Chapter 29 #2
I close my eyes for a second, leaning into his hand before I can stop myself.
When I open them again, I’m too close to him.
Close enough to see the small tension at the corner of his mouth, the controlled restraint in the way he breathes.
“Jordan,” he murmurs, and it’s my name again—anchor, warning, invitation.
My voice comes out small. “I don’t want you to… I don’t want you to choose me over Kaijen.”
Lonari’s thumb strokes once along my cheekbone. “I’m not choosing you over Kaijen.”
I blink.
“I’m choosing autonomy,” he says. “And you’re part of that fight now. Whether you like it or not.”
I swallow. My body is exhausted in a way that feels cellular. My mind is a mess of images—dust, blood, Morazin’s tooth cracking, Venn’s name in a comm.
“I don’t know how to carry it,” I whisper.
Lonari leans in until his forehead rests against mine—gentle, impossibly gentle for a man built like violence.
“You don’t carry it alone,” he says.
And something in me breaks—not loudly. Not dramatically. Just… enough.
A shaky breath escapes me. My hands lift, hesitant, and touch his wrists. Not pushing away.
Holding.
Lonari pauses, eyes searching mine, waiting for consent in the way he always does when he’s not pretending he’s invincible.
“Tell me to stop,” he says, voice low.
I swallow. “Don’t.”
His exhale is ragged. Then he kisses me.
Not rushed.
Not claiming.
Just… present.
Like he’s reminding my body it exists outside of war rooms and evidence chains.
My hands slide up into his hair/ridges, fingers curling, grounding myself in the texture of him. He tastes like smoke and clean water and something dangerous held carefully in check.
I make a sound—soft, involuntary—and Lonari deepens the kiss in response, his other hand bracing at my waist as if he’s holding me upright while my internal scaffolding collapses.
I pull back just enough to breathe, forehead still pressed to his.
“This isn’t—” I start, voice trembling. “This isn’t escape.”
Lonari’s mouth brushes mine again, a whisper of contact. “No.”
“It’s grounding,” I say, surprising myself.
“Yes,” he murmurs. “Exactly.”
I laugh weakly, tears finally slipping free despite my best efforts. “God, I’m a mess.”
Lonari’s thumb catches a tear and wipes it away with infuriating tenderness. “You’re alive.”
My chest tightens. “People aren’t.”
Lonari’s eyes darken. “I know.”
He doesn’t flinch from it. He doesn’t try to shine it up.
He just holds my gaze and says, “We honor them by finishing what we started.”
I nod, shaking. “Okay.”
Lonari kisses me again—slower, deeper—and then he shifts, guiding me back onto the bed with careful pressure, as if he’s asking with every movement.
My hands grip his shoulders. My breath stutters. The world narrows to warmth and weight and the simple reality of touch.
We choose it deliberately.
Not to forget.
To remember that we’re still human enough—still us enough—to want connection after violence.
The details blur into heat and murmured words, into the soft creak of the mattress and the hush of the room swallowing our names.
I cling to him like a lifeline.
And he holds me like I’m not disposable.
Like I matter.
When the world finally settles again, my skin is warm, my throat raw, and my mind—miraculously—quiet for the first time since the breach.
Lonari lies beside me, one arm heavy across my waist, breath slow against my hair.
I stare at the ceiling for a minute, listening to the muffled pulse of the casino above.
Then I speak into the quiet.
“I’m done,” I say.
Lonari’s voice is a low hum against my shoulder. “With what?”
“With chasing permission,” I say, and the words feel like a door locking. “With hoping the IHC will do the right thing if I make a good enough argument. With thinking a hearing is something they’ll grant me if I ask nicely.”
Lonari’s hand tightens slightly on my waist. “Good.”
I turn my head, look at him. “I’m going to build the case that forces their hand.”
His eyes are half-lidded, tired, but sharp. “That’s the Jordan I know.”
I huff a laugh. “Yeah, well. She’s a menace.”
Lonari’s mouth curves. “That too.”
I slip out from under his arm carefully, reach for my compad on the nightstand. My body protests—sore in a way that feels grounding, real—but my mind is clear.
I open Clint’s channel.
My fingers hover for a heartbeat, then I attach the partial biometric imprint file—the trace tied to High Lantern’s authorization layer.
I type with blunt honesty:
CLINT — I’M SENDING YOU THE BIOMETRIC TRACE. FIND WHO “HIGH LANTERN” IS. NO POLITICS. NO SPIN. JUST THE NAME.
I send it.
The message whooshes into the dark like a thrown knife.
Lonari watches me, expression unreadable. “You trust him.”
“I trust him to be stubborn,” I say. “And I trust him to hate being lied to.”
Lonari nods once. “Fair.”
I set the compad down and exhale.
The room is quiet again.
Not safe. Not peaceful.
But steadier.
Lonari pulls me back into his side, and I let him. I let myself be held without calculating cost.
Outside, Gur keeps grinding its gears. The Nine keeps plotting. Governments keep polishing their narratives.
But in this room, in this moment, I make myself a promise I can actually keep:
I won’t disappear.
Not into work. Not into guilt. Not into silence.
I’ll be the problem they can’t erase.