13. CHAPTER THIRTEEN #2
I couldn’t read her expression from there—or maybe I could through the bond, which was going absolutely haywire in my chest. It pulsed in sharp, stuttering bursts that felt like her heart breaking and mending at the same time.
Her aura flared.
Not the soft, contented glow from rehearsal. This was bright and unsteady, rippling along her neck and down her arms, visible even from the floor.
She pressed her hand flat against her chest, over her heart.
Then she laughed—a wet, broken sound—and brought the mic back to her lips.
“That’s—” Her voice cracked. She shook her head. The crowd was quiet, riveted. “That’s not fair.”
Someone in the crowd whooped. Someone else shushed them.
Zhari crouched at the edge of the stage, one hand on the barrier, and looked right at me.
Right at the sign.
Right through me.
“I wrote this song about you,” she said, not quite into the mic, but it caught anyway and echoed through the arena.
My face crumpled.
I was crying. I was absolutely, definitely crying in the middle of a concert in front of thousands of aliens, holding a glittery sign with a smiley-faced car on it.
A security officer appeared at my elbow. For a second, I tensed, ready to be escorted out.
“Come with me,” he said gently.
He led me along the barrier to the side of the stage, past confused crew members and through a curtain that smelled like haze machines and flowers.
My legs were shaking so badly that I was basically walking on vibes and spite.
And then she was there.
Zhari came off the stage at almost a run, her mic abandoned somewhere behind her, her jacket half-shrugged off one shoulder. Her eyes were red, and her aura was blazing.
She looked at me like I was the only thing in the room.
She stopped a foot away.
“You,” she said, her voice wrecked. “You absolute disaster.”
I held up the sign one more time because I didn’t know what else to do with my hands.
“I want to solar car with you,” I whispered.
She made a sound that was half laugh and half sob, then walked right up to me, our chests touching. Her arms came around me. I buried my face in her neck and sobbed.
“I’m sorry,” I said, muffled against her skin. “I’m sorry. I was a coward. I made it look like you were the risky thing and the job was the safe thing. Like I trusted a contract over you.”
Her arms tightened.
“The job was easy to say yes to because it didn’t ask anything from me that I hadn’t already given away,” I said, the words tumbling out. “My time, my brain, my drawings. I’ve been doing that my whole life. Saying yes to you meant putting me on the line. Not just my work. Me.”
She pulled back just enough to look at my face. Her thumb came up and wiped a tear from my cheek, rough and gentle at the same time.
“I wanted someone to choose me,” I whispered.
“Not the Shadow Girl. Not the brand. Not the useful background human. Just me. And when the universe said, ‘Hey, this is your literal mate,’ I panicked because it felt like it was choosing for me. Like I was being assigned again. Like I didn’t get a vote. ”
A breath hitched in her chest.
“I didn’t understand that you were choosing me too,” I said. “Not just biology. Not just aura. You. Every time you looked at me instead of the crowd. Every time you reached for my hand first. I was so busy being afraid of being dragged that I didn’t notice I was already walking toward you.”
She stared at me, her eyes bright and wet.
“I want forever with you,” I finished, my voice breaking. “Not because the universe said so. Because I do.”
The bond pulsed between us, warm and sure.
For a long moment, she just looked at me.
“You should have said that before,” she said finally.
“I know,” I whispered. “I’m saying it now.”
Her gaze dropped to the sign, still clutched in my hand, the glitter slowly shedding onto the backstage floor. Something in her expression softened.
“You made a car with a smiley face,” she said.
“It’s a solar car,” I said, sniffing. “It runs on feelings and poor decision-making.”
A small, helpless laugh escaped her.
“You are the most infuriating person I have ever met,” she murmured. “You make me so angry I want to throw something, and then you show up at my concert with a glitter sign and my heart does—”
She gestured at her chest.
“Something very inconvenient.”
“I can give you the sign so you have something to throw,” I offered.
She took it from my hand instead. She looked at it for a long moment, then leaned it carefully against the wall.
