Chapter 11 Sable
SABLE
The scissors glide through his hair like they’ve known each other forever.
I’m not even holding them anymore. Not really.
I’m just watching my hands work—snip, comb, smooth—like this moment was carved into the bones of the universe a thousand years ago.
Voltar sits in my salon chair, impossibly large, barely fitting, shirtless and somehow calm.
His broad shoulders ripple beneath gold-scarred skin, the kind of canvas you don’t rush. I move slowly, reverently.
His eyes are on me the whole time. Not in the mirror. Not watching the cut. Just… me.
I comb again, fingers brushing the ridges at his temples, and he doesn’t flinch.
He leans into the touch like it’s the first real contact he’s ever had that didn’t involve blood or blasters.
There’s a stillness between us, deep and sacred.
My breath catches as I tilt his chin up, studying the fall of light across his jawline.
“I could make you beautiful,” I whisper.
“You already did.”
I wake with a start.
My sheets are a tangled, sweaty mess, my heart jackhammering against my ribs. The room’s too hot. The air too thick. Everything feels… wrong. Or right. Or too close to both.
“Oh no,” I groan, flopping back against the pillow.
The ceiling does not answer.
That dream was way too vivid. I can still feel the weight of the scissors in my hand, still see the softness in Voltar’s eyes—the kind of softness I didn’t think he had. The kind of softness I’m not sure I can take.
I shove the covers off and stumble to the refresher. My reflection looks like I lost a slap fight with a synth lion—hair everywhere, pillow crease down one cheek, eyes wide with something between desire and mild panic.
“What are you doing to me?” I ask no one, splashing cold water on my face.
I don’t get an answer. But my body’s still humming from the kiss. And now that dream.
Stars help me.
I dress faster than usual—plain blouse, high-waisted trousers, emergency heels—and grab my compad on the way out. Voltar’s already waiting by the door, arms folded, gaze on the hallway like he expects it to attack.
“Morning,” I mutter.
He nods, silent for once. It’s rare, and a little unnerving. Usually he’s got something cocky to say about the weather, my outfit, or the number of weapons I’m probably hiding.
Today, though, it’s quiet.
We walk side by side through the early morning haze, our footsteps echoing in sync across the hover-tiled streets. Shops are still shuttered. The air smells like burnt synth-oil and rising pastry steam. Voltar doesn’t say a word, but he stays close, his shoulder a silent shield beside me.
And for some reason, I don’t want him to talk. Not yet. The silence is warm. Companionable. Like the night hasn’t quite let us go.
Then we pass a storefront with mirrored windows.
I glance sideways and catch our reflection.
I have to stop.
He does too, turning just enough to follow my gaze.
There we are—me, five-foot-two, all red hair and razor-edged nerves, heels clacking against the stone like I’ve got something to prove. And him…
Voltar is a walking fortress. Eight feet of bulk and brutal beauty, muscles stacked like they’re on union contracts, scars like medals of war. Beside him, I look like I wandered into the wrong comic strip.
But the strangest thing is—it works.
Somehow.
The chaos and the calm. The noise and the nuance. The fists and the finesse.
I tilt my head and say, “We’re weird together.”
He pauses.
Looks down at me with that unreadable expression, the one that says he’s weighing whether to make a joke or say something real.
“Good weird?” he asks.
I nod. “Freakshow weird.”
That gets a grin. Big and stupid and entirely contagious.
“My favorite kind.”
He holds the door open for me, and I step into the salon with the echo of that grin still bouncing around my ribs.
Whatever this is—it’s terrifying.
And maybe that’s exactly what I need.
I wake up to the smell of burnt synth-oil and vanilla conditioner.
Which is weird, because the break room doesn’t have either.
My eyes blink open one at a time, dry and reluctant.
There’s a crick in my neck from hell, and a suspiciously shaped crease from the couch cushion etched into my cheek.
I push myself up with a groan and glance at the chrono on the wall.
Seventeen minutes. I’ve only been out for seventeen damn minutes.
But the dream...
Voltar. In my chair. Shirtless. His head bowed like I was the only person on this planet he trusted not to hurt him. My fingers gliding through thick hair, the way his breath caught when I brushed his temple. My voice low, coaxing, reverent.
The kind of softness I’m not used to. Not from him. Not from myself.
I sit up, the remnants of that dream pressing down like humidity, and rub my face until the image fades, but it doesn't disappear. It just sinks deeper. My hands still remember the feel of his skin. My heart still hears the pause between his breaths.
I try to shake it off, sweep hair, make idle chat with my next client, fake it ‘til I can feel normal again.
But Voltar isn’t something you forget. Even in sleep.
When I get home, he’s there.
Shirt half-open, cooking something with the determined scowl of a man used to defusing bombs and somehow finding dinner more stressful. There’s a smear of something on his cheek. His hair is damp from a shower, curling at the ends like he didn’t bother to towel it off.
My chest tightens.
I tie my curls back into a knot and pour a glass of wine, pretending this isn’t the same man I dreamed about, the same man whose kiss made my knees buckle like bad scaffolding.
He drops a spoon with a metallic clatter and mutters something filthy and poetic under his breath.
I laugh.
He looks up, caught, and grins like I just said something brilliant.
There’s a stillness after that. The kind that hums with potential.
I take a step toward him.
