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The illuminated screen of his data-slate clicked into standby, the unhealthy green glow evaporating into the darkness of the room. He glanced up towards the door, strained eyes aching in the darkness. The candles were burning low; the hour clearly far later than he’d assumed.
The Interrogator had been uselessly fighting an increasingly uphill battle. Reports were an expected twice-weekly constant, regardless of just how little data he had been able to scrape into his official communications. Under the Lord Inquisitor’s ever-watchful eye, there was zero room for failure – and Heinrix was more than aware of the fact.
That wasn’t to say that he’d foolishly assumed his results would be plentiful. He was more than aware of the inevitable reluctance of any crew to cooperate with the Inquisition, even despite the implications if they elected not to comply. But even from the very first slivers of intel he’d been granted, the Atonement had not been at all what he had expected. Ancient and populous, like any Rogue Trader frigate, the heavily carved wooden hallways served as the home to its myriad of plentiful enigmata, kept concealed just out of plain sight, carried by the whispers of the workers down below.
One of his first acts had been to install two covertly hidden pict-recorders within the Rogue Trader’s study. His intention was to gain a greater understanding of her motivations by eavesdropping. He was already privy to the contents of her admittedly rather thin and patchy dossier. It would be his responsibility to compile his own report on the former smuggler – and if there was something Heinrix van Calox was known for, it was for doing his job well.
Alas, merely a day after installing the pict-recorders, his plan had backfired spectacularly. He had not considered the possibility of the Lord Captain having already installed pict-recorders of her own within her study. From her own personal surveillance, she had observed his act of deception as clear as day, culminating in a private confrontation – with a knife held to his throat.
From that point on, he knew he’d inadvertently made his job twice as difficult. He had betrayed what remarkably little trust the Lord Captain had placed in the Inquisition, fraying the very, very thin thread that was keeping him within her retinue.
Then, as if the situation between them hadn't become strained enough, Heinrix had only succeeded in making it even worse.
A report had made it personally to Runa’s desk – a report detailing the discovery of a multitude of pict-recorders installed within the engineering decks. Pict-recorders that bore the mark of the Inquisition.
She’d threatened him again. Not with a knife, but the reminder of it; and had reiterated to him that she would always remain one step ahead.
He needed a different approach.
Oh, but Heinrix hadn’t meant to do it. He really hadn’t. But twice now he’d been within particularly close proximity to the Rogue Trader, and it had meant that the psyker had finally been close enough to be able to sense her vitals – more specifically, her heartbeat. A firm, calm rhythm, he had been privy to the way it had stuttered the moment his gaze had dropped to her lips – not by choice – but how she had faltered all the same.
Could this be the way to gaining the upper hand?
Alas, seduction was most definitely not his preferred approach. He would have no choice but to go back to the drawing board. The Rogue Trader was far more shrewd than he’d given her credit for.
Yet, their shared hostility had fostered a strange tension that had sparked between them, stoked further by the persistent, clandestine curiosity he harboured.
She had shown him a strange mercy – a mercy that he most certainly did not deserve. If their roles had been reversed, he wasn’t sure he would’ve extended the same lenience. After all, his actions had been the cause of much of her ire, and it meant that the Lord Captain now held her cards impossibly close to her chest – as did her retinue. His reputation amongst them had fallen from a shroud of careful suspicion to absolute and complete distrust.
Heinrix stood from the high-backed chair, rolling his shoulders and tilting his head from left to right. He had been sitting undisturbed in the same place for hours. Gloved fingers ached from hours of precise input upon the data slate, having detailed the events of the last few days.
Pocketing the slate with an air of exhausted finality, Heinrix turned to face the vast expanse of the room. The wardroom was the Rogue Trader’s favourite place on the ship – if his covert observations had been anything to go by. As magnificent as it was accommodating, the beautiful space stretched eighteen generous bookshelves across, with enough room for multiple desk set-ups and several casual seating arrangements. Elaborately embroidered velvet chaises were positioned before several grand fireplaces, sitting at the very edges of the wardroom.
He could understand why Runa appreciated this room as much as she did.
Having elected to hole himself up in a reading nook close to the stairs, Heinrix had made sure to sit facing the main entrance door, in case of unannounced visitors. Here, amongst the rumbling and creaking of the bulkhead tucked against the carved walls of the voidship, he found solace amongst the isolated quiet.
It was peaceful – as peaceful as a bustling voidship could be.
But it was late, and the Interrogator recognised that he had been lingering within the wardroom for hours.
