Chapter 10
ROXY
The second the bathroom door seals behind me, I lock it. Twice. My fingers tremble on the panel like they’ve got their own goddamn agenda, jittering between panic and instinct. The low mechanical click of the lock settles into my spine like a temporary shield.
I let out a breath I didn’t know I’d been holding.
It fogs in front of me.
The lights in here are dim, sterile, buzzing faintly like everything aboard this ship has seen better days but refuses to admit it. The walls are brushed steel, cold and clean. Too clean. The air smells like recycled water and antiseptic. No perfume. No skin. No warmth.
It doesn’t smell like anyone lives here.
I lean over the narrow sink and stare at my reflection. Pale. Wide-eyed. My pupils blown out with adrenaline, sweat prickling behind my ears. I look like a woman who just stepped off the edge of a cliff and only now realized there’s no ground underneath.
I grip the sides of the sink. My knuckles go white.
What the fuck am I doing?
I’m on a ship with a man who looks like he eats nightmares for breakfast, headed to a planet known for weaponized murder pageantry, and I’ve lied myself right into the lead role of a suicide op I don’t even understand.
And worse?
He thinks I’m some kind of mercenary/assassin.
Me, of all people.
I almost laugh. It bubbles in my throat, brittle and wild. I slap a hand over my mouth before it can escape.
Because if I start laughing now, I won’t stop. I’ll spiral, collapse, combust.
I back away from the mirror and press my spine to the wall. The cold bites through my shirt, a shock that helps me think. Helps me breathe.
Okay. Okay. Options.
Option one: Tell the truth.
Confess. Right now. Walk back out there, find him in the cockpit or the armory or wherever he’s pacing, and say, “Hey, turns out I’m not the Butcher. I was just trying to survive a dare and then a slap and then… you. My bad.”
Right.
Because that wouldn’t get me spaced.
Option two: Try to escape.
Leave. Somehow. Wait until he’s asleep or distracted, find an escape pod or a cargo bay exit or… something. Anything.
Except.
He’s a soldier. Or something worse. And this ship? It’s not built for comfort. It’s built for lockdowns and kill switches and hardened perimeter codes. I saw it in the way he moved through it—efficient, instinctive, territorial.
If I run, he’ll know.
And if he knows, I’m done.
I slide down the wall until I’m crouched on the floor, arms wrapped around my knees like I can hold myself together if I just squeeze tight enough. My throat stings. My brain’s running loops of every bad choice I’ve ever made.
This might be the crown jewel.
And then—
Cynna’s voice, sharp and bright, cuts through the static.
Be bold, babe.
She’d said it at the club. Said it again when I hesitated in the mirror before leaving my apartment. Said it when I tried to back out of drinks, of dancing, of risk.
Be bold.
I close my eyes.
I hear her like she’s standing over me now, one hand on her hip, one finger in my face. No more hiding. No more waiting for the world to give you permission. Want something? Take it. Scared? Do it anyway.
The ache in my chest tightens. Not fear. Something else.
Shame. Grief. Longing.
I’m tired of being small.
I’m tired of being afraid.
Even if I’m not the Butcher, I can act like someone who is. I’ve survived worse than this. Maybe not with guns and blood and tactical knowledge, sure—but I know fear. I know danger. I’ve lived with it coiled in my gut for years.
So what if this version has claws and a ship?
I survived my father. I survived the academy. I survived every whisper, every panic attack, every breakdown behind bathroom doors just like this one.
I can survive this, too.
Even if I have to do it one fake answer at a time.
I stand.
I roll out my shoulders. Crack my neck. Splash cold water on my face and scrub hard, like I can scrape off the old version of me with fingernails and soap.
I don’t look at the mirror again.
I don’t need to see her.
I need to become someone else.
I unlock the door.
The hallway outside is quiet, lit in that soft, low amber that military ships favor when they’re not actively under fire. I walk it slow, every step echoing in my ears louder than the last.
My boots are too loud. My breathing is too shallow. But I don’t stop.
I find him in the cockpit. Of course.
He’s in the pilot seat again, spine relaxed but not soft, like a coiled wire just waiting for tension. His hands rest on the controls, fingers twitching now and then, running checks or habits or both.
He hears me before he sees me.
“Bathroom okay?” he says, still facing forward.
I clear my throat. “Functional.”
That gets a grunt. Maybe amusement. Maybe approval.
I slide into the seat beside him.
He doesn’t look at me. Just keeps adjusting things I don’t understand, toggling screens with alien graphs and route overlays. His scent lingers in the air—metal and smoke and something else, something earthy and hard to define. Not cologne. Not sweat. Something his.
I steel myself.
“So,” I say, pitching my voice casual, “what’s the entry plan for Kaerva?”
He finally glances over.
There’s something sharp in his gaze. Not suspicion. Not yet. But curiosity, honed like a blade that hasn’t decided what it’s for.
“You asking because you don’t know, or because you’re testing me?”
I blink. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”
He raises a brow ridge. A challenge. A warning.
I lean back in the seat like I’m not breaking inside. “Look, I prefer to improvise in hostile territory. Rigid plans break. I don’t.”
Another beat of silence.
Then he nods. Slow. Thoughtful. “Noted.”
I don’t breathe until he looks away.
We sit like that for a while, the cockpit humming around us, the stars streaking by like they’re in a hurry to escape whatever version of hell we’re flying toward.
I cross my arms. “What’s your take on Marj?”
His jaw ticks. “Strategic sadist. Makes killing look like theater. Picks targets for maximum impact. She’s not reckless—she’s deliberate. Every corpse sends a message.”
I nod like that’s old news. “She’s insecure.”
He turns his head, just a little.
“Insecure people need control,” I say. “They turn fear into spectacle so no one sees the cracks.”
His eyes narrow, and I think I’ve gone too far.
But then he huffs, low and dry. “Maybe.”
I press on. “She’s got a system. Break the icons, break the hope. That’s not about domination. That’s about weakness.”
He studies me.
Really studies me.
Then he says, “Most people don’t think like that.”
“I’m not most people.”
“Clearly.”
The silence after that feels… heavier. Not awkward. Just thick. Like the space between us is loaded with something unspoken neither of us wants to name yet.
I turn toward the viewport. The stars are still running.
And I have no idea what the fuck I’m doing.
But I’m going to survive.
Even if I have to fake every step.