Chapter 20
SABLE
Something’s wrong.
I know it before I open my eyes. Before my compad chimes. Before the city’s light pollution starts leaking through the slats of my blinds like cheap perfume.
The air feels off. Too still. The silence in my apartment isn’t peaceful—it’s suffocating. Like the building itself is holding its breath.
I roll out of bed in a T-shirt and nothing else, pulse already climbing. The floor’s cold under my feet. Voltar’s not back yet—he said he had a “thing,” which, in his language, could mean anything from a classified recon mission to hunting a rat in the alley for fun.
He didn’t specify, and I didn’t ask. Maybe I should have.
The hallway is dim, the soft red security glow barely illuminating the path to the front door. I listen. Nothing. No hovercars outside. No clack of boots from the patrol posted outside.
It’s too quiet.
Way too quiet.
I move to the kitchen, fingers brushing the counter where Voltar left his half-eaten protein bar and—of course—his anti-personnel grenade. Just sitting there like a casual centerpiece.
The hairs on the back of my neck stand straight up.
That’s when I see it.
The door.
Unlocked.
I never leave the door unlocked. Voltar never lets it be unlocked.
And yet there it is, sealed shut, yes—but blinking with the faint blue hue that means no active security seal. That would mean the guards didn’t arm the perimeter when they came on shift tonight.
Or they didn’t get the chance.
My throat tightens.
I turn slowly. Just enough to catch it out of the corner of my eye.
There, in the living room, casually lounging on my egg chair like he owns the lease—Tugun.
I freeze.
He’s not pretending to be a cat this time.
No—this time, he’s dressed like he just stepped out of a galactic couture editorial spread.
Shimmering mesh wraps his long limbs like silver mist, layered beneath deep-indigo robes with patterns that shift when he moves—planets, comets, whole constellations scrolling across the fabric like an open sky.
His high collar fans around his neck like the petals of some carnivorous flower.
And that lapel pin—stars above—it gleams with such arrogant intent it could blind a bishop.
He even has matching boots.
Galaxy tone.
Real leather, probably illegal.
My mouth goes dry. I grip the edge of the kitchen island to keep from screaming or throwing up or both.
“You really must admire my restraint,” Tugun says, smooth as silk and sin. He reaches up to adjust the ridiculous lapel pin with a dainty flick of his fingers. “I could’ve slit your throat hours ago.”
“Please,” I say flatly. “You’d never risk bleeding on those robes.”
He smirks. “You know me so well.”
I don't move. Don’t blink. Just… assess. The kitchen is maybe five feet from the breadbox. The blaster’s still inside. Assuming he didn’t disable it.
Assuming he even cares.
My voice comes out hoarse. “How did you get past the guards?”
He sighs. “Sable. Darling. Do you really think Alliance law enforcement is a match for me? I’m a shapeshifter with thirty-seven confirmed kills and impeccable taste.
I didn’t kill them, if that’s what you’re wondering.
Just… stunned. Discreetly. I respect your aesthetic too much to leave bodies on the rug. ”
“Oh, so considerate,” I mutter.
He rises slowly, movements precise, and starts strolling toward me like this is some sort of runway and not my death scene.
I take a step back. “What do you want?”
He stops, cocking his head like a confused bird. “To talk, obviously. You’re not even offering tea? Hospitality really is dead on Novaria.”
“Tugun,” I whisper, my grip white-knuckled on the counter, “if you’re going to kill me, just do it. I’m done playing this game.”
His face twists. Not with anger—worse. With disappointment.
“Oh please,” he murmurs. “Don’t be so dramatic.”
He closes the last few feet between us and leans against the kitchen counter, looking down at his own reflection in the steel surface like he’s bored.
“Voltar offered me the credits,” he says.
I blink.
“…What?”
“Voltar,” he repeats, inspecting his cuticles. “Your bulky, shouty boyfriend. Surprisingly clever, actually. Underneath all the testosterone and shoulder plates.”
I stare at him. “He… what? Paid you?”
Tugun smiles. “To start my own fashion line.”
My mouth falls open.
He continues, utterly unfazed. “Do you have any idea how hard it is to fund bespoke tailoring in this economy? Honestly, the Nine pay in blood and whispers. Otto thinks ‘bespoke’ means stretchy waistbands. It’s criminal.
I’ve been sewing my own pieces for decades—hand-stitching, dear. With claws. That’s commitment.”
“You’re lying.”
“I never lie,” he says indignantly. “I omit, mislead, distract—never lie. There’s a difference.”
I take a shaky breath, trying to catch up.
“He bribed you… not to kill me.”
“Bribed?” He scoffs. “He invested. Fashion is an industry, darling. And Voltar—well. He gets me.”
