair spills loose in waves that scream “I woke up like this and it cost a fortune.” Grey skin shimmers iridescent under the corridor lights, like someone dipped marble in motor oil.
Blue-gold veins crawl across his neck and collarbones, pulsing lazily, as if his heart is bored and waiting for entertainment.
Wide lips already curved in that stupid ear-to-ear grin that makes you want to either punch him or wonder—very briefly—what it would feel like if he stopped smiling and started biting.
He doesn’t move.
Just watches me with silver-gold eyes that look like they’ve already undressed me twice.
“I was waiting to play with my new toy,” he drawls, voice low and amused, like he’s commenting on the weather instead of human trafficking.
I bare my teeth in what could generously be called a smile. “I’m not a toy, you glowing discount-store villain. I’m the headache you just bought at full price.”
His grin stretches wider—impossibly, obscenely.
He descends the ramp in three lazy strides until he’s close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off those veins.
Too close.
◆━━━━━━━◆
Ozone and dark spice flood my lungs.
I have to tilt my head back just to keep his face in frame.
When he leans down, it’s like a building deciding to fall on me slowly.
“Little comet,” he says, voice low velvet wrapped around a blade. “You burn brighter up close.”
Head tilted, like I’m a comet streaking too close to his gravity well.
“Back up, or I’ll show you how bright I burn through your retinas.”
He laughs. Actually laughs. Warm and delighted and wrong, so wrong, because nothing should be delighted by me except trouble.
His hand lifts.
Slow. Slow enough I could stop it. Slap it away. Scream. Run.
I don’t.
His fingers stroke down—air, just air, an inch from my throat. Never touching. But the promise is there, deliberate and filthy, tracing where he would touch if I let him, where he will touch if I don’t stop looking at his mouth.
“Small,” he murmurs. “Sharp. Breakable...” His fingers pause at the base of my throat. Heat, not touch. “Or bendable. Let’s find out.”
My skin pricks everywhere. My nipples tighten against my shirt. Traitors, all of it.
I slap his hand away.
“Touch me without permission and I’ll make sure the next thing that fits in your hands is your own severed dick.”
He laughs again. Louder. Steps back one deliberate step, palms raised, mock surrender written in every line of that stupid beautiful face.
Then his eyes shift.
Silver bleeds to molten gold.
Pupils swallow everything—then narrow, reshape, and suddenly I’m staring into my own eyes.
Emerald green.
My green.
Looking back at me like I’m prey that just volunteered.
My breath catches. Stupid lungs. Stupid body. Stupid—
“See that?” His voice drops lower, wraps around something primal. “Your fire already fits my darkness.”
I recover. Barely. Cock my head, pour every drop of boredom I can fake into my spine.
“Cute trick. Do you also make balloon animals, or is stealing eye color the extent of your charisma?”
He chuckles. The sound vibrates somewhere low in my spine. “Charisma is overrated. I prefer results.”
He gestures toward the corridor—lazy grace, like the air itself should move for him.
“Come. Contract time.”
I follow because the cuffs will zap me harder than sarcasm can deflect.
But I memorize the smirk on his face when he turned away.
I’ll carve it off later.
◆━━━━━━━◆
The Eclipse Crown’s interior is disgustingly opulent: black marble veined with gold, walls curving like they’re trying to embrace you, air thick with that same spiced ozone.
Every viewport frames the Nekharu Veil—a vast curtain of fractured violet-gold light twisting like silk caught in a slow tornado.
It looks alive.
Hungry.
Beautiful in the way forest fires are beautiful.
◆━━━━━━━◆
We reach the sanctum.
Domed ceiling of transparent alloy lets the Veil’s colors slide across every surface in lazy, obscene ribbons.
Enkor drops into a low obsidian throne, legs spread in shameless invitation, and summons a data-slate with a flick of his fingers.
“Contract,” he says. “Read it. Or don’t. Either way, it’s binding.”
I snatch the slate.
The text glows in sharp Lugra script, translated below in crisp Standard.
I snatch it.
Scan.
No termination clause until debt clearance or his discretion.
Stop.
Scan back.
Read it again because my brain saysno, that’s not what it says, that can’t be what it says—
Sexual service “as required for morale and physiological stability during piercings.”
My stomach twists. “You actually wrote ‘morale’?”
“Polite way of saying I expect you warm and willing when the Veil tries to tear me apart.”
He leans forward, elbows on knees, grin never fading. “Any questions, little assistant?”
“Yeah. How many assistants have you chewed up and spat out?”
“None that burned as bright as you.” His eyes shift—silver bleeding to molten gold, then narrowing, pupils dilating as they steal my exact emerald shade.
Mirror-perfect.
Invasive.
“Mirror this, psycho” I snap, flipping him my middle finger.
He laughs—low, warm, filthy. “I like the fight. Makes the claiming sweeter.”
I toss the slate back at him.
It floats obediently into his hand.
“I’m not sleeping with you. Ever. Clause or no clause.”
“Never say never, little assistant.” His voice drops an octave. “The Veil has a way of stripping away certainties.”
The data-slate drifts away.
◆━━━━━━━◆
He stands in one fluid motion, closing the distance until ozone and dark spice fill my lungs.
