Chapter 8
VOLTAR
The comm buzzes low against my jaw.
Encrypted channel. Voice-only. But I know who it is before the waveform resolves.
Lazarus.
“Got a ping,” he says without greeting. “Tugun. Eyes confirmed. On-world. South sector.”
I don’t ask how he knows. Lazarus doesn’t deal in speculation.
“Timeframe?” I ask.
“Within the cycle. Maybe hours. He’s traveling light. Solo op. No chatter. It’s clean.”
“Too clean,” I mutter, crossing to the window.
The street below glitters with storefronts and hoverlamps. Sable’s apartment sits above a nail bar and a kombucha lounge that plays trance remixes of whale calls. All things considered, it’s not a bad vantage point.
But it’s too open.
Too predictable.
“Stay sharp,” Lazarus adds. “I’ll scramble a shadow ping to reroute public cams. But you’re in his line of sight now. Both of you.”
“Copy that.”
“Don’t get attached, Voltar.”
The line cuts before I can answer.
I exhale through my nose.
Too late.
The next thing I know…
“You want me to what?”
“Train,” I say. “Physically. Tactically. Now.”
Sable blinks up at me, eyebrows raised, a comb halfway through a client’s ends.
“You’re serious.”
“Always.”
“You want me to play G.I. Jane in the salon?”
I glance around. “It’s after hours. No clients. You have space. You have crates. I have threats.”
She snorts. “You’re unbelievable.”
“Assassins don’t knock,” I say flatly.
That shuts her up.
Just for a second.
Then she tosses the comb onto the counter, sighs like I asked her to renounce coffee, and marches into the back room. “Fine. But I swear if you break another styling chair—”
“No promises.”
The salon at night has a different feel.
No music. No chatter. Just the low whir of sanitizers and the soft glow of wall lights casting long shadows across product displays. I move through the space methodically, repurposing everything I can get my hands on.
Mannequin heads? Check.
Empty conditioner crates? Stacked into low walls.
Towel bins? Now trip hazards.
The training zone takes shape in less than five minutes.
“Is this what you used in the Vakutan army?” Sable deadpans, watching me flip a styling chair on its side for cover.
“Worse,” I say. “We trained in meteor storms.”
She stretches her arms. “How quaint.”
She’s trying to be sarcastic.
But there’s a gleam in her eye.
Challenge.
I like that.
“All right, warlord,” she says, pulling her curls into a ponytail. “What’s the objective?”
“Move fast. Think faster. Don’t die.”
“Got it. Bridal season rules.”
I suppress a grin.
She starts slow, testing the course.
Hops the first crate with ease. Swivels past the mannequin stand. Drops low to avoid the swinging towel bin I rigged with a weight and string.
She moves like she’s danced through tight spaces her whole life—graceful, reactive, fast. There’s no hesitation in her limbs. Only in her mind.
I can see it. That split-second doubt before each leap.
That’s the gap that gets people killed.
“Again,” I say. “Faster.”
She scowls but resets.
This time, she sprints.
And damn if it isn’t beautiful.
Thirty minutes in, she’s panting, cheeks flushed, curls stuck to her temple, sweat trickling down her neck.
“Water,” she gasps.
I toss her a bottle.
She catches it one-handed, drinks, and nearly chokes. “What the hell is this?”
“Hydration formula. With protein. And electrolytes.”
“Tastes like a gym sock.”
“It builds character.”
“Character can suck it.”
She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, eyes glinting.
“You’re good,” I say.
“Damn right I am.”
“Still sloppy on the back pivot.”
“Still smug on the praise.”
I arch a brow. “You want honesty or flattery?”
“I want to not get shot.”
“Then again.”
This time, I join her.
No holds. No warnings.
We circle each other, weaving between product stacks and wheeled chairs. She’s nimble. I’m faster. She fakes left—I don’t fall for it. She dives under a table—I cut her off.
But then she does something clever.
She throws a mannequin head at my chest.
Not hard.
Just enough to distract.
I catch it on reflex—and that’s the second she slides behind me, leaps onto my back, hooks one leg over my hip, and uses the momentum to throw us both onto the padded floor mat I set down earlier.
I land with a grunt, flat on my back.
She lands on top.
Straddling me.
Hands on my chest. Breathing fast. Hair falling loose around her face like a halo of shadows and fire.
I freeze.
She does too.
The salon is silent except for the buzz of the sanitation lamp and the sound of our breathing.
Her weight presses against me—warm, solid, present. Her hands flex slightly. Not in defense.
In uncertainty.
Our eyes lock.
Her pupils are wide. Her lips parted.
I don’t move.
Because if I move, I don’t trust myself not to—
She blinks.
And stands.
Fast.
Backs up like she’s on fire.
“Again,” she says, voice low. Rough.
I sit up slowly.
Heart pounding harder than it has in weeks.
Not from the fight.
From her.
Always her.
The second time, I don’t hold back.
She says “Again,” and I oblige without a word, resetting the course like my hands aren’t still shaking from the last time she touched me. Like I’m not painfully aware of every place her body pressed against mine.
She charges.