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“It doesn’t have to. All it has to be is profitable.”
He steps closer again, too close, the scent of expensive cologne and lethal professionalism wrapping around me like smoke. His eyes narrow just slightly.
“I’m not going to kill you,” he says. “Not now.”
“That’s comforting.”
“But consider this…” He leans in until I can feel the heat radiating off his skin. “This is your warning, Sable Jackson. The Nine won’t stop. Otto is… petulant. And patient. He’ll send others. Eventually, someone without a sense of style.”
He straightens, brushing imaginary dust off his sleeve.
“Cherish the time you have,” he says softly. “The credits only delay the inevitable.”
I swallow. My mouth tastes like battery acid.
Tugun turns, graceful as always, and walks toward the window.
“Voltar’s instincts were right,” he says, not turning around. “You are worth protecting.”
And then—
—he vanishes.
A blink of starlight, a puff of steam. Gone.
The apartment’s silent again, but it feels like my walls are vibrating from the echo of him.
My hands are shaking. My knees almost buckle. I bolt.
I don’t even grab shoes. I run.
I’m down the stairs and out the door before I register the sting of concrete against my bare feet. My compad is clutched in my hand, trembling fingers stabbing at the call log.
“Come on, come on, come on—”
The tone beeps twice.
Then—
“Voltar!” I gasp, half-sobbing, half-screaming into the receiver as I sprint barefoot into the neon-lit night.
“It’s Tugun. He was here. In the apartment.
He said you paid him off. He said he’s not gonna kill me yet but—stars, I don’t even know what’s happening!
I’m in the street—I’m running—where are you? !”
There’s silence.
Then his voice crackles through like thunder wrapped in velvet.
“Sable. Stop running.”
“I can’t—”
“I’m coming to you. Now. You’re not alone.”
I can’t make myself stop, though. I keep right on going. I’m barefoot, gasping, sprinting down the wet pavement like a lunatic.
Every broken bit of gravel digs into the soft meat of my feet. Rain from earlier slicks the sidewalk, and I almost go down twice—once near a vendor cart that smells like fried despair, and again when my compad slips in my grip and I lunge to catch it mid-run.
Voltar’s voice still echoes in my ear.
“Sable. Stop running.”
I don’t.
Can’t.
My pulse is a freight train. My lungs feel like they’re trying to claw their way out of my ribs. Every time I blink I see Tugun’s eyes—those shimmering, half-lidded predator eyes set in a face too pretty for how casually it talks about murder.
He was in my apartment.
My bedroom, probably. Breathing my air. Moving things. Maybe sitting on the couch I binge dramas on when I’m too tired to think. The same couch Voltar swore he’d “rigged like a war fortress with concealed plasma netting.”
And somehow, Tugun still got in. Still got out.
Unscathed.
Mocking.
I don’t even realize I’m sobbing until I try to breathe and it comes out choked, my body hitching like it’s fighting itself. I lurch forward, one hand on a building wall to steady myself. Neon halos blur through tears. The street spins. A hovercar honks in the distance, angry and irrelevant.
Then—suddenly—I’m off the ground.
Lifted.
Crushed against heat and armor and the sound of a familiar growl.
“I’ve got you.”
Voltar’s voice isn’t loud this time. It’s a whisper into the crown of my hair, low and steady, vibrating through my whole body like a battle hymn sung just for me.
My feet leave the pavement entirely, tucked up instinctively.
His arms wrap around me like he’s building a fortress with muscle and skin.
My arms are already clinging to him, my face buried under his collar where his skin meets armor, where he smells like ozone and scorched metal and something primal I can’t name.
I don’t care if the street is watching.
I cling.
Hard.
His breathing is calm. Slower than mine. Controlled. “It’s alright. I’m here.”
“He was there,” I whisper against his neck. “He said you paid him off. He looked like a—like a damn galaxy catalogue exploded all over him and he monologued at me like a villain on intermission. He didn’t even touch me, Voltar. That’s the worst part. He just—talked.”
Voltar doesn’t answer. Doesn’t need to. He just holds me tighter. My body starts to sync with his—heartbeat for heartbeat, breath for breath—like gravity finally remembered which way is down.
Minutes pass.
Or hours.
When I pull back, he’s already checking me over—eyes roaming like scanner beams, thumbs brushing along my jaw, my arms, my ribs. He sees everything.
“Barefoot?” he says, tone disapproving but soft.
“I panicked.”
“You didn’t panic. You ran. That’s different.” He cups my cheek, golden eyes blazing. “And smart. You got away.”
He lowers me slowly, making sure my feet touch down like I’m glass. I hiss when my heel makes contact—small cuts and bruises are already blooming, angry and raw.
Voltar scowls. Without asking, he scoops me up again.