Chapter 8
SOLEIL
The slap cracked across her cheek like lightning through fog.
Soleil gasped to wakefulness, choking on her breath and the reek of rot, steel, and piss, as the world rushed into clarity.
Her eyes struggled to open, her vision fragmented, blurred at the edges.
She blinked as her auditory senses perceived male voices, rough as grit.
‘Yo, Scarletta. Wake the fokk up. Your handlers need you back on the job.’
She tried to move her limbs, but they seemed like sacks of wet sand.
Her body throbbed, burning and freezing all at once.
She scarcely lifted her head as two shapes sharpened into view, burly, unshaven men in faded blue-gray uniforms, the kind worn by ice haulers docked in from the outer rings.
The first man, stocky, with breath like sour ‘hol, crouched and shoved her shoulder.
‘Vern sent us. As in your precious uncle. Said you’re off mission. We’re here to check on you and impress on your ass the need to keep to the plan. While reminding you of your obligation to him and to the blood you want to keep alive.’
The second one laughed, hoarse and cruel, and leaned in. ‘He didn’t say you’d be half-dead, though.’
Their hands were on her, grabbing, tugging, trying to pull her upright. Her knees buckled uselessly, and she crumpled like a broken marionette.
‘Fokk’s sake,’ muttered the first. ‘She’s sick. We need to take her to a clinic.’
‘Fee didn’t cover this shit,’ the other growled. ‘No way we’re taking her to a medbay. Don’t need that kinda heat.’
They began to bicker, rough fingers still pawing at her, as if willing her into motion.
She whimpered, curling in on herself, nausea thick in her throat, her limbs twitching with shuddering chills.
Whump.
Soleil blinked and struggled to open her eyes, confused by the sudden absence of hands on her.
One of the men standing over her suddenly launched into the air, his body slamming into the alley floor.
Another thud. A grunt. The hiss of broken breath.
A blur moved light, fast, and lethal, extremities striking like whipcord.
The second kinai swung, missed, and was grabbed mid-lunge, hurled into the side of a steel vent with a dull clang.
The other, who roused himself from the ground, attempted to make a run for it, but only got two steps before he was crushed into the cement by a single, brutal strike.
Silence fell, and her eyes fluttered shut, unable to remain open.
She caught the unmistakable hiss of energy cuffs as her breath rasped in her throat, each inhale wet and broken.
A pair of prowling boots approached her, and she tensed, bracing for more violence.
Until a voice, familiar, deep, and hard, growled out. ‘Soleil?’
Her eyes flickered open.
A haze clung to her vision.
A man stood over her, tall and cloaked, his silhouette outlined in the steam rising from the vents and shadows.
His face came into focus.
‘The XO?’ she whispered, disbelieving. ‘Nada, can’t be. Must be some delusion-level shit.’
He didn’t respond; his jaw clenched, his hands flexing as he crouched beside her. ‘Woman, you’re out of your mind to think I wouldn’t.’
She reached a hand and touched the warm, sinewed flesh of his sigil-covered forearm and jolted, accepting that it was him.
She also recognized his scent, the same one she breathed in every time she touched his clothes before she placed them in the washer.
It was a fragrance that never left her mind since she met him, so much so that she researched his cologne one night.
Agar oud, rosewood, cardamom, vetiver, vanilla, and his skin musk.
Tantalizing.
With his help, Soleil struggled to a sitting position, still unsteady, her pulse echoing in her ears like a warning drum.
The alley spun, the aftermath of adrenaline colliding with her fever and fatigue.
Her limbs felt disconnected and heavy, as if gravity thickened.
‘Soleil?’ Santi’s timbre cut through the haze. ‘Are you alright?’
She opened her mouth, but her response never came.
A piercing whiteness swallowed her vision, and with it, the world tipped as her spine buckled.
She caught the alarm flaring in his eyes and wondered what was causing him such panic.
Strong arms seized her before the ground could. He moved faster than she could have imagined, his hands sliding beneath her to cushion her head.
With great care, he laid her down on the damp, broken concrete, cradling her head in his lap.
‘Hey,’ he said, brushing the wet strands of hair from her face. ‘Don’t check out on me, babe. Stay with me.’
She scarcely heard him; his rasp was the only tether keeping her from sinking completely.
‘What day is it?’ he rasped. ‘Talk to me, Soleil. What day is it?’
She blinked, her mouth dry. ‘Uh, Tuesday?’
He huffed a breath of relief. ‘Good. That’s good. Now, who’s the captain of The Sombra?’
She frowned, the answer slow to rise. ‘Xander Roman thinks he’s running the show, but the true power on the throne is the synth creature, Miral.’
‘Damn right she’s the boss.’ His tone softened. ‘Sawa, you’re with me.’
Her breathing began to steady, though her body still trembled.
The white haze receded, like fog rolling back to sea.
