Chapter 19 Jordan
JORDAN
The first thing I register is cold—not the romantic, clean kind, but the clinical kind that crawls into your bones and tells you you’re not in charge anymore.
Then sound: a steady beep that doesn’t care about my feelings, the soft hiss of pressurized air, the distant bass thrum of a ship’s engines vibrating through metal like a giant’s heartbeat.
Then smell: antiseptic so sharp it makes my eyes water, warmed plastic, and that faint copper note that means my blood is still doing its stupid little job of being inside me… mostly.
I try to move and my ribs light up in protest.
“Ah—” The noise that leaves me is half a grunt, half a curse.
A shadow leans over me and blocks the overhead light.
“Don’t,” a voice says, low and firm.
Lonari.
My brain tries to do too many things at once—relief, rage, adrenaline hangover, the immediate human urge to check the room for threats, the equally immediate human urge to be petty because petty is the only thing holding the panic back.
So what comes out of my mouth is, “Wow. You’re bossy.”
Lonari’s face is close enough that I can see the texture of his scales along his cheekbone, the tiny scars that catch the light like punctuation marks. His eyes are dark, clear, furious and focused in that way that makes me feel like I’m both safer and in more danger.
“Jordan,” he says, voice rough, “you’re bleeding.”
“Yeah,” I croak. “I noticed. Thanks.”
His jaw flexes like he wants to shake me and kiss me and throttle me all at once. Mostly throttle.
“You got shot.”
“Grazed,” I correct automatically, because if I don’t correct details, who even am I?
Lonari’s nostrils flare. “Grazed,” he repeats, like it’s a swear.
A medic moves into my peripheral vision—Vakutan, big hands, calm movements, eyes like someone who’s seen too much and doesn’t waste time narrating. He presses something cold against my side and my whole body jolts.
“Hold still,” the medic says. Not unkind. Not comforting. Just fact.
“Wow,” I whisper, teeth gritting. “You guys are really into giving orders.”
Lonari doesn’t look away from me. “Because you’re really into almost dying.”
“Twice in a week,” I mumble. “I’m collecting stamps.”
The medic snorts once, barely. “Pressure seal is holding. Entry is shallow. She got lucky.”
Lonari’s eyes narrow. “Luck didn’t do that. She did.”
My throat tightens in a stupid way I do not appreciate.
I swallow, tasting stale recycled air and the faint bitterness of painkillers already creeping into my bloodstream.
The medbay ceiling is low and utilitarian, everything strapped down: instruments, supply packs, restraint cutters, even the damn chairs. The lighting is cool-white, designed to show bruising and blood clearly. There’s a faint vibration in the bed beneath me as the ship maneuvers.
I blink slowly, trying to get my head to stop swimming.
“Where is he,” I say, and my voice is flatter than I feel.
Lonari’s expression turns colder. “Contained.”
“Alive?” I push.
Lonari holds my gaze. “Alive.”
Relief hits so hard I almost cry, which is unacceptable, so I swallow it and convert it into anger.
“Good,” I whisper. “Because I want him to watch what happens next.”
Lonari’s mouth twitches, the ghost of a smile that isn’t soft at all. “That’s my girl.”
I hate the warmth that phrase puts in my chest.
I close my eyes for a second, then open them again because I don’t trust sleep. Sleep is when people disappear.
“How bad is it?” I ask, nodding faintly toward my side.
“Bleeding stopped,” the medic says. “Tissue damage. You’ll be sore. No major organ involvement.”
“Sore,” I repeat, deadpan. “Love that for me.”
The medic tapes something down. The tape pulls against my skin and I wince.
Lonari’s hand—large, careful—rests near my shoulder without touching, like he’s giving himself permission to be close but not invasive.
“You saved yourself,” he says quietly.
I exhale through my nose. “Yeah. Sure. I also got myself captured, so let’s not hand out medals yet.”
Lonari’s gaze sharpens. “You did what you had to do.”
“I did what I always do,” I mutter. “I trusted the wrong people and then built a hack to survive it.”
Lonari’s voice drops. “Clint.”
My jaw tightens. “Don’t.”
He pauses. “I’m not blaming him.”
I open my mouth to snap something stupid, then realize he’s right—he’s not blaming Clint. He’s watching me, reading the way my shoulders tense at the name.
The medic finishes his work and steps back. “She needs rest. No stress. No shouting.”
Lonari looks at him like he might eat him.
