CHAPTER 655: THE UNDEAD BOSS (1)

Thalatha blinked once, then again—tiny, frantic shutters that did nothing to clear the fog rushing her skull. The world had turned sideways—no, upside-down—then frozen in the most compromising tableau an officer could imagine.

She became aware of heat first: a feverish band hugging her face where it pressed against something coarse and wool-rough. Breath, hot and a little sweet, gusted over the strands of hair plastered to her cheek. Each exhale lifted a lock, let it fall, lifted, fell—like the flutter of a tiny flag announcing emergency.

That’s not my breathing.

Her vision steadied on a thread-bare coat collar. Discolored threads poked out in a dozen directions, each one glinting like tiny silver fishing lines. Mikhailis’s ridiculous embroidery, her mind supplied, half-helpful, half-hysterical.

Another detail slipped into focus: the steady rise and fall beneath her ribs. Hard muscle under worn linen, warm and very much alive. She felt it expand against her breastplate, then retreat. Expand, retreat. An uninvited lullaby.

Oh no.

Her pulse hammered harder. She tasted copper at the back of her throat—a gift from the bruise blooming across her ribs. Then her knees registered the exact shape they straddled. Hardened leather. Metal rivets. One of her greaves pressed against his outer thigh; the other hovered dangerously close to—

Seven Trees preserve me.

Something cold rested at her inner thigh, an impossibly narrow bar angled just so. It bit through the thinner leather near the inseam and met bare skin with a chill so sharp she nearly yelped. An unbidden shiver crawled up her spine, scattering sense like startled birds.

She froze. Muscles locked, breath suspended. She felt, absurdly, like a hunter snapped in her own snare.

Mikhailis lay beneath, wide-eyed, every limb contorted in apology. One arm pinned under her cloak, the other extended in a half-push-up that earned him no leverage. His coat had rucked up to his lower ribs, exposing the off-white undershirt and the slender curve of his waist. In any other setting she might have teased him for skipping meals. Now her heart flipped at the intimacy.

He lifted his chin fractionally. "Um... Miss Thalatha?" A frog’s croak had more dignity. Sweat darkened the hair at his temple. "You, uh... you good?"

Words abandoned her. Her tongue felt made of lead, her jaw welded shut. She prayed her expression conveyed composure, but the burning in her cheeks suggested otherwise.

Move, she commanded her limbs. Nothing obeyed. Her thighs clenched instead, an instinctive brace that tightened pressure on that icy object wedged between. Idiot legs, why?!

Mikhailis tried again to wriggle free, cheeks pinking as he realized every micro-shift sealed them tighter. He inhaled, perhaps to apologize, but the breath turned into a meek hiss when the cold bar dug deeper.

Her mind raced. Belt buckle? No—the angle was wrong. Flask? Too long. Gods, please let it be a dagger hilt and not—well, anything else.

Panic thundered in her ears. She had faced Blight wraiths, charging trolls, the Queen’s disapproving silence—none had reduced her to this trembling marionette.

Then Rodion’s crisp monotone slid into her earpiece, as inevitable as morning taxes.

Optimal retrieval posture achieved?

The words were so calm, so cheerfully analytical, they detonated whatever composure Thalatha had left. Heat flashed from her ears down to her collarbone. The cold object abruptly felt hot, a brand of humiliation.

Mikhailis sputtered, half-cough, half-laugh. "Rodion—now is decidedly not the time." He aimed a glare upward, probably at the invisible speaker, but the effect was spoiled by the way his bangs drooped into his eye.

Thalatha’s lungs finally demanded air. She inhaled sharply—bad idea. The motion pressed her hips tighter to his. She bit down on a squeak. Her heartbeat thundered against her armor like fists on a drum.

Rodion, apparently oblivious to human mortification, continued.

Subject Thalatha is currently exerting ninety-three point two percent of lower-body weight onto Prince Mikhailis’s groin. No internal fractures detected; minor bruising probable.

"Thank you for the medical update," Mikhailis rasped, voice several octaves higher. "Truly invaluable."

Thalatha squeezed her eyes shut. She would not squeal, cry, or flee. She would fix this like the trained officer she was.

Phase one: disengage.

She commanded her left leg to slide back. Leather scraped leather, but her knee barely moved. The cold bar shifted—oh stars—and the resulting spark of sensation nearly shorted her brain.

Manners, she thought desperately. Etiquette.

She recalled a lesson from childhood: If one finds oneself in an untoward position, withdraw with grace and no fuss. The memory felt like a bad joke now.

Mikhailis, apparently deciding heroics trumped propriety, slipped his free hand beneath her thigh, palm skimming the sensitive crease of her knee. Her breath stuttered. In one fluid lift he rolled his hips sideways and guided her leg over, freeing space between them. The cold object—a flask after all, shining dull pewter—clattered to the floor.

Air rushed back into her lungs. She exhaled a shaky laugh, half hysteria, half awe. "Flask," she whispered, relief and embarrassment twining.

He managed a grin, though pain pinched the edges. "My apologies, Captain Sunshine. Portable hydration hazard."

Despite herself she snorted. "Hazard, indeed."

With a soft grunt he levered them apart fully. Her knees found purchase on the stone. Her cloak slid free, allowing her to rise to a kneel beside him. The motion pulled at her wounded shoulder; a flare of pain lanced, but humiliation trumped agony.

She stood unsteadily, adjusting her breastplate, cinching belt. Every movement felt magnified, the rustle of fabric suddenly thunderous.

Mikhailis followed, rolling onto his knees first. He checked the flask—now dented—and waggled it ruefully. "Battle scar."