One hand resting upon the pommel of his sword, he began to make his way back towards the door. Observant grey eyes roamed the room, lingering upon the lavishly decorated furnishings as he crossed the wide expanse; a force of habit. Stray data slates, misplaced vox casters, or even a forgotten comm bead could propel a stagnant investigation forward by months.
Acting out of habit, it wasn’t as though Heinrix had been expecting to find anything at all. But almost as if fate itself had woven the very threads of his actions, his sharp gaze was suddenly drawn to a small, dark tumble of fabric upon a chaise that was often warmed by the currently dormant fireplace.
He paused, a frown of suspicion creeping into the lines of his forehead and furrowing his brow. An item of clothing, perhaps? A misplaced cleaning rag from a servant’s arsenal of equipment?
He moved towards the chaise with newly-focused intention, his boot heels almost silent against the plush carpet runner. Despite the fact he was most certainly alone, he remained quiet as he diverted from his intended course; as if he was stumbling upon a closely-guarded secret – one that he was not meant to be privy to.
Upon closer inspection, the pile of fabric appeared to be a yard or two of emerald silk, with a thin, matching trim of green velvet. The Interrogator frowned deeper still as he regarded it closely, scooping the fabric into his gloved hands and observing how it pooled against the leather of his fingers. A scarf of some sort, he considered – no, it was too large to be a scarf. A shawl, perhaps.
Eyes widening, he suddenly realised where he recalled seeing such a garment – wrapped around the Lord Captain’s shoulders earlier that very morning. He had even written about it in the addendum to her dossier that he had compiled that afternoon – elects for a simple shirt with dark breeches. Heeled boots, not tall enough to be impractical. Silk shawl – the only real luxury she appears to allow herself whilst on the bridge.
It seemed fairly unremarkable, lacking any fine detail or embroidery; seeming rather plain as far as noble garments went. He allowed the silk to fall through his fingers, observing how the fabric draped as the velvet trim succumbed to gravity. The silk itself held a gentle emerald lustre, with no pulls, no stains. The garment wasn’t particularly worn, yet something drew Heinrix towards inspecting the shawl more closely.
To his slight dismay, he found nothing of particular interest. There were no unique identifiers, no tailoring marks like he had hoped. It was only when he stooped to return the shawl to where he’d found it when he noticed something else – the heady scent it carried.
Potent but not overpowering, Heinrix allowed himself to indulge in his curiosity, lifting the garment to his nose. He really shouldn’t have; but he was alone, and it was late, and it was only for the very briefest of moments.
Oh, but he really shouldn’t have.
He breathed deeply, fingers clenching within the fabric, clutching it to his face like a man suddenly possessed. It was as if the Lord Captain was in the room with him, beside him, against him. He suddenly recalled how close she had been whilst threatening him, her knife cold against his throat, breasts pressed firmly against his chest.
He froze at the surprising heat that the memory conjured, and his gut twisted with an uncomfortable realisation. It was so unbelievably dangerous for a man of his standing to be entertaining such impropriety.
Alas, Heinrix knew that he would need to inspect the garment. Taking a piece of it with him would be too inconspicuous. She was intelligent enough to immediately notice that a chunk of her shawl was missing, regardless of how precise he was with a blade – and she was definitely intelligent enough to know that the Interrogator was the man responsible for such an act. He had given her plenty of reasons to suspect him over the last several weeks – he was aware of how precarious the situation was. He was walking on very thin ice.
No, there was only one option – he would take the shawl back to his quarters – tonight – and include the detail of the fabric within his report. The fact it had been abandoned so forgetfully was a suspicion in its own right. He needed to note its composition, its condition, the weave of the fabric, the thread… the scent of jasmine that he’d become so accustomed to. The herbal breeze of lho that lingered within its folds.
Heinrix almost spluttered at the lengths of his rationalisation, heat quickly rising to fill the hollows of his cheeks as he considered the calamity that would ensue if he was discovered pilfering such an item.
Focus, van Calox, it’s late. You already know she’s hiding something. This could turn the tide of your investigation.
He announced his irritation to the room with a resounding sigh, rolling the shawl as carefully as possible into a small, neat bundle and hiding it the best he could within the pocket of his jacket. He would return it as soon as his report was complete. It would take him no longer than an hour.
Throne’s mercy – what was he doing? Had he really resorted to stealing in order to compile information for his reports? Had he really stooped so low?
The door closed silently behind him. Despite the lateness of the hour, Heinrix still found himself checking his surroundings.
He was aboard the Atonement on official Ordo business, yet here he found himself, striding along a silent corridor with a confiscated garment hidden in his uniform jacket; with only the gentle hum of the voidship and the occasional floating servo skull to serve as his witnesses.
How far he had fallen.
