The heels were a mistake.
Every bloody thing about this evening was a mistake, but the heels topped Evelyn’s mental list of crimes against her person. The three-inch monstrosities had arrived with her gown, and it had been too late to request a pair with a smaller heel before she’d had to leave. So she was stuck with them unless she wanted to wear her combat boots.
The damn things clicked against the hangar floor like tiny little gunshots, each strike echoing her mounting fury. Thirty years dodging these formal affairs through creative scheduling and sheer bloody-mindedness, only to get caught now. But there was no escaping when the President himself specifically requested New Terra Flight Academy’s Commandant.
Unlike her familiar uniform, the midnight blue silk felt wrong against her skin. She tugged at the bodice, grimacing. She’d rather face down a squadron of hostiles than parade around in yards of expensive fabric and these torture devices masquerading as shoes. At least in combat, the rules were clear: shoot the bad guys before they shot you.
Her footsteps echoed through the huge hangar, unnaturally quiet during the Christmas shutdown. Most personnel were home with their families, as they should be. Even maintenance ran on a skeleton crew at this time of year. The transport waited at the far end, its sleek silhouette a darker shadow against the gathering dusk.
Movement flickered beside the aircraft. A tall figure stepped into view, moonlight catching distinctive silver-white hair, and Evelyn’s mood—already hovering between homicidal and apocalyptic—plummeted into new depths.
Sub-Commander Rhade K'Vass. Because of fucking course.
He moved with that liquid grace all Latharians possessed, broad shoulders filling out his flight suit in ways that drew far too much attention. Amber eyes almost glowed in the dim light, fixed on her with an intensity that made her want to check her appearance. ...