Chapter 9
SABLE
The package is pastel pink with sparkles.
Sparkles.
Glittery, bubble-lettered nonsense scrawled across the front in a font that screams “sponsored by a bachelorette party and poor decisions.” It’s waiting at the salon’s front desk when we open. No return address. Just a sticker:
CONFETTI SHAMPOO – for that explosive shine!
Jacey lifts it delicately between two fingers like it’s a rabid possum.
“This you?” she asks.
“Nope.”
I didn’t order anything.
Voltar leans in, eyes narrowing. “Don’t touch that.”
But Jacey, in her eternal wisdom and lack of self-preservation instincts, is already tugging at the satin ribbon.
“Relax,” she says. “It’s probably from that influencer brand. The one with the octopus mascot?”
I don’t know what’s worse: that such a thing exists or that she watches it.
The moment the lid lifts, we all take an involuntary step back.
Not because it explodes.
But because it glows.
A soft, shimmer-pulse of light, like an expensive nightclub for extremely petty people.
And then—
A hologram blooms.
Six feet tall.
Sharp shoulders. Shimmering suit. Smirk like he owns the whole galaxy and rents it out by the hour.
Tugun.
Real-time projection. No, not real-time. Pre-recorded. Tailored.
“Darling,” he purrs, voice like poison honey, “let’s keep this cordial.”
My breath catches.
His image walks forward—well, struts forward—in perfect sync with the recording’s programmed loop. Voltar tenses beside me, his hand hovering just shy of the weapon he swore he wouldn’t bring into the salon.
Tugun’s holographic eyes flicker gold. Too gold.
“I’m nothing if not reasonable,” he continues. “Surrender now, and I’ll make it painless. You have my word.”
He smiles.
Teeth white. Lips blood-red.
“Delay,” he says, “and I get creative.”
Jacey shrieks.
Not a scream.
A shriek—pure, unfiltered horror squeaking out of her throat like a kettle set to “emergency.”
Voltar doesn’t wait.
He moves.
Fast.
One giant fist slams into the holo-emitter—right through the heart of Tugun’s projected image. The device crumples, sparks flying. Something inside hisses like an angry wasp.
“EMP charge,” Voltar mutters, grabbing the smoldering remains and shoving them into a reinforced disposal case he pulls from his belt. “It was primed to detonate. Projection was the distraction.”
My knees feel wobbly.
Not from the light.
From him.
From the hologram. From the voice.
Tugun.
That damn voice.
It’s been years since I heard it in person. But recordings… memories… nightmares?
Those don’t go away.
I force a breath through my nose.
“Confetti shampoo,” I say quietly. “Of course.”
Jacey’s white as a bleach job. “Who sends a murder hologram in a shampoo box?”
“Someone dramatic,” I say. “Someone who knows I’d open it.”
Voltar doesn’t speak.
He’s crouched over the debris, scanning with something in his palm that makes a soft series of beeps. His jaw is tight. His shoulders locked. He hasn’t blinked in thirty seconds.
I can tell.
Because I’m watching.
Because I don’t want to look at anything else right now.
Because if I do—if I look at the scorch mark on the floor or the place where Tugun’s fake eyes stared into mine—I might throw up.
All things considered, I decide cancel the rest of the day.
Jacey offers to stay. She means well.
But I need quiet.
And walls.
And… him.
Voltar follows me home in silence.
No jokes. No casual sarcasm. Just that heavy-footed presence behind me like a shadow with a heartbeat.
I drop my bag by the door. Toes out of my shoes. The moment I step onto my rug, the silence hits me like a wall. Everything feels louder when I’m trying not to break.
The hiss of the kettle. The buzz of the fridge. The tick of the wall clock.
I curl up on the couch.
Tug my throw blanket over my legs and squeeze a pillow so tightly it ought to explode into stuffing.
Voltar scans the apartment without a word.
Then he moves.
Not far.
Just across the room.
He doesn’t ask. Doesn’t explain.
He just plants himself in front of the window—broad back to me, arms crossed, stance wide.
Like a wall.
A silent, living wall of muscle, vigilance, and very obvious rage.
For the first time since I opened that damn box, I exhale.
I don’t ask him to sit.
I don’t ask him to move.
Because I don’t want him to.
I try to sleep on the couch.
Fail.
Try again.
Still fail.
At some point, I just stop pretending and stare at the ceiling, watching faint shadows from streetlamps dance across the paint.
He hasn’t moved.
Not once.
I can tell because his silhouette hasn’t shifted against the curtain. And because the air still feels… safe. Guarded.
After a while, I speak.
Quiet. Like if I raise my voice, the moment will break.
“You ever get scared?”
He doesn’t turn.
Doesn’t flinch.
Only says, “Every day.”
Something in my chest twists.
Because I believe him.
Because under all that bravado and bravura and blaster swagger, there’s something else.
Something real.
“I used to think he was the worst thing that ever happened to me,” I murmur.
Silence.
“And now I think the worst thing was surviving him.”
Still, he doesn’t move.
But his voice—his voice is soft steel.
“You didn’t survive him,” he says. “You defied him.”
My throat tightens.
I close my eyes.
The couch cushion shifts as I curl tighter into it, pulling the blanket to my chin like it could block out the past. But it doesn’t.
He does.
He blocks it all out—just by standing there.
And for once in my life…
I let him.
The sun’s just starting to burn off the fog when I crack one eye open.