Enkor’s grin turns wicked. “Little comet indeed. Streaking across my sky, leaving fire in your wake.”
I lunge—aiming for that smug, beautiful face—The cuffs flare.
Not pain.
Worse.
Pleasure so sharp it folds my spine, drops me to one knee like I’m bowing.
To him.
My cheeks burn.
My thighs press together before I can stop them.
He sees.
Of course he sees.
His grin turns satisfied.
“Easy. I like my toys unbroken... mostly.”
“Crash course,” he murmurs, circling me slow.
I roll my eyes.
“Duties: prepare me for piercings—oils, chants, blood if needed. Attend diplomatic functions. Warm my bed when the Veil’s warp leaves me... restless. And resist me as much as you like. It amuses me.”
I step back until my spine hits the viewport.
The Veil’s light strokes my skin like phantom fingers. “I’m not your entertainment.”
I glance at the viewport.
The shimmering curtain fills half the sky, ribbons pulsing like a heartbeat. “Speaking of which—why the hell are we floating this close to that thing? It looks like reality had a bad acid trip.”
He leans forward, elbows on knees, eyes still wearing my green. “Because we’re going in.”
I stare. “You’re a lunatic.”
“Perhaps.” He stands slowly, unfolding like a predator who’s decided the hunt is more fun when the prey thinks it has a chance. “But lunatics with power get what they want. And right now, I want you properly attired.”
◆━━━━━━━◆
A wall panel slides open.
A gown floats out—black star-silk so thin it’s practically transparent, slits to the thigh, neckline plunging to the navel. It shimmers like liquid night.
“Uniform,” he says. “Wear it.”
I laugh—a short, bitter bark. “You want me to parade around in lingerie? Pass. I’ll stick with what I’m wearing.”
He tilts his head. “What you’re wearing is about to become optional.”
◆━━━━━━━◆
The air hums.
Magnetic fields wake—subtle at first, then insistent. My jacket lifts at the hem. Shirt rises, exposing stomach. Bra straps slip down shoulders. Pants loosen at the waist.
I snatch the fabric, bunching it tight against my ribs.
The fields ignore my grip. Jacket peels away like silk shed in the dark, drifting to the deck with a sigh. My shirt strains—buttons part one by one with soft, wet clicks. I cross my arms hard, pinning the open placket to my chest, refusing to let it fall.
I snarl through clenched teeth. “Stop it, you magnetic pervert.”
He doesn’t answer. Just watches, pupils blown wide in mirrored emerald, that stupid grin stretching wider.
For one furious heartbeat, everything stills.
My pulse hammers in my ears.
The violet-gold light of the Nekharu Veil begins to slide across my bare stomach.
Then the surge comes.
Jacket rips free. Shirt tears at the seams with a hushed, obscene rip.
Bra cups slip away, nipples peaking sharp against the sudden kiss of recycled air.
Pants collapse to my ankles in defeat.
Underwear clings for one defiant, trembling heartbeat—then surrenders, sliding down my thighs in a final, silken caress.
Naked.
The Veil’s colors slide over bare skin in slow violet-gold waves. Nipples tighten in the cool air.
I cross arms over chest, glaring murder.
His jaw tightens.
For one heartbeat, he looks like he might devour me raw.
Then the grin returns.
Wider. Wetter.“Defiant,” he murmurs. “Perfect.”
I take one step forward—ready to claw that grin off his face.
He catches my wrist mid-air.
Not hard. Just enough to stop me.
Thumb strokes the inside where cuff meets skin—slow, deliberate, filthy in every glide.
“Don’t,” I warn, voice low and lethal.
He releases me instantly. Steps back. But his eyes—silver gold—drop to my mouth.
“Then don’t tempt me,” he says quietly.
Silence stretches.
The Veil outside pulses once, hard, as if impatient.
He breaks it first. “First shallow piercing tomorrow. You’ll be there, little comet—right beside me when reality frays.”
My heart kicks hard. “I don’t do well in tight spaces with perverts.”
“Good.” He leans in, breath brushing my ear. “Tight spaces are where I thrive.”
I shove at his chest.
Veins flare supernova-bright under my palms, searing.
He steps back one deliberate inch, grin returning full force.
“Tomorrow we pierce the outer membrane. You’ll assist. Tonight…” He gestures—the fields drag my discarded clothes into a neat pile, then guide the black star-silk gown toward me. “Wear it. Or don’t. But know this: the Veil doesn’t care about your modesty. Neither do I.”
I snatch the gown, clutching it like a shield. “I hate you.”
“Good.” He turns toward the door, pausing at the threshold. “Hate keeps the fire burning. And I intend to stoke it until you burn for me.”
The door seals behind him.
◆━━━━━━━◆
Little comet.
The name sticks like venom.
The door seals.
Alone, Veil light stroking naked skin, I press shaking fingers to the wrist he touched.
The cuffs hum softly, almost pleased.
Tomorrow we go in.
And some furious, starving piece of me isn’t afraid.
It’s hungry.
I press my thighs together and hate myself for what I’m about to think:
I want to see what breaks first. Him. The Veil. Or me.
◆━━━━━━━◆
