Chapter 10
VOLTAR
The tension between us has gotten so thick you could cut it with a plasma blade—and believe me, I’ve cut through tougher things.
I feel it every time she walks past me, brushing her hand against mine like it’s an accident.
Every time she throws a sideways glance when she thinks I’m not looking.
Every time she lingers just a second too long in the doorway of a room before disappearing like smoke.
So today, when she wakes up and groggily says she might hit the market fair, I jump on it like it’s a tactical deployment.
“For reconnaissance purposes,” I say, trying to sound official as I buckle my chestplate and slide a fusion pistol into the small of my back. “Urban familiarity protocol. Could be Syndicate activity. I’ll need to evaluate the perimeter for hostiles.”
She squints at me, hair still wrapped in a morning bun. “You mean...you wanna tag along.”
“I mean I am assigned to your protection and will be conducting a sweep of all high-density civilian zones for any potential Nine-affiliated threats.”
Sable folds her arms. “Uh-huh. And that just happens to include fried food carts, fortune tellers, and mechanical claw games.”
“It’s very advanced psychological warfare,” I mutter, avoiding eye contact as I slip on my tactical shades.
She raises a brow. “Voltar, are you blushing?”
“I do not blush,” I grumble. “Vakutan physiology—”
“Right, right. Different blood distribution. No capillaries in the upper dermis, blah blah. C’mon, soldier boy.”
And just like that, I’m following her out the door, my massive boots thudding softly on the pavement as she practically floats ahead of me, swaying in a loose sunshift dress that catches the breeze and wraps around her legs like it's got a crush on her too.
The market fair is already alive by the time we get there, all color and noise and chaos.
Banners flutter overhead, some electronic, some old-school cloth.
There’s a vendor selling synth ice cream next to a guy deep-frying something that smells like an alien aquarium exploded.
Music from six different cultures blares from speaker poles trying to out-bass each other.
Sable dives right in, tugging me by the wrist. Her fingers wrap around mine, warm and casual, like it’s nothing. Like it doesn’t make my pulse trip over itself.
“Let’s start with the fried algae,” she says, eyes gleaming with wicked delight.
I look at the vendor’s cart, where green slabs sizzle in grease and a toothless woman flips them with a spatula that might once have been a sword.
“That is not food,” I announce. “That is a chemical experiment.”
Sable grins. “Oh, so now you’re a food snob?”
“I eat to maintain caloric density for combat effectiveness. That… that is slime wrapped in cardiovascular betrayal.”
She orders two.
I glare at the algae on a stick like it owes me money. Then she takes a bite and moans—not in pain, in pleasure—and my brain short-circuits.
I take a bite. It tastes like kelp-flavored revenge.
“That’s…” I manage, trying not to gag. “A texture war crime.”
Sable bursts out laughing, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. “Oh my stars. You look personally offended.”
“I’ve been shot with acid rounds less hostile than this snack.”
We keep walking, hand in hand now, her arm brushing against mine as we drift from stall to stall. I let her drag me to a booth where an old Fratvoyan with too many arms is manning a game rigged so bad I can see the crooked servos under the claw.
“You’ll never win that,” I mutter.
She looks up at the giant stuffed keffri hanging in the prize rack. It’s a mutant little thing with one eye, six legs, and a bowtie. Hideous. Adorable.
“I bet you could win it,” she says, looking at me sidelong.
“Obviously. But it’s a trap.”
“Come on, commander. Show me your skills.”
I sigh like it’s the greatest burden ever placed upon me, but secretly, my chest is swelling. I slide a credit chip into the slot and the machine beeps awake. The claw jerks left, then right, obviously designed by someone who hated fun.
But I time the drop just right.
It sinks, catches the keffri by the foot, and holds.
Sable cheers as the claw rattles back and drops the monstrosity into the prize chute.
I hand it to her, deadpan. “For morale purposes.”
She snorts and clutches it to her chest like I just gave her a declaration of war in perfume form. “I’m naming him Volty.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Too late.”
We climb a stairwell behind one of the food stalls—half-forgotten emergency access stairs that lead to the roof of a converted hoverpark tower.
The whole city spreads below us, a riot of glowing lights and dusk-painted glass.
The sky is honey and blood, the sun sinking low behind a swarm of blinking hovercars that zip through the traffic bands like fireflies on caffeine.
I sit down with a grunt, legs dangling over the edge. Sable settles beside me, shoulder against my bicep, keffri doll in her lap.
For a while, we just breathe. I can feel the city hum beneath us, the warm pulse of a hundred thousand lives doing what they do—loving, yelling, hoping, failing. It’s not the kind of quiet I’m used to. It’s better.
“You’re not what I expected,” she says, voice soft.
I glance over. Her eyes are still on the horizon, but there’s something deeper in her tone. Something raw.
“You expected dumb muscle?” I say, trying to keep it light.
She shakes her head. “No. I expected loud. Arrogant. Dangerous.”
“I am all those things.”
“But you’re also kind. Thoughtful. You listen. You protect. And you’re funny, in a very punchable way.”
“High praise.”
She finally looks at me, green eyes catching the last blaze of the sun.
“I didn’t expect… you.”
My heart does that two-beat hiccup again, the one I’ve been trying to ignore.
I turn toward her, one hand sliding along the rooftop to find hers. She doesn’t pull away. Our fingers tangle, slow and deliberate.
I lean in.
She does too.
And when our lips meet, it’s not fireworks or music swelling. It’s something deeper. Something ancient. A fusion reactor going critical inside my chest.