The medic holds his gaze like a man who isn’t impressed by predators in suits. “I mean it. I can sedate her if you want to argue.”
Lonari exhales, controlled. “We’re not arguing.”
The medic nods once and walks off, leaving the faint scent of antiseptic and a small trail of competence.
Lonari pulls a chair closer and sits, slow and deliberate. The chair creaks under his weight. He keeps his voice low.
“You got the proof out,” he says.
I swallow. “Did it land?”
Lonari’s eyes flick to a side screen in the medbay—muted news feeds, comm alerts, text crawling so fast it’s almost unreadable. Even muted, I can see the panic in the visuals: emergency sessions, markets frozen, officials avoiding cameras, pundits shouting.
“Yeah,” he says. “It landed.”
A tremor goes through me that has nothing to do with pain. A weird, sharp satisfaction—like I shoved a crowbar into a locked door and heard the hinge crack.
“Good,” I whisper.
Lonari leans forward slightly, elbows on his knees. “Morazin’s screaming about propaganda.”
I smile faintly. “Of course he is.”
“He thinks if he calls it criminal, people will ignore it,” Lonari says.
I stare at the ceiling for a second. “He’s not entirely wrong. Institutions hate admitting they were played. They’ll try to bury it.”
Lonari’s voice goes colder. “Not if he’s alive in cuffs and on camera.”
My chest tightens again—this time not warmth, not fear. Something like gratitude that I don’t want to name because naming it makes it real and real things can be taken.
“You broadcasted his arrest,” I say.
Lonari nods once. “To IHC and Alliance channels. They can’t pretend he died in transit. If they do, everyone saw the lie coming.”
I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding.
“Smart,” I whisper.
Lonari’s mouth curves, all teeth. “I’m a criminal, sweetheart. Smart is the job.”
I try to laugh. It comes out as a hiss. “Ow. Okay. Don’t make me laugh.”
Lonari’s eyes flick to my side wound, then back to my face. “Stop doing things that get you shot.”
My eyebrows lift. “I was literally restrained.”
“Stop doing things that get you restrained,” he corrects.
I roll my eyes carefully. “Sure. Next time I’ll simply decline capture.”
Lonari exhales through his nose, almost a laugh, then catches himself like humor is a weakness he can’t afford.
“Where are we going?” I ask.
Lonari’s gaze shifts, scanning the room like he’s checking for listening devices out of habit. “Back toward Gur’s vector. But we’re not docking until we decide how to hand Morazin off.”
“Hand him off?” My stomach tightens. “To who?”
Lonari’s voice is flat. “Whoever shows up first with enough authority to keep him breathing.”
“IHC will want him,” I say.
“So will Alliance,” Lonari replies.
“And Nine-adjacent will want him dead,” I add.
Lonari’s eyes darken. “Yeah.”
I swallow. “What about Clint?”
Lonari’s gaze sharpens. “You want to contact him.”
I hesitate. The painkillers make honesty slippery, and I hate that too.
“I need to know he’s alive,” I admit.
Lonari watches me for a long beat. Then he nods once.
“Renn’s trying to locate his ship,” he says. “Aces High. If he’s smart, he went dark.”
I exhale, shaky. “He is smart.”
“Stubborn too,” Lonari says, and there’s grudging respect in it. “I like stubborn.”
I snort. “You would.”
Lonari leans back in his chair, studying me like I’m a puzzle he keeps wanting to solve with his hands.
“You planned that trigger,” he says. “Even in cuffs.”
“Yeah,” I whisper. “I don’t do helpless very well.”
“I noticed,” he murmurs.
Silence stretches between us. The ship hum continues, steady, like the universe pretending everything is normal.
Then Lonari’s voice goes softer—not soft-soft, but… less armored.
“When your beacon hit,” he says quietly, “I stopped everything.”
My throat tightens. “You didn’t have to—”
“I did,” he cuts in.
I stare at him, unable to look away.
“I was stabilizing Gur,” he continues, jaw flexing. “Ceasefires, medical stations, penalties for collateral. And then that ping hit and the city stopped existing for a second.”
My heart does something stupid.
“Lonari—”
He shakes his head slightly, as if refusing sentiment. “I bought a cruiser with tribute money. Hired outsiders. Broke orbit. Cut relays. Did what soldiers wouldn’t.”
I swallow. “That sounds… insane.”
He bares his teeth. “It is.”
