Chapter 5
SABLE
Voltar’s boots make a sound like punishment on the polished tile of my salon floor.
Every step is a seismic event, drawing attention like a slow-moving thunderstorm with a big, stupid grin.
He ducks under the doorway—barely—and scans the room like he’s expecting an ambush from behind the hydrating mist diffusers.
Clients stiffen. One woman lets out a noise like a tea kettle and clutches her pearls like she’s in a period drama.
Another starts recording him on her compad, whispering, “I think he’s a bounty hunter. Or a stripper. Maybe both.”
I sigh and adjust the mirror in front of my current client, a bride-to-be whose hair has more artificial volume enhancements than the economy line of personal hovercars. “Ignore the walking WMD,” I murmur. “He’s with me.”
Voltar beams like a sun grenade. “Hello! I’m her bodyguard-slash-partner-in-chaos! But unofficially. Don’t worry, you’re probably safe… unless you’ve made enemies with any shapeshifting assassins lately.”
I don’t even flinch anymore. “Voltar, maybe try sitting quietly? Over there?” I point to the waiting area, hoping against hope.
He salutes. “Absolutely, boss!”
Then he saunters over to the minimalist chrome chair, clearly designed for people under eight feet tall and not wearing a back-mounted blaster.
The moment he lowers himself, there’s a tortured metallic creak, then the sound of catastrophic furniture failure.
A leg gives out. The whole chair collapses under him like it’s been force-fed regrets.
“Oh no,” he says innocently, from his new position sitting flat on the floor surrounded by modern art rubble. “I think it was defective.”
Jacey bursts out laughing so hard she has to brace herself on the counter. “Sable, I swear to every precursor deity, this man is a menace.”
“Tell me something I don’t know.”
Voltar stands like he’s levitating, no hands, just straight up like a hydraulic lift. The chair remnants crunch beneath his boots. “The structural integrity of that chair was laughable. If your furniture can’t withstand direct plasma fire, what’s the point?”
“It’s a salon, not a fortress,” I hiss through my teeth.
He grins. “Then you’re underutilizing your space. A good crossfire zone can be very therapeutic.”
I mentally file away every second of this for future trauma processing and turn back to the bride. “Sorry. Where were we? Ah, yes—the part where your curls are defying gravity like they’re unionizing.”
The rest of the afternoon is a blur of awkward introductions, stiff smiles, and Voltar trying to discreetly read fashion magazines upside down while pretending he’s not watching every single customer like they might explode.
His idea of “blending in” is putting on a pair of glasses—no lenses, just an old Earth-style frame he insists is a disguise. He looks like a tank doing cosplay.
Eventually, mercifully, my last client leaves, and I begin the sacred ritual of pretending I’m not about to drop dead from emotional exhaustion.
“I gotta say,” Jacey mutters, loading towels into the steamer, “as far as government babysitters go, he’s more entertaining than the average spook.”
“Entertaining is one word,” I mutter. “So is exhausting. And illegal. I’m pretty sure most of what he’s done today violates at least four salon codes and the Geneva Accords.”
“Still. Shoulders, though.”
I throw a clean towel at her head.
We leave just as the sky starts to shift into its usual shade of Novaria Sunset #37—electric coral with hints of smog lavender.
My boots crunch over sidewalk grime and glitter dust. Voltar is beside me, a half-step off, always scanning.
He hasn’t spoken for a few blocks, which is weird.
For him, silence is either reverent… or suspicious.
“You okay?” I ask.
He glances down, his eyes golden and unreadable for a moment. “Yeah. Just… recalibrating my threat matrix.”
“Don’t do that out loud. People will think we’re dating.”
He laughs—a bark of sound that startles a flock of neon pigeons from a power line.
We turn onto my street. Home’s only two more blocks away.
The scent of synth-baked pastries wafts from a kiosk, and for a moment, things almost feel normal again.
I catch myself thinking: maybe this is working.
Maybe I can have something close to real life with a giant sentient tank shadowing my every step.
