Chapter 7
SABLE
The salon smells like citrus foam and hot circuitry—blowtorches on low, hairspray clouding the recycled air, and something vaguely fruity that might be Jacey’s new body oil or a client’s purse snack melting in the wall heater. Either way, it’s familiar. Safe.
For the first time in days, I feel almost normal.
Except for the part where my walking disaster of a bodyguard is parked in the waiting area like a badly hidden statue wearing knockoff Ray Shields and pretending he’s invisible.
“He built an illegal forcefield around my sofa,” I hiss, twisting the final band on Ms. Lo’s electro-curl set. The coils emit a soft hum and flicker faint blue. “I stubbed my toe and nearly lost a limb, Jace.”
Jacey, who’s sitting on the counter filing her nails and sipping a triple-glow mango infusion, arches one perfect eyebrow. “Yeah, but did you see his shoulders?”
I nearly drop my heat wand. “Not the point.”
“Seems like a point to me,” she says, grinning. “A whole set of them. Defined. Pressed. Possibly sculpted by an elder god.”
I slap the setting wand into the sterilizer. “He short-circuited the smart mirror trying to install an AI perimeter. I couldn’t even check my hair this morning without triggering a lockdown protocol.”
She snorts. “You say that like it’s not the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard.”
“Romantic? He rerouted the apartment’s defense grid through my pressure cooker.”
“That’s love in Vakutan.”
“Jacey.”
“Sable.”
I exhale through my nose. Ms. Lo gives me a thumbs-up through the mirror while her curls tighten into delicate shockwave spirals. I pat her shoulder, then wave her off to the dryer station, where she floats happily in a haze of lavender mist.
Meanwhile, in the corner, Voltar shifts. Subtly. Like he thinks no one’s noticed his “disguise.”
It’s a pair of black-framed glasses—too small for his face—and a green scarf wrapped around his neck like he’s auditioning for an undercover opera. He holds a magazine upside down. Every page crinkles with suppressed tension, like it’s scared of being read wrong.
“You know,” Jacey says, sipping, “I think he’s trying to blend in.”
“He’s about as subtle as a plasma grenade in a library.”
“He’s watching you.”
“I know.”
“And you’re watching him.”
“No, I’m not.”
She hums like a lie detector. “You keep looking up between clients. Three-second glances. Your pupils dilate when he fidgets.”
“They do not.”
“They do. It’s adorable.”
I throw a towel at her face. She catches it with a practiced flick and folds it with one hand, still grinning.
“Just admit it,” she says. “You’re into him.”
“He’s a seven-foot war criminal.”
“With dimples.”
“And a death ray.”
“With manners.”
I groan and lean on the counter, staring at my own reflection. My eyes are tired. Not from lack of sleep. From trying not to notice things.
Like the way Voltar held the parasol yesterday. Or the weird gentleness in his voice when he asked if I was okay. Or how he didn’t flinch when I laughed at his fashion file—he just smiled like I’d handed him a gift.
He was trying.
And the worst part?
He’s good at it.
“Don’t make that face,” Jacey says.
“What face?”
“The ‘I might like someone who terrifies small planets’ face.”
“Shut up.”
“You shut up.”
We dissolve into giggles as the door chimes again and a new client floats in, dragging two luggage cases and a head full of holographic extensions. I wave her toward the consultation station and glance one more time toward the corner.
Voltar’s glasses have slipped down his nose. He pushes them up with one giant finger and pretends to study an ad for toenail lasers.
He looks up.
I look away.
My face burns.
Jacey catches me blushing and does a silent victory dance behind the product display. I resist the urge to hurl a styling wand at her head.
After work, the ride home is quiet.
The maglev hums beneath us, sleek and sterile, windows flickering with flashes of city light. I sit by the door, arms folded, trying to pretend the silence isn’t weird. Voltar’s next to me—close enough that I can smell his skin oil and the faint, spicy tang of his weapon solvent.
He hasn’t said a word since we left the salon.
I should be grateful. Peace and quiet. No dramatic explosions. No arguments with baristas. No six-limbed toddlers trying to climb him like a jungle gym.
Just… this.
Us.
I stare at the blurry skyline and count the seconds between station announcements. We pass a neon sign shaped like a squid in love. A billboard blinks an ad for synthe-lashes that respond to mood. Somewhere far off, a siren wails.
My brain’s full of static.
So I say the dumbest thing possible.
“You ever been in love?”
He doesn’t respond at first.
I glance sideways. His expression doesn’t change. Not at first. Just a tiny shift at the corner of his mouth. Then his eyes slide toward me, golden and slow.
“Does orbital bombardment count?”
I blink. “What?”
“That’s how Vakutan males express romantic commitment.”
“You’re joking.”
He shrugs. “I once leveled a research station to avenge a broken engagement.”
“Stars.”
“She ghosted me. Took the cat.”
“You had a cat?”
“She had a cat. It tolerated me.”
I don’t know whether to laugh or sigh.
I do both.
“So… no. You’ve never been in love.”
He considers. “I thought I was. Once.”
“And?”
“She married my cousin.”
“Ouch.”
“Then tried to sell him to slavers. So it worked out.”
I laugh again. He doesn’t smile this time, but there’s something in his eyes. A softness. An openness. He’s not just trading war stories. He’s sharing.
“And you?” he asks. “Any orbital bombardments in your history?”