‘You scared the hell outta me, beautiful,’ he murmured, still crouched beside her. Then, without missing a beat: ‘Alright, next question. What’s my name?’
‘Santiago,’ she croaked, mouth twitching.
‘Full name?’ he prompted with mock sternness.
She squinted. ‘Santiago, Something-Spanish-and-Suave?’
He chuckled, the sound silky, rich, and timbred. ‘Close enough. Call me Santi, it’s less formal, more me. Now, what’s your comm tab, bags, and clothes? Just in case I need you to change into a gorgeous gown for a date later tonight.’
Her lips parted in a hoarse laugh. ‘Really?’
‘Of course. I just saved your life. That entitles me to a proper date. Standard save your shit protocol.’
She laughed again, softer this time. ‘You’re ridiculous.’
‘And charming,’ he added, brushing his hand across her cheek. ‘Also dangerously good-looking in Deck 3’s gutter lighting.’
Her cheeks flushed. ‘You’re impossible.’
‘Yet,’ he grinned, ‘here you are, collapsing into my arms like a woman in a soap drama.’
She smacked his torso weakly. ‘I didn’t collapse on purpose.’
‘I’m not complaining.’
His teasing eased the last remnants of panic in her chest, releasing her body’s tension. The alley still stank of rotten synth waste and wet concrete, but wrapped in his timbre, arms, and warmth, she scarcely noticed.
He leaned down, gaze tender and unrushed. ‘You okay now, mi sol?’
She nodded, and with her utterance steadier, whispered, ‘I think I will be.’
He glanced down at her again, his mouth tipping up as he raked those violet and gold eyes over her, extending a hand. ‘Coming?’
She flicked her eyes down at her torn uniform, her scuffed bare feet, and her sweaty, dirt- and soot-covered skin.
Her face flushed with shame and self-consciousness, as his hand clasped her arm, heating her, as she shivered.
She was cold, so cold.
Regardless, she tried to protest and pull away. ‘Wait, I’m gross, I’m better off getting up myself, I can walk.’
‘Nada, you can’t,’ he rasped.
He shed his cloak and wrapped it around her, enveloping her in his heady musk and heat.
As she stared on in disbelief, he bent to the ground, scooped up her scattered bag and remaining things, her jacket, a single boot, her cracked commtab, and shoved them into her dirt-freckled duffel, which he slung over one shoulder.
Without ceremony, he hoisted her into his hold like she weighed nothing, her limbs limp, one arm dangling, her head swaying against his deltoid.
‘Wait, put me down,’ she mumbled, her protest slurred. ‘I’m sticky, sweaty as fokk -.’
‘Naam,’ he muttered. ‘You are.’
‘Where are you taking me?’
‘Hush.’
‘You shouldn’t-.’
‘For the love of all heaven, shut the fokk up woman.’
She jolted and clamped her mouth at his irritated huff.
‘Hold on as tight as you can.’
So she did, hands encircling his neck as a rush of energy and a violet surge of power enveloped them, and trailing behind them like fire as he carried her away from her misery.
Somewhere along the way, relaxed by the steady beat of his heart and the swaying in his arms, she blacked out.
She woke to softness, warmth, fresh sheets, and the scent of citrus and vanilla.
Soleil blinked, her lashes clumped from sleep, her breath shallow but no longer ragged.
Her throat still ached, and her limbs still felt caught in gravity syrup, but her earlier pain had almost faded away.
She still had a fever, but it no longer had her in shuddering tremors.
She shifted, the silken coverlet rustling around her.
Her head lay on a proper pillow, a feather one, and the hum of a humidifier purred from the corner of the room.
She turned her head and recognized the decor at once.
She was in Santi Alvarro’s guest room.
One that she cleaned every week like clockwork, wiping the floor tiles, dusting the inset shelving, and folding laundry in.
She was familiar with each inch of this room, except not from this view; from inside the luxurious bed.
‘It’s bigger when horizontal,’ she murmured.
A rumble of a chuckle answered her. ‘Most things are.’
She twisted her head and jolted as she locked eyes with a sapphire-violet molten pair.
Leaning against the doorway, arms crossed, one ankle hitched over the other, was Santi, in all his devilish handsomeness.
He wore a fitted charcoal Signet jumpsuit that clung indecently to his carved frame, broad deltoids, lean waist.
His thick thighs were wrapped in storm-gray fabric, ending in a set of robust black mega-boots.
His hair was disheveled, jaw dusted with end-of-day stubble, and those eyes, deep and gleaming like galaxies folded in shadow, raked her with unreadable intensity.
She swallowed. Hard.
His gaze skimmed over her, slow and hot, his breath hitched, and she sensed a current between them tighten like the pull of twin stars.
‘Hi,’ she whispered.
‘Hey, you.’
A ping sounded out at the front door, breaking off their scorching stare.