Chapter 8
ROXY
We’re not landing.
That’s the first red flag. We’re not banking toward some shady motel hangar or a neon-lit alleyway with just enough cover to pretend this is still about club chemistry. No. We’re rising.
Straight up. Clean trajectory. The kind of ascent that doesn’t end in a hookup.
It ends in orbit.
I stare at the viewscreen like I can will it to lie to me. But the planet’s curve is already visible, the soft glow of Novaria stretching out beneath us like a lie I’m about to be caught in.
He hasn’t said a word.
He just moves—smooth, practiced, silent—and the ship hums with the kind of confidence that makes my stomach twist. The control panel reflects off his scales, cold blues and sharp greens dancing over the ridges of his arms like war paint. His hands are steady. Too steady.
I sit in the copilot seat because it feels like I have to be doing something. Because hovering near the door like I might bolt is a dead giveaway, and I am not ready to die yet. My palms are sweating. I wipe them on my thighs, slow, casual. Casual. That’s the goal.
“So,” I say, my voice higher than I want it to be, “uh... what’s the jump window look like tonight?”
He glances at me. Just a glance. Not suspicious. But focused. Measuring.
“Clear,” he says. “No patrol sweeps flagged in this sector. We’ll coast clean.”
Right. Of course. That makes sense. If I were an assassin—the assassin—I'd know that. I’d be tracking sweep cycles and clean vectors and all that other military-sounding bullshit.
I nod, slow. Thoughtful. Like I meant to ask.
Inside, panic slams against the inside of my ribs like a bird that just figured out the window isn’t open. This isn’t what I signed up for. This isn’t a flirty dare or a one-night story I get to bury under three drinks and a shrug. This is a ship.
This is leaving the planet.
I shoot a glance at the screen again. Novaria’s almost gone now. The cloud cover peels away like cheap makeup, and we’re high enough that gravity feels more like suggestion than rule.
My throat tightens.
Say something.
Fix this.
But what would I even say?
“Hey, sorry, I’m not actually who you think I am, I just slapped you out of nowhere and now I’m accidentally on your ship and you’re definitely some kind of contract killer and I really just wanted to feel alive for five minutes without ending up in deep space, thanks.”
Yeah. That would go great.
Instead, I do the one thing I can do. I pretend I know what’s happening.
I lean back in the seat, stretching like I’m settling in for a commute, and say, “So. What’s the job? High-tier clearance or just the usual close-and-quiet?”
He doesn’t blink. But I swear the corners of his mouth twitch.
“Figured you’d already know the details,” he says.
Shit. Shitshitshit.
I shrug like it’s no big deal. “I got flagged mid-scout. Had to pivot. This came in while I was still deep in noise. You know how it is. Sometimes they slot you in hot and expect you to pick it up mid-flight.”
I say it all in a tone that I hope lands somewhere between ‘too experienced to explain myself’ and ‘if you ask again, I’ll stab you.’ It's a tightrope, but I walk it with the bravado of someone who has absolutely no goddamn idea what she’s doing.
He studies me for a beat too long.
The air between us feels like wire drawn tight.
Then he nods.
“Suppose that tracks.”
Relief floods me so fast I almost choke on it. I mask it with a cough, fake and sharp. He doesn't seem to notice—or pretends not to.
“You don’t look like much,” he says, casual, like he’s commenting on weather. “But maybe that’s the trick.”
I roll my eyes. “Thanks. I’ll be sure to quote that on my next resume. Doesn’t look like much. Kills like a whisper.”
He huffs—almost a laugh. Almost.
I don’t relax. Can’t. Because this is all still a razor-thin line I’m walking. Every word out of my mouth is a weapon I don’t know how to use. One wrong move and I’m just another smear on a cargo bay wall.
“You got a call sign?” he asks.
Panic hits again, this time sharp and sudden.
I stall. “You don’t know it?”
He lifts a brow ridge. “Didn’t come through clean. Intel was fragmented.”
Of course it was.
I make a show of checking my nails like I’m deciding whether or not to indulge him.
Then I smirk—because smirking is easier than explaining—and say, “You can call me Echo.”
It just... pops out.
He doesn’t flinch. Just nods again, like that settles something.
“Echo,” he repeats, testing it. “That supposed to mean something?”
“Means what I leave behind,” I say before I can think better of it. “By the time they hear it, I’m already gone.”
He nods, slow. Impressed, maybe. Or just accepting.
The silence that follows feels thicker. Heavier. Like now we’re past introductions and the real test has started.
The hum of the ship evens out as we settle into the jump vector. I glance at the window again and all I see now is hyperspace—stretched starlight and that eerie stillness that comes when physics takes a backseat.
We're out. We're gone.
No turning back.
I swallow.
“What’s the landing strategy?” I ask, hoping it sounds like routine.
“Low approach. Blackout. Terrain masks. We don’t announce until it’s done.”
“Classic,” I say, like I’ve done it a hundred times.
He nods, satisfied. “Figured you’d appreciate that.”
I just nod back.
Because the alternative is screaming.
And I don’t think he’d like that.