She examined him quickly—no visible bleeding beyond a fresh bruise at his jawline. Still, guilt prickled. She’d nearly crushed the poor man’s family jewels.

"Prince," she began, voice soft, but he waved it off.

"No harm, no foul—though I may walk funny for a spell." He flashed that lopsided grin. Somehow it eased the knot in her chest.

Only then did she realize his spectacles sat askew. A smudge of dirt streaked the glass. Without thinking she reached out, straightened them with a gentle nudge. His eyes widened. Something passed between—awkward gratitude, maybe something warmer—but she turned away before she could decipher it.

Behind them Rodion retracted his shield arms, servos settling. Recommend further distancing. Residual proximity may impair motor coordination.

Mikhailis shot him a glare. "Yes, father."

Thalatha cleared her throat, the heat finally ebbing from her cheeks. She plotted a line to the looming gate, grateful for a mission to fill the silence. "Assessment?"

He followed her gaze. "Gate’s sealed tighter than a miser’s purse," he said, dusting off his coat. "But bigger worry: everything locked behind us. Whatever’s out there thinks we’re snacks."

She nodded once, professional mask sliding back into place. Yet the memory of warmth, of intimacy, lingered at the edges of her senses—the press of his chest, the accidental claim on her hips, the impossible cold of that flask. A shiver trailed down her spine, equal parts lingering panic and... something else.

Focus. Duty first.

But when she stepped toward the dais, her fingers brushed her thigh, half-expecting that chill again. A phantom sensation bloomed, hot where the flask had been cold, and she clenched her fist to steady herself.

I’m a Hollowguard captain,

she scolded inwardly. Not a flustered recruit. Yet the clangor of her heartbeat refused to settle, drumming out a truth she wasn’t ready to face. Not here among bones and Blight.

Mikhailis shuffled up beside her, limping a little. He offered a conspiratorial whisper. "For the record, you make an excellent landing cushion."

"Shut up, Prince," she murmured, but the bite lacked venom. A smile teased her lips.

He straightened, adopting a passable mimic of parade stance. "Right. Next awkward disaster in three... two..."

She elbowed him lightly, warmth blooming in her chest at their shared absurdity. The dungeon might be a maw of nightmares, but at least she wasn’t facing it alone.

Behind them, Rodion’s optic dimmed as if in exasperation.

I’m going to die.

Thalatha’s limbs finally began to move—slow, uncertain, the way branches stir after a storm has torn half of them away. Pins-and-needles prickled along her calves as blood returned, and for a dizzy breath she feared she might topple straight back onto the poor prince. Stand, Captain, she ordered herself, clenching every muscle that still listened.

Her hand found purchase first. But instead of cool stone she felt a clutch of fabric—Mikhailis’s inner coat lining, soft from wear. She realized her fingers had bunched it so tightly the cloth pleated between her knuckles. Mortified, she released as though it were a hot coal.

Before she could re-orient, Mikhailis shifted beneath. A grunt—half apology, half strain—escaped him as he rolled to one hip, freeing the arm that had been trapped beneath her cloak. His fingers glided beneath her thigh with surprising steadiness, calloused pads brushing the sensitive skin just above her knee-guard. The brief contact sparked gooseflesh up her leg.

Without ceremony he levered her sideways in a single, practiced sweep—the kind of move a man learned from hauling heavy satchels of research gear, she supposed. One heartbeat they were a tangled heap; the next she found her boots landing square on the cracked flagstones.

Light—that same strange bioluminescence—flared off his tousled hair as he straightened. He held the pose only a moment before swaying. Pale though he was, he remained dignified, chin lifted, coat crooked like a lopsided banner. A rip near his waist revealed a glimpse of lean torso; dust streaked downward in a diagonal slash.

Thalatha’s own balance buckled. She staggered two steps, caught herself, then fussed with her cloak more than strictly necessary. Every rustle felt loud. She refused to meet his gaze, focusing instead on brushing phantom dust from her pauldrons. A strangled word tumbled out—"th-thanks"—though it sounded, to her horror, suspiciously like throttle me now.

Silence draped over them, thick, almost velvety. It swallowed the earlier chaos so completely that even Thalatha’s heartbeat seemed to echo. A faint, familiar scent—mint and machine oil—clung to the air between them. She wondered if it came from Mikhailis’s psycho-gel supplies or simply the prince himself.

They stood like statues set too close: both aware of the other’s heat, both pretending not to notice.

Around them the boss chamber loomed, cathedralesque. The monstrous gate overhead resembled a ribcage welded shut, root-veins threading like ligatures across its panels. Every pulse of unseen energy made those veins glow dim cobalt, as though some enormous heart beat on the far side.

Farther in, a vast hall unfurled—polished stone fractured by pale fissures, columns of twisted lignin soaring high into darkness. At the center, the dais waited, lotus vessel chained and silent. Cold blue motes drifted above the marble steps, pulsing in time with the floor.

The hush broke when Thalatha exhaled too sharply, cheeks still fever-warm. "That... was unpleasant." Understatement of the century, she added silently, pressing the back of her hand to her burning face.

Mikhailis kept his eyes front, voice equal parts flippant and dry. "I’d rate that descent seven of ten for blunt-force trauma, twelve of ten for personal embarrassment."

A tinny chime preceded Rodion’s clinical murmur. Correction: Based on recorded heart-rate spikes, subject Thalatha reached seventeen of ten on the embarrassment scale. A new facility record.

"Rodion," Mikhailis said through a frozen grin, "one more helpful statistic and I’ll repurpose you as a footstool."