Chapter 18
VOLTAR
She’s pale—too pale.
The medpod hums with sterile efficiency, blue light dancing over her skin, painting her like glass. Tubes run from her arm to a nutrient drip. A monitor pulses above her head, charting her every breath like it’s something fragile. Like she might shatter if it blinks too fast.
I sit. I don’t move.
Haven’t in hours.
They tried to get me to leave. A nurse. Then Lazarus. Then someone higher up with a badge and a rank who clearly didn’t understand what it meant to love someone like her.
I growled. Bared teeth. Nobody's tried since.
The chair creaks under me, too small for my frame, but I don't care. My knees are drawn up, elbows resting on them, one hand clenched tight into the other. My armor still smells like smoke and blood and ozone. Hers. Tugun’s. Mine.
The rage won’t leave. It sits just behind my eyes, twitching. Ready to tear through anyone who speaks too loud.
But when I look at her... it quiets. Just a little.
Sable.
My flame-haired fighter. My foul-mouthed stylist with nerves of titanium and a kiss that ruins me.
She sleeps with her mouth slightly parted, a frown etched between her brows like she’s still fighting whatever hell her body’s dragging her through. She’d hate that I’m watching her like this—weak, exposed.
But she’s never been weak.
Not once.
And gods help the next person who says otherwise.
The door hisses open behind me.
“Voltar,” Lazarus says, voice low. Careful. “She’s stable. The nanites and regeneration matrix will have her on her feet by tomorrow. You, on the other hand, look like shit. You need rest.”
I don’t even look at him. “I said I’m not leaving.”
A pause. Then footsteps retreat. Smart man.
Minutes stretch. Hours bend.
Then she moves.
Just a twitch at first. A flicker of lashes. Her head shifts against the pod’s cushion. My whole body tenses, breath caught in my throat like a punch that never lands.
Her lips part again, and her voice—raspy, barely there—cracks the silence.
“Still here?”
I lean forward so fast the chair groans. My hand finds hers, dwarfs it.
“Always.”
Her eyelids flutter, half-mast, hazy with painkillers and exhaustion. I brush a lock of tangled red hair from her forehead, gentle as I can. My fingertips tremble. I hate it.
She looks at me. Really looks. That blue fire, dulled but not out.
“I should’ve stopped him,” I murmur, ashamed. “I knew he was fast. Knew he’d bolt. I should’ve—”
Her fingers, bruised and stiff, wrap around my wrist. She’s weak. But her grip is solid. Willful.
“We both knew the risks,” she whispers. “Don’t you dare blame yourself.”
I shake my head. “You almost died.”
She blinks slow, exhaling through her nose. “Then next time… we make sure nobody else does.”
Her grip tightens. Surprising. Fierce.
“Don’t wall up on me now, Voltar. I need you with me. Not protecting me. With me.”
I nod. Can’t speak. There’s something in my throat, thick and hot.
She lays back, eyes fluttering again, but not all the way shut.
“You’re not alone anymore,” she murmurs. “So stop acting like it.”
I sit there long after she drifts off again.
Watching her chest rise and fall.
And I make a vow. One deeper than duty. Older than war.
No matter what hell comes next, she won’t face it alone.
Not while I breathe.
The hiss of the medbay door drags me from my thoughts. Again.
This time it’s Lazarus.
He’s not wearing his usual smirk. No clipboard, no tablet. Just a hard glint in his eye and a sliver of something that smells like respect.
“Otto’s getting nervous,” he says without preamble.
I glance at Sable. Still sleeping. Breathing steady. Pale, but stable. My chest loosens a fraction.
Lazarus steps closer. “He’s pushing Tugun harder. Fast-tracking the next move. And our mole says the Syndicate’s started shifting assets off-world.”
I rise, slow, careful not to jostle Sable’s hand in mine. My knuckles crack with tension as I stand to full height.
“They’re pulling out?”
“Not entirely. Just the sensitive bits. Databanks. Personnel with dirt. Quiet relocation. They’re spooked.”
“Good,” I say. The word lands heavy. Like steel dropped on concrete. “Means they know we’re close.”
Lazarus nods. “But Tugun’s still here. Otto’s got him sniffing for weaknesses. And your stunt at the warehouse proved they’re not underestimating her anymore.”
“She’s not the one who should be worried.”
He studies me for a beat. Then sighs. “You want payback.”
I meet his gaze. “I want finality.”
He shifts his weight. “We’ve got protocols—”
“I want a clean hit.”
Lazarus stops. His face goes still.
“No more bait. No more dance. We end this. On our terms. One strike. Fast. Loud. Permanent.”
“You’re not cleared for lethal action.”
I step in. Real close.
“I wasn’t asking.”
There’s a flicker in his eyes. Not fear. Recognition.
He exhales, slow. “You go off-book, and I can’t cover you.”
“Wouldn’t ask you to.”
He looks over at Sable, then back at me. “She’s the reason you’re this wound up.”
“She’s the reason I’m still here.”
For a long second, it’s silent between us.
Then Lazarus reaches into his jacket, pulls out a datachip. Tosses it to me.
“Coordinates. Small station outside Kirellan orbit. Syndicate-run front. Minimal personnel. Big tech transfers scheduled for the next forty-eight.”
I catch the chip and glance at it. “What’s on-site?”
“Some suits. Some muscle. Data core with banking intel. Encryption keys.”
“Explosive?”
Lazarus shrugs. “Depends how loud you want it.”
I smirk. Grim. Cold.
“Oh, I want it loud.”
He turns toward the door. Pauses. Then says, almost reluctantly: “Make it look like an accident.”
I grin, all teeth.
“It’ll be glorious.”
As the door hisses shut behind him, I tuck the chip into my vambrace and turn back to Sable.
Still out. Peaceful.
I brush my thumb across her knuckles.
“Rest up, sweetheart. I’m gonna burn their whole house down.”