Chapter 14 Voltar
VOLTAR
The room hums with quiet. The kind of silence that wraps around your skin like a second blanket. It's the dead stretch before dawn, when the whole city exhales in its sleep. But I'm wide awake.
Sable’s breath is soft against my ribs, each exhale a featherlight touch. Her fingers curl loosely over my chest, and I can feel her heartbeat, slow and steady, as if my presence is something she trusts—even in sleep.
Gods, she’s beautiful like this.
I shift a little, careful not to wake her. The mattress groans anyway, and she stirs. Her lashes flutter, and for a second I freeze, but then she settles deeper into me with a small sigh. Like I’m her anchor.
I lean in, press a kiss to her temple. “Sleep,” I murmur.
She doesn’t hear it, not really. But maybe something in her does, because she smiles faintly, and my chest aches.
I slip out from under her like a thief, every move deliberate. Quiet. Boots in one hand. Gear in the other. It’s muscle memory—dress, lock, scan. By the time I’m in the kitchen, I’ve got half my armor strapped on, and my comm buzzes.
Lazarus.
I tap the earpiece. “Talk.”
“They’re escalating,” he says. No greeting. Just war.
My jaw tightens. “How bad?”
“Encrypted chatter spiked. Surveillance sweeps in the lower blocks. Someone pinged your address—might’ve been a scout.”
I glance toward the bedroom. My voice drops low. “Let ‘em.”
“You sure about that?” he asks. “Because this feels like a storm building.”
I start buckling on the chest plate. “Then we build higher walls.”
“Voltar—”
“I said let ‘em come.”
There’s a pause on his end. A breath of static. “You’re not thinking straight. She’s—”
“I am thinking straight. That’s the problem.” I check the drone diagnostics on my wristpad. “And I’m not letting them take her. Not now.”
Another silence.
Then, grudging, “Fine. Just… be smart.”
I kill the line.
Outside, the world is still dark. I take the small defensive drones—two in plain sight, two cloaked—and plant them at key points. Rooftop. Alleyway. Vents. All of them linked to me. My eyes, my hands, my fury.
Back inside, I replace the compad on her dresser with one I modded myself—looks identical, works better, can’t be traced. I tuck the old one into my belt.
She doesn’t need to know.
She’s already got too much spinning in that beautiful head.
When I walk back into the kitchen, she’s there.
And I stop breathing.
She’s wearing my shirt—half-buttoned, sleeves hanging past her hands. Bare legs, wild hair. She’s standing barefoot, pouring coffee like it’s a sacred ritual.
Her back’s to me at first. Then she turns.
And smiles.
It hits like a punch to the ribs. Not hard. Just sudden.
“Morning,” she says, voice still scratchy with sleep.
I grunt. It’s all I can manage.
She pads over, mug in hand. “You’re armored up already?”
“Didn’t sleep much.”
She arches an eyebrow. “Because of the sex or the surveillance?”
“Both,” I admit.
She snorts, handing me the mug. “At least you’re honest.”
I sip. Bitter. Hot. Perfect. “Always.”
She leans against the counter, watching me. “You fixed my compad.”
“You noticed?”
“You used the wrong wallpaper. I had a pic of us at the fair.”
I grunt again. “Noted.”
She steps closer, one foot between mine. “You always like this when you’re worried?”
“How do you know I’m worried?”
“You installed two drones on the fire escape. I watched from the window.”
I blink. “You were awake?”
She nods. “You kiss like you mean it. Hard to sleep through that.”
Her smile fades a little. Not gone. Just dimmed by something heavier.
“You think they’ll come back?” she asks.
My hands curl around the mug.
“Yes.”
She doesn’t flinch. “And if they do?”
I look her dead in the eyes. “Then they bleed.”
She steps forward, wraps her arms around my waist. Resting her cheek against my chest, right where the armor stops.
“I believe you,” she whispers.
And damn me—I believe her too.
That’s when I know.
I’m not guarding her anymore.
I’m loving her.
And I don’t know if I’ll survive that.
Lazarus drops the alert like a bomb in my lap: shipment inbound to Novaria. Syndicate-flagged. High priority. He sends the coordinates, the manifest, and a warning.
"Don’t go in guns hot,” he says.
I stare at the comm. “You say that like I’m the problem.”
“You are.”
We’re quiet for a beat. Then he adds, “They’ll be expecting someone. Not you.”
I look over at Sable, who’s adjusting the clasp on her earring in the mirror. Her hair’s up, her lips painted like something out of a dream. Gold dress that clings like a second skin.
“Fine,” I growl. “We’ll do it your way.”
The suit they give me is ridiculous. Black, tailored, and tight across the shoulders like it’s trying to start a fight. I tug at the collar, muttering curses. Sable walks out and freezes.
Her eyes roam slow, then land on mine.
“You clean up... decently,” she teases.
I arch a brow. “Only decent?”
She smirks. “The tie’s crooked.”
She steps close to fix it, fingers cool against my throat. Her scent is warm sugar and danger. I could get drunk on that. Maybe I already am.
“You ready to sell this whole ‘married couple’ act?” she asks.
I loop her arm through mine. “You tell me, Mrs. Voltar.”
She rolls her eyes, but her smile’s real.
The gala’s held at the Novaria Sky Dome—a glass cathedral floating above the city, starlight draped like a blanket across its domed ceiling. The elite swirl in silks and jewels, laughter clinking like crystal. Every face is a lie.
We step in, arm in arm.
A server floats by with champagne. I take two flutes, hand one to her.
She sips. “Don’t fall for me too hard.”
I lean in, voice low at her ear. “You wish.”
She snorts. “Please.”
I brush my lips along her neck, just above the curve of her shoulder. Slow. Deliberate.
“Yeah,” I murmur. “I do.”
Her breath hitches.
For a second, we’re not undercover. Not acting. Just... two people pretending they don’t want more.
The dance floor opens. She tugs me forward.
“I don’t dance,” I warn.
“You do tonight.”
The music swells. She presses close. My hands settle at her waist. We move slow, rhythm born of breath and instinct. Her fingers skim my neck. My pulse kicks.
“You’re watching the room,” she says.
“Always.”
“Don’t miss what’s right in front of you.”
I meet her eyes. “Not a chance.”
We spin, glide. A blur of movement, of electric touches in the dark. Her heel brushes my boot. I catch her as she stumbles, and for a heartbeat, she’s against my chest.
She looks up, lips parted.
And gods help me, I want to kiss her here. Now. In front of the whole damn syndicate.
Instead, I whisper, “We’ve got a tail. Two o’clock. Bald guy, broken nose.”
“Classy.”
“Keep dancing.”
We do. Right through the intel exchange. A woman in red slips me a data chip behind a kiss-on-the-cheek. Sable’s smile doesn’t crack.
By the time we leave, the chip’s buried in my boot.
No alarms. No chaos.
But my gut’s tight.
In the hovercar home, Sable leans against me, bare shoulder warm against my arm.
“What’s on the chip?” she asks.
“Something big.”
“Good big or bad big?”
I glance at her.
“It might save your life,” I say.
She nods.
“Or doom us both.”
She closes her eyes. “I’m good with either. Long as I’m with you.”
Damn it. I’m already gone.