“Just one heartbreak,” I admit. “No property damage. Unless you count the time I set fire to his jacket.”
He nods solemnly. “Good technique. Sends a message.”
“It was synthetic wool. I thought it would just singe.”
“What happened?”
“Combusted like a sun flare. Nearly took out a taco stand.”
He snorts. “Romantic carnage. I approve.”
I shake my head, laughing into my palm.
He watches me.
Not like a bodyguard.
Like a man trying to memorize the sound of my laugh.
My stomach flips.
The train slows.
“Next stop: Halcyon Crescent,” the voice chirps.
Neither of us moves.
“I’m not scared anymore,” I say.
“I know.”
“You still gonna follow me around?”
“Until it’s safe.”
“And if I say I don’t need a guard anymore?”
He turns, fully now, looking at me like I’m more than a client.
“Then I’ll stay because I want to.”
And stars help me…
I want him to.
Sleep is an illusion.
I’ve been chasing it for hours, eyes wide open in the dark, laying in sheets that feel too hot, then too cold, then too tight like they’re trying to strangle me in silk. My fan hums overhead, steady and mechanical, but the sound only makes the silence louder.
I stare at the ceiling.
The last thing I should be thinking about is a seven-foot murder machine with questionable charm and a devastating grin. But my brain is a traitor. And traitors get no rest.
“You ever been in love?” I’d asked.
Stupid.
So stupid.
And his answer—his actual answer—should’ve made me roll my eyes into another galaxy.
“Does orbital bombardment count?”
That’s not romantic. That’s a war crime with extra flair.
But then he’d looked at me.
Not like I was fragile. Not like I was a mission. Just… me.
I groan and roll over.
The pillow smells like my leave-in conditioner and frustration.
I close my eyes and try to force myself to dream about literally anything else.
But my subconscious doesn’t take requests.
It’s chaos.
I’m in a salon that’s also a battlefield. Curling irons blaze like laser rifles. The shampoo chairs are trenches. Jacey’s shouting orders in a flak jacket and glittery combat boots.
“He’s coming!” she screams, tossing a can of hairspray like it’s a grenade.
Voltar bursts through the door, shoulder-first, wearing tactical armor and aviators. He’s holding a tray of synth croissants in one hand and an enormous cigar in the other. His eyes glow like golden suns.
“You’re late!” I yell, ducking behind a shelf of conditioner.
He grins. “Fashionably.”
Then the dream shifts.
The walls collapse inward like paper. We’re falling into space. Plasma fire rains down in curling spirals. I feel weightless and grounded all at once. His arms wrap around me—tight, strong, immovable—and everything else vanishes.
It’s too hot. Too bright. Too real.
I wake up sweating, breath caught in my throat like it’s trying to escape.
My apartment is still.
Too still.
I sit up, heart hammering. My sheets are twisted around me like battlefield bandages. The clock says 04:03. Outside, the sky is that weird, purplish pre-dawn—soft and sticky.
I pad to the door barefoot, tugging my cardigan around my shoulders. The hallway light flickers. My toe throbs from where I kicked the couch last night during a stealth bathroom mission.
I open the door and nearly trip over it.
A box.
Wrapped in deep blue foil. Neat. Square. Silent.
There’s no tag, but I know.
I pick it up, heart stuttering.
Inside, nestled in black velvet like a museum relic, is a hairbrush.
But not just any brush.
It’s Vakutan. I know from the shimmer of the resin—dark with veins of iridescent red, polished smooth and heavy in my hand.
The bristles are curved to follow the scalp, firm but gentle.
I’ve seen things like this in trade catalogs.
Once. As a curiosity. Too rare. Too expensive.
Definitely not something you buy for someone unless…
There’s a note.
Folded with precision.
The handwriting is surprisingly elegant. Upright. Clean.
For the warrior of the curling iron. –V
I stare at it like it might bite me.
My stomach does a slow, traitorous flip.
I pace.
I fume.
I make tea and forget to drink it.
Then I do something even dumber than asking a war criminal about love.
I call Lazarus.
He answers after two rings. “If this isn’t life or death, I will personally teleport a centipede into your hairline.”
“It’s four in the morning,” I whisper. “I can’t scream, but just know I want to.”
“Let me guess. Voltar made you breakfast in bed but it was actually a booby trap and now you’re emotionally compromised.”
“I woke up to a luxury alien hairbrush on my doorstep. Vakutan resin. Bristles like silk. Wrapped like a royal wedding present.”
He yawns. “And?”
“And?! And?! It probably costs more than my rent!”
“Did he include a note?”
“Yes!”
“Does it involve the words ‘curling iron’?”
I growl.
“That’s a yes,” he says. “You’re bonding. Good.”
“Bonding?! This isn’t kindergarten!”
“Sable,” he says, suddenly serious, “you’re alive. You’re laughing. You’re talking to me at 4AM about hairbrushes. A week ago, you were silent and scared. So yeah. Bonding. Good.”
I hate when he makes sense.
I hang up.
I toss the phone on the couch, but it bounces off the armrest and lands facedown on the floor like it’s ashamed of me.
I stare at the brush.
My pulse flutters.
I whisper into the dark.
“Damn alien.”
I brush my fingers across the bristles. They glide like water.
“Damn thoughtful, lethal, hot alien…”
And the worst part?
I don’t even want to throw it away.