Something flickers in my periphery.
A shimmer. A gleam from the rooftop. A movement that’s just wrong.
Before I even finish turning my head, Voltar slams into me like a freight train, his arm wrapping around my waist and yanking me behind the nearest support column.
The next second explodes.
A white-hot bolt of plasma crashes into the spot where I was just standing, melting a crater into the duracrete. The air sizzles with ozone and burnt stone. Screams erupt from down the street as pedestrians scatter.
Voltar is already moving.
He lets go of me, shoves me down behind the column, and pivots with predator fluidity.
His massive hand pulls a compact blaster from his thigh holster—still bigger than most carbines.
With a grunt, he fires twice. The first shot hits nothing.
The second shatters the edge of a rooftop panel, sending fragments cascading like a mechanical waterfall.
“Keep your head down!” he barks, already sprinting toward the building across the street.
I scramble lower, my heart jackhammering, palms scraping against rough stone.
The world narrows to smells—burned air, melting metal—and the high-pitched whine of Voltar’s weapon humming back into readiness.
My compad buzzes, frantic alerts flaring across its screen: “Attack Detected. Seek Shelter. Do Not Engage.”
Too late for that.
A second shot comes—misses, but closer. The heat of it licks my cheek.
Then Voltar’s roar echoes off the buildings. “Got eyes on! Slippery little voidrat—hold still!”
I hear another blast, something shatters—a window? A drone camera? I can’t see. I want to move, want to help, but my limbs feel sluggish, like I’m swimming through wet synth-fabric.
Then silence.
No more shots.
No more screams.
Just my breathing and the staccato thump-thump-thump of Voltar’s boots returning.
He’s dragging something behind him—a long black cloak, smoldering at the edges, empty.
“Sniper’s gone,” he says grimly. “Used a short-range transporter. Zerbaru tech, probably stolen. Left behind the thermal imprint, though.” He tosses down the cloak. “Nothing else. No blood.”
I stare at the scorched fabric like it might morph into answers. “You sure it wasn’t Tugun?”
He grunts. “Can’t confirm. Could’ve been. But the aim was too good. This wasn’t a warning shot.”
I stand, shakily, brushing soot from my pants. “Great. So now we’re in open season.”
Voltar doesn’t reply immediately. He’s still scanning the rooftops, body rigid, predator mode fully engaged. Then his gaze darts my way.
“You okay?” he asks.
His voice is low. Rough. Laced with something I don’t recognize at first—maybe concern, maybe something more dangerous. It drags me back from the edge I didn’t realize I’d been teetering on.
I nod. Slowly. Automatically.
I’m still clutching the support column like it’s the only thing keeping my legs from giving out. My heartbeat’s in my ears, fast and furious, drowning out everything but that voice. That question.
“Yeah,” I say, though I don’t sound convincing even to myself.
He steps closer. Not looming. Not smirking. Just... there. Solid. Unshaken. A living wall of protection with golden eyes that flick from me to the rooftops, always scanning.
His forearm is bare—his gauntlet retracted from the elbow down, probably to make it easier to draw his weapon faster. My fingers brush against it without thinking, needing to anchor myself to something that isn’t spiraling.
It’s warm. Not just body heat warm—alive warm. The kind of warmth that hums under your skin and stays there, even after you’ve stepped away. Which I do. Immediately.
Like I’ve just touched a plasma coil.
He doesn’t say anything. Just watches me with that same unreadable look. Not teasing. Not condescending.
Real.
“Thanks,” I mutter, stepping back, trying to recalibrate my entire internal architecture.
He grins. Of course he grins. “Told ya I was good.”
And that stupid, smug, cocky curve of his mouth shouldn’t affect me. But it does. It rattles loose something I wasn’t ready for. Something that’s been building—slow and quiet—beneath the annoyance and sarcasm and passive-aggressive breakfast arguments.
I don’t say anything else. I just keep walking. Not because I want to, but because if I stand there one second longer, I might do something reckless. Like lean in. Like ask him to say it again, softer this time.