“Voltar…” I say, and my voice wavers just enough to feel real. “What are we doing?”
He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t look away.
“What feels right,” he whispers.
It hits me low in the gut. My wine glass trembles in my hand. I want to run. I want to stay. I want to throw this whole moment into a time capsule and never let it die.
So I kiss him.
Our mouths meet like we’re mid-conversation, like we’ve always been saying this in another language and only just found the words.
My hand slides up his chest—hot, solid, alive—and hooks into the fabric of his shirt.
I feel the ridges of his scaled skin through it, the rise and fall of muscles that were born for war.
He smells like ozone and something darker, spiced metal and adrenaline.
He pulls me close with a groan deep in his chest. The kind of sound that makes heat bloom low and fast.
The kiss tilts, sharpens. His hand cups my jaw, thumb brushing along my cheek like he’s memorizing the curve.
My wine glass slips from my grip and hits the tile with a soft crash, red liquid spreading across the floor like a quiet surrender.
Neither of us looks.
He lifts me like I weigh nothing, like I’m something precious. My legs hook instinctively around his waist, my breath caught somewhere between anticipation and abandon. His lips find my neck, a soft bite at the base of my throat that draws a gasp I don’t bother to muffle.
He shoulders the door open and sets me gently onto the bed, hovering just above me, watching.
“Are you sure?” he murmurs.
I answer with my hands.
My fingers find the line of his jaw, the scar that bisects his collarbone, the hidden soft places that armor never touches. He shudders under my touch, eyes fluttering closed for a moment like he can’t bear the weight of it.
I pull him down.
The kiss that follows is deeper. Slower. A kind of worship. His hands are everywhere—ribs, hips, the small of my back—exploring, learning, not demanding. His mouth finds the hollow of my throat, the curve of my shoulder, places that don’t see daylight.
He groans against my skin when I slip my fingers into his hair—coarse, thick, not quite human. His body shifts above me, massive and hot and hard in every way, a furnace in the shape of a man. A monster. A protector. A want I’ve never let myself voice until now.
“Stars,” I whisper when his hand slips under my top. His palm is enormous, spanning from my waist to ribs. The heat of him makes me arch.
“You’re so small,” he breathes, voice low, reverent. “So… soft.”
“And you’re built like a battleship,” I murmur, breathless.
His cock is already hard, massive, straining against his waistband. I can feel it pressing between us, and my body clenches in anticipation. There’s no fear, only want—fierce, sharp, and unapologetic.
“Voltar,” I gasp as he shifts lower, dragging his lips down my sternum, over the curve of one breast, his breath hot and reverent. “Touch me.”
He doesn’t ask again.
He slides my pants down, kisses his way along the line of my hip like it’s sacred. His claws never scratch, never hurt. His hands are gentle, controlled, worshipping. He spreads my legs, eyes drinking me in like I’m more than flesh—like I’m the center of gravity.
“Fuck,” he groans, voice guttural. “You’re beautiful.”
And then his mouth is on my pussy.
The first lick steals the air from my lungs. He’s careful, slow at first, his tongue hot and too long, swirling and teasing around my clit with maddening precision. I grab at the sheets, my hips jerking up, and he growls in approval.
“You taste like heat,” he says against me. “Like trouble.”
His tongue slides deeper, and I cry out, high and helpless. No one’s ever touched me like this. No one’s ever made me feel like falling apart was a privilege.
I’m shaking when he rises, eyes blazing gold, his scaled chest heaving.
He strips with brutal efficiency—pauldrons, undershirt, belt, everything tossed aside.
His body is a work of devastation: red scales gleaming, scars like constellations across his chest, ridges running along his shoulders and arms like armor the gods forged.
And his cock—
Stars.
Thick. Veined. Slick at the tip. A deep red that matches his skin, ridged just enough to make my thighs press together instinctively.
“You sure?” he asks again, but his voice is strained.
“Yes,” I whisper. “I want you inside me.”
He climbs over me, holds himself there for a heartbeat, his cock brushing against my slick entrance. I reach down, guide him, and the second he pushes in—
I break.
He’s huge. Stretching me wide, slow, inch by inch. My breath leaves me in a rush, not from pain, but from the overwhelming feeling of being filled. He holds himself still, trembling with restraint.
“Fuck, Sable,” he groans. “You’re so tight. I—stars, I don’t want to hurt you.”
“You won’t,” I gasp, hips rolling up. “I can take you.”
He starts to move.
Each thrust is slow, deliberate. His ridges drag over every nerve inside me, making me cry out, making me writhe beneath him. He moans my name like a prayer, his cock dragging deeper, harder, hitting places no one else ever could.
Our rhythm builds—wet, frantic, electric.
My nails rake his back. His teeth graze my shoulder. We’re a tangle of sweat and heat and everything I’ve never let myself want.
“Look at me,” he rasps, voice cracking.
I do.
His eyes burn into mine, and everything else fades.
“I’ve killed for less than what I feel for you,” he whispers.
My orgasm hits like a detonation—hot, sudden, shaking me apart. I cry out, loud and raw, pulsing around him.
Voltar follows with a roar, his cock twitching inside me as he spills, body shaking above mine. He collapses carefully, cradling me, breathing hard.
His heartbeat is thunder under my cheek.
And for once in my life, I feel like I’m right where I belong.