Her mouth is warm and urgent against mine, her fingers curling into the fabric of my vest. I taste algae and sugar and something uniquely Sable—fire, defiance, sweetness that bites back.
I’ve kissed people before. For fun, for passion, for boredom.
But I’ve never kissed like this.
This is surrender.
This is war.
This is coming home.
Her lips are still on mine when I realize I’ve stopped breathing.
She kisses like she means it. No hesitation, no game-playing.
Just fire, hunger, something real and terrifying.
I feel it in every nerve, like I’ve been plugged into a live conduit and someone threw the switch.
Her hands grip my vest, anchoring me like she’s afraid she might drift away if she lets go.
And then, just like that—she lets go.
Sable pulls back with a breath that shakes against my skin, green eyes wide, lips slightly parted.
For a second, neither of us speaks. The city below keeps buzzing—hovercars zipping past, the murmur of voices and laughter from the fair still rising—but it all sounds far away, like we’re underwater now, sunk into something deeper than noise.
“I…” she starts, then stops. A small smile plays at her lips—soft, unsure. “I should get inside. Big day tomorrow.”
I want to say something. Anything.
But all I can do is nod.
Because my throat is tight. My chest is on fire. And inside me, something massive and ancient is thrashing like a warbeast trying to break loose.
She stands, brushing off imaginary dust from her dress. She doesn’t look away, though. Her fingers trail along my shoulder as she steps past me, light as a breath.
“Good night, Voltar,” she murmurs.
It’s the softest she’s ever said my name.
I don’t move until I hear the rooftop door hiss shut behind her.
Then I exhale like I’ve been punched in the lungs.
What the hell just happened?
I stay sitting on that rooftop for longer than I should. The night air creeps colder around me, but I barely register it. My mind’s still stuck on her mouth, the way it molded to mine like we were built for this exact collision. Her scent—vanilla and ozone. Her heartbeat, frantic against my chest.
I should be thrilled. Grinning like a lunatic. And part of me is. But underneath the buzz, there’s a growl I can’t silence. Something old and ugly twisting in my gut.
Need.
Not want. I know want. Want is easy. Want is flesh and impulse and adrenaline after a battle.
This is need.
And I don’t like it.
I head back down to the loft once I’m sure she’s asleep. The lights are dim, casting long shadows that flicker with every blink of the security panel. I pace. All my weapons are cleaned and stashed. My armor’s in perfect alignment on the gear bench. There’s nothing to do. Nothing to fight.
Except myself.
I’ve had women. Casual flings on leave. A few entanglements that fizzled when deployment came calling. They were nice. Some were fun. None were Sable.
Because I’ve never needed someone to see me before.
She saw something today. Something I didn’t know I had left to be seen.
And stars help me, I want her to keep seeing it.
But I’m not… built for this. I’m a living wrecking ball. A blood-stained footnote in a dozen military tribunals. I’m a blunt instrument who thinks in tactics, not tenderness.
So how the hell do I not screw this up?
I drop into the gravity hammock and immediately bounce out of it again, nerves too hot for stillness.
My feet hit the floor with a dull thud and I’m pacing again, arms folded tight like I’m holding myself together.
Because if I let go, I’ll either punch a hole through the wall or throw myself into her bed just to be near her.
Neither option seems like the right move.
“I need to be better,” I mutter, running both hands over my face.
No one's ever made me want to be anything. Not really. Not more. Just stronger. Meaner. Louder. A bigger warhead on legs.
But she deserves more. Hell, she is more.
So I’ll figure it out. Learn what she needs. What I need to be.
I’m still pacing when my compad pings.
“Voltar.” It’s Lazarus. Of course it’s Lazarus. The universe has a hell of a sense of timing.
“Talk.”
“You been paying attention to the encrypted chatter lately?”
“No,” I admit. “I’ve been a little… preoccupied.”
He grunts. “Thought so. You might want to check the latest packet. I’ve flagged it to your terminal.”
I tap a few keys on the side wall, and the holopanel lights up. Streams of scrambled data cascade across the screen. I let the onboard decryptor chew through it while I stretch my neck and prepare for the worst.
Lazarus clears his throat. “Tugun’s name just got mentioned in a few new chains. Quiet ones. Deep net level encryption. The kind we only pick up when we bribe smugglers with better chocolate rations.”
“What kind of mention?”
“Probable movement. No coordinates yet. But the tone’s different. Less idle chatter, more operational readiness. The Nine are twitching.”
“Planning something?”
“Feels like it. Can’t confirm. But it’s no longer a matter of if. It’s when.”
I stare at the data scroll, jaw tight. “And he’s still on-world?”
“Far as we know.”
“Shit.”
My eyes flick to the door of Sable’s bedroom. Closed. Quiet.
Safe. For now.
But for the first time since this assignment started, I feel exposed. Like she’s not a charge anymore—she’s a target. And I’m not a soldier—I’m a shield.
And shields break.
“You want more backup?” Lazarus asks.
I shake my head. “No. He’d smell them a klick away. Too much movement and we spook him. No… we wait. We stay close.”
“You sure you’re up for this?”
I look back at the holopanel, then at the half-moon shadows playing along the ceiling. I think about Sable’s lips. Her voice. Her laugh when I choked on algae.
“I’ve never been more sure of anything.”
“Alright,” Lazarus says. “Then rest. We’ll need you sharp.”
I end the call but don’t move.
Rest. Right.
How the hell am I supposed to rest with this war inside my chest?
A war I can’t shoot my way out of.
But I’ll figure it out.
Because this time? I have something to lose.