By the time we get back to the loft, I’m a mess.
Not a visible one, of course. I’ve perfected the art of emotional armor.
My face says “cool and in control,” even as my insides tangle themselves into knots.
Voltar does a full sweep of the place before I even get the lights on, his weapon drawn like he expects Tugun to be crouched behind the couch with a couture flamethrower.
“Clear,” he calls out.
“Good to know,” I reply, dropping my bag on the table with a thud that sounds way too loud in the quiet.
I walk straight to the bathroom, lock the door, and grip the sink like it’s going to float away. My reflection stares back at me—wide-eyed, flushed, jaw tight. I splash cold water on my face, hoping it’ll shock some sense into me. It doesn’t.
I don’t know how long I stand there, bracing against my own spiraling thoughts. Long enough for the adrenaline to fade. Long enough for my body to remember it almost got turned into street paste earlier. But instead of fear, all I feel is… electricity.
Not the threat of death.
The way he looked at me.
The way he moved—how fast, how fierce, how deliberate. Like I wasn’t just someone he was protecting, but something important. Precious, even. I can’t stop picturing his hand on my waist. The way he pulled me behind him. The sound of his voice—softer than I’ve ever heard it.
Stars.
I dry my face and step out.
Voltar’s in the kitchen now, fiddling with a kettle that is one hundred percent not compatible with Vakutan claw anatomy. He grunts and slams the lid down with more force than necessary.
“You want tea or…?” he asks, glancing at me.
The image of him smashing a sniper while balancing a tea strainer is almost too much.
“I’m good,” I say, folding my arms across my chest like a barrier. “Didn’t know you were the hot beverage type.”
He shrugs. “Caffeine helps with combat readiness.”
“Of course it does.”
He pours himself a cup with all the grace of a bear trying to perform ballet. The cup creaks in protest as he lifts it to his lips. His pinkie is sticking out. Whether it's on purpose or just bad design, I can’t tell.
“You sure you’re okay?” he asks again. Not pressing. Just… asking.
I nod, then change my mind. “Actually, no. I’m not.”
He straightens, alert. “What hurts? You didn’t mention—”
“Not that kind of hurt,” I interrupt, exhaling. “I’m just… rattled. And annoyed. And confused. And tired. And—and why are you being like this?”
“Like what?”
I wave a hand at him. “This. Normal. Kind. Sweet. I mean, you crash into my life like a space freight train, break my chair, mock my shampoo, then take a plasma bolt for me and act like it’s no big deal.”
He grins again. “It was no big deal.”
“And now you’re making tea and asking if I’m okay like we’re in some kind of domestic drama!”
His smile fades. Just a little.
“I care,” he says.
I blink.
“It’s not complicated, Sable. I care what happens to you. You’re smart. Fierce. And you didn’t even blink when I said I once killed a Grolgath with a fork.”
“I did blink. Twice.”
He chuckles. “Still. You treat me like a person. Most people don’t.”
I stare at him. Not because I don’t believe him, but because I do. Too much.
“I don’t know what to do with this,” I whisper.
“With what?”
“You.”
He sets the cup down. Carefully. Walks over. Slow.
My heart climbs into my throat. “Voltar—”
He stops an arm’s length away. “I’m not gonna do anything you don’t want.”
“I know.”
We stand there, this charged silence between us, heavy with everything unspoken. My fingers twitch. I almost reach for him again. But I don’t.
Instead, I take a breath and say, “Good night.”
He nods. “Good night, Sable.”
Sleep would be great. Unfortunately, I can’t.
I lie in bed, sheets twisted, heart pounding for reasons that have nothing to do with fear. I stare at the ceiling until it starts to blur. His eyes keep floating in my mind. Golden. Sharp. Gentle, somehow. That grin flashes behind my eyelids like it’s burned in.
He’s not just my protector. Not anymore.
And that terrifies me more than any assassin ever could.