I try to speak, but my throat closes and my eyes sting again, and I hate it because I’m not supposed to need anyone.
So I do what I always do when emotion gets too close: I pivot to anger.
“You know,” I say, voice rough, “if you die because of me, I’m going to be so pissed.”
Lonari’s eyes flicker. “If I die because of you, I deserve it.”
“Wrong answer,” I snap, then immediately regret snapping because it pulls at my wound and I hiss. “Ow—damn it.”
Lonari’s hand finally lands on my shoulder—gentle but solid. The touch is warm through the thin hospital fabric. Grounding.
“Breathe,” he says, low.
I breathe.
The door hisses open and Renn steps in, face tight, eyes alert. He looks like he hasn’t slept in a week and might never again.
“Boss,” he says, then glances at me. “She awake.”
“Yeah,” I mutter. “Unfortunately.”
Renn’s mouth twitches. “Good. We got updates.”
Lonari’s posture sharpens. “Talk.”
Renn holds up his compad. “Morazin is secured in containment bay three. Full restraints. Biometric locks. Two guards inside, four outside. No comm access.”
“Any attempts?” Lonari asks.
“Two,” Renn says. “One spoofed security request, one bribery offer through a civilian node. We shut both down.”
Lonari nods once. “Good.”
Renn continues, voice lowering. “Alliance emergency comms pinged our broadcast. IHC too. They’re both… circling.”
“Let them circle,” Lonari says.
Renn hesitates. “Also—there’s chatter about Jordan’s stream. It’s everywhere now. Civilian channels, entertainment packets, even some corporate nodes. Baragon exchanges are halting. People are panicking.”
I close my eyes for a second. “Good.”
Renn looks at me like I’m dangerous. He’s not wrong.
Lonari’s gaze turns to me. “You did that.”
“I started it,” I whisper. “The spread does the rest.”
Renn clears his throat. “Boss, there’s another thing.”
Lonari’s eyes narrow. “Spit it out.”
Renn’s voice goes even tighter. “We picked up a faint ping. Aces High. Clint’s ship. It’s alive. He’s not answering on open channels, but Mira says she can probably handshake if Jordan—”
“Give me a transmitter,” I say immediately.
Lonari’s hand tightens briefly on my shoulder. “Jordan—”
“I need to know he’s okay,” I snap, then soften slightly because the painkillers are making me honest and I hate that too. “Please.”
Lonari holds my gaze for a long second.
Then he nods once, curt. “Mira.”
Renn taps his comm and steps back out.
I exhale, shaky. “Thank you.”
Lonari’s eyes stay hard, but his thumb rubs once against my shoulder, small and unconscious. “Don’t make me regret it.”
I meet his gaze. “I won’t.”
A beat.
Then I add, because I can’t help myself, “Also, if Morazin ‘accidentally’ dies, I will personally haunt you.”
Lonari’s mouth curves. “Good. I hate being bored.”
I almost laugh again and stop myself. “Stop being funny. I’m injured.”
Lonari leans in slightly. “You’re always injured.”
“Rude,” I whisper.
His eyes drop briefly to my mouth, then back to my eyes, and the room tilts in that dangerous way it does when intimacy tries to sneak in through the cracks.
I swallow hard, not trusting my voice.
Then an alarm chirps softly—internal only. Not danger. Just a status update.
The ship shifts, turning.
Somewhere beyond the medbay walls, the Nun’s Tooth adjusts course like a predator choosing its next angle.
Lonari stands, straightening like the moment never happened.
“Rest,” he says.
I glare. “Don’t tell me what to do.”
He tilts his head. “Rest is tactical.”
I scoff. “I hate you.”
Lonari’s eyes flicker with something almost like warmth. “No you don’t.”
My cheeks heat. I hate that too.
He starts toward the door, then pauses and looks back at me.
“Jordan,” he says quietly.
“Yeah?”
His voice is low, rough, honest in the way he only gets when he’s not performing. “You did good.”
My throat tightens again.
I blink hard, because I’m not crying. I’m not.
“Yeah,” I whisper. “So did you.”
Lonari nods once, then leaves, and the door hisses shut behind him.
The medbay hums.
My wound throbs.
And somewhere in the ship, Morazin is screaming into restraints while the galaxy starts chewing on the truth like it’s a bone it didn’t know it was starving for.
I stare at the ceiling and let myself feel one terrifying thought:
I’m not alone in this anymore.
And that might be the most dangerous thing of all.