Chapter 15 Sable
SABLE
The chip burns a hole in our lives. Not literally, but damn near close.
We’re in the apartment, lights low, Lazarus on the screen like some ghostly oracle. Voltar's crouched beside me, muscles tense beneath that ridiculous too-tight suit he hasn’t peeled off yet. There’s this weight in the air—thick, like the moment before a thunderstorm.
I hold the chip like it might bite me.
“You sure this thing’s safe?” I ask.
Voltar grunts. “Safe enough. Plug it.”
I slot it into the compad. The screen flickers, static stuttering before clearing into something clean, sharp—an audio file, voice-locked and encrypted.
Lazarus hums. “Let’s crack this sucker open.”
I don’t breathe. I don’t blink.
Then—voice.
Low. Gravely. Expensive.
“Big Otto,” I whisper.
He’s talking to someone I can’t see. Calm, controlled.
“I want the girl gone,” he says. “Not just out of the picture. Gone. Ashes. Ghosted.”
My stomach flips.
“Consider it done,” the other voice says. Distorted. Artificial.
Then Otto: “A billion credits. Transferred on confirmation. No loose ends.”
And the file ends.
Silence.
A billion. For me.
I laugh, sharp and too loud.
“Guess I’m worth something after all,” I say.
Lazarus doesn’t smile. “That’s not just a hit. That’s a bounty with fireworks.”
Voltar’s hand finds mine, anchors me. I don’t realize I’m shaking until he stills me.
I look up. “What does it mean?”
Lazarus sighs. “It means this isn’t just about your salon. Or some witness protection case. You’re not just a target anymore.”
He leans in, voice grim.
“You’re a symbol.”
The word drops like a blade.
My throat’s tight. “Of what?”
“Hope. Defiance. That someone ordinary stood up and survived.”
I let that settle. Let it crawl over my skin.
It terrifies me.
“I didn’t ask for this,” I whisper.
“No one ever does,” Voltar says.
I meet his gaze. Storm in his eyes. Steady.
He turns to Lazarus. “We use it.”
“Use what?” I ask.
“The chip. The outrage. We leak just enough to draw Otto out. Tugun too, if he’s tangled in this mess.”
Lazarus nods slowly. “Dangerous.”
Voltar shrugs. “So’s breathing.”
I swallow. “And if it fails?”
He leans in, hand brushing my cheek, thumb soft beneath my eye.
“Then we improvise. That’s kind of my thing.”
Gods.
No hesitation. No bluff. Just raw, unshakable belief—in himself, in us.
And I realize... I’ve never met anyone like him.
Bold. Brutal. But never careless with me.
Not once.
He kisses my temple, breath warm against my skin. “Whatever comes, I’ve got you.”
And somehow, for the first time in days, I believe it.
So we start making plans by the glow of the compad screen.
Maps, schedules, aliases—all laid out in a chaotic tangle of digital threads.
I’m perched cross-legged on the couch, fingers cramping from too much typing.
Voltar paces like a caged animal, arms crossed, jaw flexing in rhythm with his pulse.
We’ve been at this for hours.
Every time he opens his mouth, it’s another angle. Another contingency. Another security sweep.
“You’re not going,” he says again.
“I am.”
“You’re not staying here either. We’ll move you to the Alliance safehouse—quad-layered defenses, live comm link to central command, full lockdown protocols—”
“I said no.”
He stops. Turns. Glares.
“You want to walk into this like it’s a choice?” he growls. “You’re not trained for this, Sable. You’re not—”
“Not what?” I snap, jumping to my feet. “Not strong enough? Not tough enough? I’m sorry I’m not a walking armory like you, Voltar, but this is my life we’re planning around. I get a say.”
He closes the distance fast, looming. “You get more than a say. You get me, damn it. That used to mean something.”
I flinch. Just a little.
His face falls. “Shit. I didn’t mean—”
“Too late,” I breathe.
Silence. Ugly and raw.
Then I chuck my compad at the couch. “I’m tired of hiding. Tired of letting people shove me in closets while they go off and fight for me like I’m some breakable thing. I’m done.”
His nostrils flare. “You think this is about you being weak? This is about me not wanting to zip you into a body bag. You think I can watch that happen and keep breathing?”
“I didn’t ask you to save me!”
“No,” he growls, “but you let me.”
I shove him.
He doesn't budge.
I shove harder. “Why does this matter so much to you?”
He doesn’t answer.
Just grabs me.
Hard.
And then we’re kissing—violent, angry, teeth-clashing messy.
There’s no grace in it. No pretense. Just heat and rage and the terrifying weight of maybe loving someone who could be ripped from you tomorrow.
He backs me into the wall. I pull at his jacket. We crash together like a storm.
But we don’t make love.
We just kiss. And claw. And clutch.
Until we’re too tired to fight.
He sinks onto the edge of the bed. I curl up across the room, back pressed to the cold wall. Neither of us speaks. Neither of us dares.
Eventually, I climb into bed. We lie back to back.
Not touching.
Not breathing right.
Too scared to face what this means.
Too scared to name it.
In the dark, I whisper, “I’m still not going to the safehouse.”
He exhales slow. “Then we make it work.”
I blink into the blackness.
“New plan,” he murmurs. “We bait Tugun. Use the chip. Drop a hint through the old channel. Let him think he’s one step ahead.”
“And when he bites?”
“We pull him in close.”
“And then?”
He doesn’t answer for a long time.
Then: “Then we kill him.”
I close my eyes.
Morning comes like a slap. Harsh light, stale breath, the cold bite of reality.
Voltar’s already up, hunched over the table with a cup of something strong. I pad over, arms crossed.
“You still mad?” I ask.
He looks up. “Still worried.”
I nod.
“Good.”
Then, without a word, we start building the trap.