I meet her halfway.
We spar harder this round—quicker, sharper. Her instincts are getting better. She doesn’t flinch when I feint. She ducks under a crate swing and slides low beneath a suspended dryer chair. She’s sweating, flushed, breathing hard. So am I.
When she leaps again, I catch her.
Not like last time.
I don’t let her flip me.
I hold her.
Just hold.
Her arms go rigid around my shoulders. Her legs hook around my waist.
We lock eyes.
And something breaks.
I kiss her.
Hard.
No hesitation. No second-guessing. Just heat and instinct and want, crashing through the space between us like a plasma burst.
She doesn’t pull away.
She kisses me back.
It starts as friction—lips pressing, hungry—but quickly turns molten. Her fingers tangle in my hair, tugging. My hands slip under the hem of her shirt, skimming heated skin. She tastes like sugar and sweat and something entirely hers. Something I could get addicted to.
I back her into the wall, gently, bracing one hand beside her head. Her mouth parts on a soft gasp, and I take full advantage, deepening the kiss until we’re both shaking with it. Her hips shift against mine and my pulse slams behind my ribs.
Stars.
She’s a firestorm in my hands.
And I want to burn.
Then—
PING.
A sharp chirp slices through the haze.
My HUD flashes red.
I freeze, one hand still cupping her waist, lips barely brushing hers.
“Motion alert,” I mutter.
Sable blinks, dazed. “What?”
“External sensor. Rear stairwell.”
I pull back, accessing the data stream. The readings scroll across my lens—heat signature, weight estimate, displacement pattern.
I exhale slowly.
“False alarm,” I say. “Raccoon. Again.”
She shoves my chest—not hard, but firm. “Damn it, Voltar.”
“I didn’t invite him.”
She steps out from under me, running both hands through her hair. The air between us crackles with static and something rawer.
Something unspoken.
“Well,” she says, voice tight. “That was… educational.”
I nod once. “Agreed.”
She doesn’t look at me.
Just turns and walks—quickly—into her room, shutting the door with a soft but decisive click.
I’m left staring at the empty hallway like it might offer an explanation.
It doesn’t.
I hit the training room ten minutes later.
Stripped down to a sweat-streaked tank, I don’t bother warming up.
I just hit.
The punching bag isn’t regulation—it’s one I rigged from a bulk protein sack and a collection of defunct towel bins. But it’s solid.
Or it was.
My fist connects with a guttural thud. The sack lurches. Swings.
I pivot and strike again, harder.
Then again.
And again.
By the sixth punch, I hear something tear.
By the eighth, it explodes.
Feathers—why are there feathers—burst into the air like a bizarre snowstorm. The sack collapses, trailing synthetic fluff.
I stand there, panting.
Fists throbbing. Chest heaving.
My whole body hums like a charged weapon—primed, reckless, unstable.
I try to tell myself it’s just adrenaline.
Just a reaction.
Just—
Her.
That kiss wasn’t part of the mission.
None of this is.
She’s not supposed to matter like this.
Not supposed to get in my head, under my skin, into my bloodstream.
But stars help me, she is.
And I’m losing focus.
The comm buzzes again.
Lazarus.
Of course.
I accept it with a grunt, still standing amid the wreckage of my makeshift gym.
“Rough night?” he says. “Or did a bag of feathers offend your honor?”
“She’s fine,” I growl.
A beat.
“I didn’t ask.”
“You were going to.”
“I was,” he admits. “But you saved me the effort. Thanks.”
I scrub a hand down my face, already regretting answering.
Lazarus’s voice sharpens. “You’re growing attached.”
I bark a laugh that’s more teeth than humor. “She’s stubborn. Fragile. She trips over her own shoes.”
“And you gave her a tactical hairbrush.”
“She needed it.”
“You watched her train for an hour like a lovesick hovercam.”
“I was evaluating her agility.”
“You kissed her.”
Silence.
He waits.
I say nothing.
Lazarus exhales. “You know what happens when we care.”
“She’s not my priority,” I snap.
“You sure about that?”
“She’s a job.”
My voice rings hollow in the empty room.
Even I can hear it.
Lazarus doesn’t say anything for a while. When he does, his voice has gone soft. Too soft.
“Tugun’s not alone.”
I stiffen. “What?”
“Intercepted comms suggest Big Otto’s involved. Something coordinated. A two-pronged approach.”
My mind shifts gears instantly. “Intel?”
“Not much. Otto’s keeping things tight. But if he’s backing Tugun, it’s not just personal. It’s strategic.”
I clench my fists.
If Otto’s in this, it’s not just a hit.
It’s a message.
And I know exactly who that message is for.
“I’ll handle it,” I say.
Lazarus sighs. “You better. Because if you fall for her and she dies—”
“I won’t let that happen.”
He pauses.
“Don’t get sloppy, Voltar.”
I end the call.
The silence feels louder after he’s gone.
I stand there, surrounded by destroyed training gear, feathers drifting like snowfall.
And I whisper to the empty room—
“Let them try.”
But the words feel heavier than they used to.
Because now, for the first time in years, I have something to lose.