She woke late, the ache of a drugged sleep hangover pressing an endorphin dump headache hard against her temple. She tried to locate some shred of satisfaction over her execution of last night's congression, but couldn't think clearly enough to recall. Hard to conclude much after he'd ghosted on her last night. Had he left... or left? She bit back a wave of depression and self loathing – unearned, she knew – but none the less hovering since she had no solid proof as to what awaited her at the office.

If he hadn't... left, would he be making some sort of report on her as well? A comment card on services rendered? She hated her own bitter brain for that self-inflicted wound. If he had departed – as he was free to do at any time – what could she say in her own defense? Project termination due to subject dissatisfaction. Private joke behind her back about being the universe's worst lay. Lovely.

Or perhaps he'd move on now, pick another woman to play with. Conquest achieved. Another notch on a personal belt of exotic lays of the galaxy. Bedded the Minister of Defense on Helion Prime, beat that one. Still she had to smile at that, the irony of being a collector card for bragging rights. She'd survived a night with him, after all. There was something to hang on to. At least she'd proved Reza wrong.

She rose and went to the kitchen, seeking an asperdine and water to kill the worst of her headache. Or maybe two, she though stiffly, another ache awakened by her movement. At least their effect was mercifully quick. She sipped turcay, dressed and coded into work on the com. Might as well face the music.

She skimmed scheduled notes, noting doctor request she report for post-physical exam. Is that what they were calling it? She rolled her eyes, they could wait for tomorrow. A new schedule update bumped the cue line up for Dr. Othnhaus. Subject reported for bloodwork 2.1 – expect sample delay -15 minutes. So he hadn't left. Apparently not on time this morning, but he'd reported. She absently replied to two afternoon meeting requests, pushed back her own debriefing to 14:00 and decided to take a long shower.


The half-empty bottle of New Aquilan Sirah stared accusingly across the table at her. Nicola made a face and got up. It wasn't a waste, she reminded herself, of this hideously expensive, dead vintage wine. She may never taste a bottle like this again, with all the vineyards on Aquila Major scorched to dust, but it was ever-so-good at calming her nerves and unclenching her gut. Frankly, making her tipsy. This was her second? third? glass. She hadn't let it empty. She should cork it now, save it for another evening. She was long done with dinner anyhow.

Yet she hesitated to leave the close kitchen. It wasn't more than an offset breakfast nook flanking a wall of appliances, separated with a half wall from her bedroom. But she didn't want to get up. Didn't want to dress. So much fuss for something he'd toss aside anyway.

Still, it was nearly zero hour again, at least by her electronic scheduler. It seemed so... obnoxiously scientific, to have to submit a schedule marker to the RG senior group. 23:00 - congressional briefing. Horrible pun. Didn't fool anyone, but no one had offered up anything better. She wondered if the vicarious bastards stayed up this late to see if she checked it off for the updater.

And approved uniform, again. She'd relented to a new bedgown, green this time, satin and sleek and equally embarrassing. The bitch had tried to suggest stockings, and jewelry, but Nicola gave her a tired look and asked if she expected her to don gloves and a hat as well. She was not some jaded industrialist's wife, looking to spice up her marriage. She'd dismissed the perky woman with a wave to charge her for what was expected, but please leave her alone, planet to defend and all. She'd never seen anyone 'flounce' out before, at least now she could smile about it.

Wine glass in hand, she debated showering before changing, but she hadn't exactly exerted herself enough to warrant a second shower. She'd been freshly scrubbed last time, and yet Riddick had somehow scented the drugs in her system. When she'd mentioned this in her debriefing, one of the female junior scientists had muttered "vomeronasal' and started scribbling notes. Othnhaus had added "Jacobson's organ- pheromonal sensor in animals. We'll have to add that to the next physiochemical scan battery." She'd kept comments about his liking her smell to tertiary mention. The last thing she needed, or wanted, was to have to spend more hours in testing while curious white coats examined her fluid types and charted her erratic menses. Another condition that was well documented, and she didn't want to discuss. War wounds didn't play into this.

Oh dress already fool, you're wasting time. She finished the wine and went through as much of her nightly routine as was practical. Lights before the door this time? She debated. Or would that just tell him she was ready, and he'd grab her in the doorway. Did it matter? Door then lights, at least it would establish a pattern.

"You're late" the voice behind her chided softly as the lights hit the lowest setting. Nicola shrugged, but glanced at the timekey on the panel, 23:05.

"Didn't peg you for a clock puncher, Mr. Riddick." Her words were lazy, careless. "Five minutes?"

"Seven days, Nicola," The hiss in her ears as he enveloped her. She didn't react this time.

"And seven days makes one week" the adage, meant playfully, had her suddenly face first against the wall, something sharp pressed to her neck.

"Weak indeed." Razor-edged steel slid along her shoulder, a cold caress. A flick and her nightdress slid a few inches lower on one side, spaghetti strap hanging. No blood. So this was a challenge.

"Decide you would rather take me up against the wall like a slam whore after all?" She was gambling, she knew. Her heart in her throat. He pressed the flat side of the knife against her bare shoulder, then grunted, leaning in.

"Nah, but maybe shove you up against the desk and fuck that silver tongue out of your politician mouth."

They were on the bed before she could formulate reply. Her eyes squeezed shut against the blur of disorientation. She heard the shredding tear of fabric, but didn't feel the blade. She still yelped and tried to go fetal, but between him and the bed there was no give. She opened her eyes, he was staring at her, that damn bemused half-grin of his belittling her. Indignant, she dug nails into his chest, shoving ineffectually. "Do you have any idea how much that stupid thing cost?"

"No." He paused. "Do you?" He leaned into her nails, eyes glinting softly.

"No." She slumped, looking away.

"Put it on my tab then. Green isn't your color." Now she snorted. He shrugged, shifting to pull the remains of fabric away. She pouted.

"I'd really prefer you not bring blades into my bedroom." That got her a look. But he couldn't score points by claiming the knife was a shiv, of vice versa. She heard metal hit the end table, and she offered him a saccharin smile.

"I'd really prefer you not have a lock on your door." His voice was flat.

"Thank you for respecting it." her voice was small, eyes shut tight again. He pushed hair back from her face, waiting. She opened her eyes, caught in the silver shine as his large fingers traced her jawline. His brows moved briefly together, a passing thought, but his mouth didn't move. She moved a little beneath him, drawing him back from wherever. "You know you're paid through the night, Riddick. You don't have to leave right after."

"Don't know who the whore in that last sentence was, sister, but I resent the implication either way." His fingers moved down her neck, a careless movement of the back of his hand. Rough to her skin, but it wasn't unpleasant. "Besides, I stay here after and I'm not libel to stop at one round." He was watching his own hand on her body now, fingertips splayed, meat of his calloused palm contrasting the light sensations.

"As I said," she pushed his hand over her breast with hers, "you have the night."