Then she reached for me.
“Come here, my little noodle,” she said softly.
I went to her.
Her arms closed around me again, tighter this time, and I felt something in my chest finally loosen.
Behind us, the arena erupted into confused noise as the band slipped into an improvised instrumental. Somewhere, a stage manager was probably having a full-body crisis.
Zhari rested her forehead against mine.
“I still need to finish the show,” she whispered.
“I know.”
“And I still need to be angry with you for at least another few minutes.”
“That seems fair.”
“But I do not want to do it while standing backstage.”
“Also fair.”
“Sira will arrange a private exit. We can go to the hotel after the show.”
“The one you’re staying at?”
“Yes.”
“Okay,” I whispered.
She kissed my forehead, then my cheek, lingering there for half a second before pulling away.
She turned toward the stage, then looked back at me.
“You are my Sola-Ka.”
A crew member waved urgently from the edge of the curtain.
Zhari took one last breath, smoothed her expression into something closer to her stage self, and reached for my hand. She squeezed it once before letting go.
Then she ran back into the light.
I stayed at the side of the stage for the rest of the show, clutching my glitter sign against my chest and watching her finish the set.
But every time her eyes found me, I saw the private version too—the girl beneath the lights, the one who had wanted one thing for herself and had been afraid I would turn it into another piece of the machine.
When the encore ended, the arena exploded into sound.
Zhari took her final bow, then disappeared behind the curtain. A few minutes later, Sira appeared beside me.
“She has a car waiting,” she shouted over the random music playing as everyone started to leave.
I looked at her cautiously.
“Are you going to give me another speech?”
“No, I’m not.” Her gaze flicked to the glitter sign. “Tev has already seen that, by the way.”
“Oh stars,” I sighed
“He wants to know if he can use the solar car in a campaign.”
“Absolutely not.”
Sira’s mouth twitched.
“Good answer.”
She turned toward the service corridor.
“Come on. Before the press figures out you’re here.”
We moved through the backstage halls, this time with Sira walking ahead and Zhari’s security staff trailing behind us. The arena’s noise faded with every step.
At the private exit, a dark chrome car waited beneath the loading canopy. Its windows were tinted, and a small holo above the hood displayed a hotel emblem.
Zhari was already inside.
She leaned across the back seat and opened the door for me.
I climbed in beside her. The moment I sat down, her hand found mine.
Neither of us spoke as the car lifted away from the arena.
Minia slid past the windows in ribbons of violet and blue. The city seemed softer at night, less like a machine and more like something alive.
Zhari’s thumb moved slowly across my knuckles.
“I’m still hurt,” she said quietly.
“I know and I am so sorry. Hurting you was the last thing I have ever wanted to do.”
“And I still need you to understand that I cannot be the only one making room for this.”
“I know,” I said again. “I’ll make room. I’m going to try.”
She looked at me.
“Trying is not the same as promising.”
“I know that too.”
Her expression softened.
“Good.”
The rest of the ride passed in silence. Not a sad or mad silence, but the kind where we were both still there, even if neither of us knew exactly what would happen next.
The hotel rose above the city in a tower of pale crystal, its upper levels disappearing into the pearlescent haze. After the car docked at a private entrance, Sira’s security team moved ahead to clear the way.
Zhari squeezed my hand as we stepped out. We crossed the lobby and entered the elevator, where our reflections drifted across the glass walls.
Zhari’s security escorts stopped at the elevator as we walked in.
“Are they not coming?”
“Who the security? No. They will stay downstairs for now and then go back to their rooms for the night. We’re fine.” She leaned over and kissed my cheek. “You know,” she whispered. “I missed you.”
“And I missed you.”
When we reached the suite, Zhari pressed her palm against the door panel. The lock flashed green, and the door slid open with a soft hiss.
She stepped inside first, then turned and held out her hand to me.
I took it, and she gave me a playful tug, pulling me through the doorway with a grin.