It’s not the kind of morning that sneaks in sweet and gentle. No birdsong, no warm beam of light painting romantic lines across the hardwood. No dreamy stretches or cartoon animals folding my socks.
It’s real.
Quiet.
Heavy.
The kind of quiet that makes your ears ring.
I shift under the throw blanket, slow and careful like the world might explode if I breathe too hard. My neck’s stiff from the couch cushion. My left foot’s asleep. I’m wearing yesterday’s mascara and it’s staging a hostile takeover on my cheekbones.
But I don’t care.
Because he’s still there.
Voltar.
Right where he stood last night.
Unmoving.
Unyielding.
Unmistakably him.
He’s backlit by soft morning haze leaking through the window, massive arms crossed, frame outlined in pale gold like a statue carved out of war and starlight. His head turns slightly when I stir, just enough to show he’s not asleep. Hasn’t been.
He’s been watching.
Guarding.
Waiting.
And I don’t know what to do with the way that makes me feel.
He could’ve gone. Could’ve done some creepy silent sweep of the building or stalked off to do chin-ups on a satellite dish or whatever the hell it is he does when he’s not being an overbuilt menace. But he stayed.
For me.
All night.
I clear my throat and sit up.
The blanket slides off my shoulders, and I wrap it tighter around myself. There’s no reason to feel cold, but I do anyway.
He turns, just enough to face me.
Not all the way.
Like even now he’s giving me space.
I hate how much I appreciate that.
“Hey,” I say, voice scratchy. “You didn’t have to… y’know. Keep watch.”
Voltar grunts.
An eloquent sound, if you speak Alien Grunt Fluently, which I now do. I think this one means ‘Yes, I did.’
I chew the inside of my cheek, eyes scanning the room for something, anything to distract from the stupid warmth rising in my throat. The idea of someone staying. Choosing to stay. It’s foreign. Luxurious.
Dangerous.
“I slept,” I say. “That’s… new.”
His brow twitches. “Unacceptable.”
My head tilts. “What, sleep?”
“No,” he says. “That you hadn’t, before.”
He says it so simply, like it’s a basic fact that deserves immediate and violent correction. Like he feels it, this tiny injustice of mine, and wants to punch the stars into shape to fix it.
I laugh, short and quiet.
“Voltar,” I say, trying to force casual into my tone, “I… uh. Thanks. For staying. For… everything.”
He shifts like I just threw a plasma grenade at his feet. His shoulders stiffen. His mouth opens, closes, then flattens into something weirdly close to a grimace.
Is he—?
Is he blushing?
No.
Can’t be.
His skin doesn’t even blush. It’s some weird mineral-hued tone that doesn’t follow human biology. But his ears—his ears might be a shade redder than usual.
He clears his throat. “Wasn’t for gratitude.”
“Okay,” I say softly. “Still. I’m saying it.”
I get up and pad across the room, bare feet cold against the floor.
He watches every step like it’s a tactical threat.
I stop just in front of him, tilt my head back to meet those impossible gold eyes. They’re always bright, always sharp, but right now they’re searching. For what, I don’t know.
I reach for his arm.
Not fast.
Not slow.
Just… carefully.
My fingers wrap around the corded muscle of his forearm, warm and humming like a generator beneath the skin. His skin’s tougher than human flesh—slightly ridged, smooth in a way that feels engineered rather than grown. But it’s warm.
So warm.
I lean in.
Just a little.
Just enough that my shoulder brushes his chest.
And for the briefest of moments, I let myself feel it.
The silence.
The safety.
The sheer presence of him.
His body, all mass and steel and contained fire.
My heart pounds in my ears.
My voice comes out low, a whisper that barely escapes my lips.
“If you were anyone else,” I murmur, “I might actually kiss you.”
His breath hitches.
And then—
Softly, roughly, with a rasp like a stone dragged through velvet—
“Why not try anyway?”
I snort.
Because it’s easier than falling face-first into whatever the hell that was.
Because it covers the noise my heart is making.
Because the second I let it mean something, everything changes.
“You’re not ready for these lips,” I say with a smirk that doesn’t reach my chest.
I turn before he can reply.
Walk to the kitchen like I didn’t just mentally combust at his suggestion.
Behind me, silence.
But not awkward.
Not stiff.
Not distant.
It’s charged.
Heavy with everything we didn’t say.
And something else.
Something new.
Later, while the caf steeps and I try to remember how to function like a human being, I catch him watching me.
Not just glancing.
Watching.
His eyes track the way I stir my mug, the way I tie my robe tighter, the way my hand lingers near my mouth when I think.
And I don’t hate it.
I don’t feel preyed on or cornered or put on display.
I feel seen.
It’s unsettling.
It’s addictive.
It’s—
“Stop looking at me like that,” I say without turning.
“Like what?”
“Like you’re trying to solve a puzzle.”
He grunts. “I’ve solved it.”
“Oh, really?”
“Mm. Complicated puzzle. Poorly made. Sharp corners.”
I roll my eyes, but I’m grinning like an idiot.
“Go sleep,” I say.
“Can’t.”
“You can. You just won’t.”
His voice drops a little. “Not until I know you’re safe.”
I pause.
And for one second, I let myself lean on the counter, let the heat of the mug warm more than just my hands.
The space between us isn’t just about proximity anymore.
It’s potential.
Untouched. Unspoken. But humming like a live wire beneath the surface.
And I know—
Sooner or later—
One of us is going to touch it.
And nothing will ever be the same.