Shameful.
The silk shawl lay sprawled upon his desk as he paced back and forth, the data slate in his gloved hand warm from overuse. His notes could be organised later, once the shawl had been returned to the exact place he’d found it; but right now, time was of the essence.
Mismatched grey eyes flicked from left to right as he smoothed his thumb thoughtfully across the screen. His most recent notes detailed the fashions worn by various noble families that populated the upper echelons of Hive Sibellus, which had served as Runa’s home – albeit for a very short period of time. Perhaps, then, this shawl was a relic from that part of her life? It would make sense – an item that provided reassurance and comfort.
But he already knew that it was a stretch too far. The nobles of the Sibellus hive were notorious across the sector for their gaudily-embroidered monochrome; and Runa had not been counted amongst nobility. Quite the opposite.
Heinrix continued to thumb through his notes, recognising the ever-familiar sense of dread that had begun to build within the pit of his stomach. The tension now had him firmly within its grip, the muscles of his shoulders taut as he exhaled through his nose. This was not going well.
The Interrogator moved to sit heavily within his desk chair, narrowing his eyes at the glowing screen before him. There was nothing attached to the garment that indicated its origin, its creator. Was it handmade, perhaps? He certainly would not underestimate the skills of the Lord Captain’s personal tailor – the man would be able to create a gown fit for a Magnae Accessio from some leather offcuts and an old hessian sack.
And yet, the more he debated it, the more he was drawn back to the same conclusion – that he had made yet another mistake. He had been so certain it would provide him with something, something that might bridge one of the gaps within her already patchy dossier.
Disregarding the data slate upon the desk, Heinrix leaned forward to retrieve the shawl. Perhaps there was nothing special about the garment after all; other than it belonging to the Lord Captain von Valancius. He considered the possibility of having acted rashly on account of being too suspicious, squinting at the velvet trim as he brought the shawl closer.
It was now even later in the evening, and his eyes continued to ache under the dim lumens of his study.
He pinched the fabric between both gloved forefingers and thumbs, watching how it bunched. It was impossible for him to be able to ignore the scent it carried, musk and citrus and something else, something warm. Jasmine, perhaps. But velvet and silk were fabrics too delicate for a man like him to be touching, heavy hands softly thumbing the edges of the garment.
He couldn’t help wondering if the texture of the material was reminiscent of the pale skin it adorned.
Before he realised what he was doing, Heinrix was already removing his left glove, pinching a leather fingertip between his teeth. His focus remained entirely upon the garment, and as the warmth of his bare hand slid within the silken folds, he clenched his jaw tightly.
This was inappropriate. And as much as he realised that, not a single part of him wished for it to cease.
Instead, he brought it closer still. The shawl was light, despite it carrying the distinctive scent of both her perfume and her flushed, pink skin, and Heinrix was only distinctly aware of the feeling that had begun to stir deep within him, lower; a clenching torment.
Stop.
It was almost as if Runa was there in his study with him. Beside him, before him. He already knew that considering the Lord Captain in such a way was absolutely beyond unacceptable. But the longer he held the fabric within his hand, the more he dared to imagine it anyway; considering the weight of her in his lap as she straddled him, long nails carving their way along the navy weave of his uniform jacket, toying with the brass buttons. Those very same nails had been so sharp against his neck, harsh enough to threaten but gentle enough to soothe.
He inhaled another lungful of the perfumed silk, allowing his eyes to close as he sat, unfulfilled, with a roiling ache in his gut.
She didn’t even like him – of that, he was certain – but that hardly mattered now. He drew in a ragged breath through his teeth as his gloved hand began to wander, even despite how much he knew he shouldn’t. He had tried so, so unbelievably hard to ignore it, but his pathetic attempt to fight it had been futile.
He wanted it, after all.
The weight of his deception and guilt and the risk of being discovered weighed heavily upon his shoulders as his hips shifted automatically beneath the pressure of his palm. It had been many, many years since he had obliged such a baser need, acknowledging the gnawing pull, the burning ache. No, he had refused to entertain such distractions, let alone act upon them. Very little existed outside of his responsibilities – and his usefulness – to the Golden Throne.
It proved difficult to free himself with one hand, even as he shifted further down within his desk chair. His hips unwillingly canted forward, desperate for contact with anything, anything that would provide him with the sweet relief of pressure.
Void take her, for poisoning him with her threats, for taunting him with the sweetness of her proximity. For reducing him to this. Was she even aware of how his own heart had clenched beneath her smirking gaze? Did she understand how intrigued he had been by her elegant pointed ears, the jarring void-slang in her dialect, her near-constant smirk?
Hissing through his teeth, Heinrix crushed the silk shawl within a tight fist as he brought it to his nose. He strained involuntarily against his open palm, the chair creaking beneath his weight. The silence in his study was merciful, judging him only by the pitch of his ragged breaths and the gentle clinking of his belt buckle.
He paused, briefly, to drag up the hem of his still-fastened jacket. He was a wicked, covetous man, no better than the cursed monster they had once accused him of being, yet the shame that now threatened to suffocate him couldn’t be more different to that which had been brought about by his curse. This guilt was entirely self-inflicted.
His back arched away from the chair under the pressure of his gloved hand, now tightly wrapped around himself, free of all restrictions; aching and resplendent. Breathing deeply amongst the folds of perfumed fabric, he allowed himself to imagine her before him; a desire so forbidden he would not even dare to address it.
He was rough with his movements, gloved hand sliding to the root and pulling. He bit his tongue at the feeling. If he closed his eyes and disassociated enough, it was almost good enough to imagine that it was her hand upon him, appreciating him so intimately.
The memories of her had remained as fresh as undisturbed snow. How closely she had considered him, her interest clearly piqued, even as she held a knife to his larynx. How her gentle fingertips had lingered against his neck, nails careful against shaven skin. Observing him. Testing his boundaries – just as he had tested hers.
How would she feel if she found out this is what her esteemed Inquisitorial guest thought of her, hidden away within his study, pleasuring himself to the whisper of her that lingered within her clothing?
Exhaling carefully, Heinrix slowed his strokes to a more deliberate pace, the ache building far too quickly. How his body remembered its vices, despite his neglect of such an indulgence. Despite his shame, a small part of him wanted to bask in the corruption, to prolong it for as much time as he could.
Oh, but how he found himself yearning for her – a woman he so thoroughly disliked, who almost certainly felt the exact same way in return – if only to feel the warmth of her skin against his, her hands tangled within his hair. A woman who – aside from a patchy dossier and a supreme contempt for authority – he’d realised he barely even knew. Would she ever discover his depravity, like she had discovered his clumsy attempt at surveillance? Would she punish him for such a filthy transgression?
Was that what he wanted?
Heinrix gasped his need into the crumpled shawl, his face all but smothered by the fabric as his wrist began to work harder, faster. He was a man possessed, hurriedly losing all elements of rational thought. The scent of her all around him flooded his senses almost entirely, overwhelming his traitorous psyche as the hoarfrost began to settle within his collar, bristling against his skin. The gloved hand within which he grasped himself didn’t feel like his own, and as his head fell back against the chair, he felt the telltale clench of his peak beginning to build within his core. Hips rutted feverishly against his own grip.
His heart hammered within his heaving chest, lower lip snagged between his teeth as he choked back a sudden, strangled groan. How might she sound, beneath him? Before him? How might she feel? How he might kiss away the sweat that might bead upon her flushed skin, glittering like diamonds in the candlelight, rivulets of moisture trickling along the titanium augments at her neck. She was the Rogue Trader von Valancius, after all. She deserved no less, regardless of how much he might’ve disliked her.
Dampness had begun to settle within the divot of his spine as he arched into the leather of his palm, skin sweat-slick from exertion; his free hand snared tightly within the silken fabric. Shuddering out a strangled sound that leaked from between clenched teeth, Heinrix found his release abruptly, spilling hot onto his stomach and over his gloved fingers.
For longer than a moment, the Interrogator remained still through the occasional jolt of quaking muscles, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he attempted – in vain – to gather his thoughts. A calm clarity cascaded over the man as he exhaled, and blissful peace descended quickly into a roiling apprehension. Even as he sat up, glancing down at the mess he’d made of himself, the hollows of his cheeks began to fill with a shameful heat. He leaned forward, reaching to place the shawl gingerly upon the desk, trying not to think of how many lines and creases now marred the flow of the once-perfect emerald silk.
As the flames of his desire tempered, gradually beginning to cool, Heinrix swallowed; the fresh chill in the air almost palpable as the vapour of his breath faded into mist. The consequences of his actions ever so slowly began to descend upon him, settling upon the ever-growing burden of responsibility that he was already forced to balance upon his shoulders.
He was almost certainly out of time.
If he was lucky, the Lord Captain would be resting within her chambers, blissfully unaware of her shawl’s participation in her guest’s mindless moment of depravity. Alas, if he was unlucky, he would have no choice – he would be forced to dig himself deeper into the hole he’d made for himself and lie to her; to the woman who had twice threatened to throw him out of her ship’s airlock.
He had made a terrible, terrible mistake.