Chapter 21
VOLTAR
Lazarus’s voice crackles in my earpiece as the hover rig banks hard left, slicing through the Novarian skyline like a blade through silk.
“You’re ghosted on every grid. Cameras are eating recycled loops from twelve hours ago. This is your window.”
“Copy,” I growl. “Window’s open. We’re going in.”
Sable sits next to me, legs braced wide, fingers flying over her wristpad, eyes narrowed into deadly little slits. No glam tonight. Just matte black armor and a glare that could drop a warlord.
She looks like vengeance. And I’m not ashamed to admit I’d burn planets to keep that fire lit.
I bank the rig once more, nosediving toward Otto’s so-called luxury complex—a fake development called Marquant Heights, which is about as subtle as a neon target on a rotting fish. Grolgath architecture wrapped in corporate gloss. Nothing but reinforced concrete and buried secrets.
“This is it,” I murmur.
Sable nods. “Let’s blow some shit up.”
The landing struts hit the rooftop with a bone-jarring clang. I’m already out, pulse syncing to combat rhythm. The air is damp, tainted with industrial ozone and tension. High-altitude wind whips at us, dragging Sable’s loose armor straps like streamers from a war banner.
I rip the hatch off the roof access door with my bare hands. Metal screams. No alarms—thanks to Lazarus’s ghost signal weaving a digital lullaby across every system in the building.
“This way,” Sable shouts, sliding in first. “Target vault is sub-level three, west wing.”
I follow her into darkness.
The hallways are pure concrete—no pretense of luxury here. This is fortress tech. Hidden cameras. Pressure sensors. Heat signatures.
But Lazarus is a bastard genius.
Every system he loops falls silent beneath our boots.
“This almost feels too easy,” Sable mutters.
“Give it time.”
We don’t have to wait long.
By the time we hit Level 29, the Grolgaths are waiting.
Eight of them.
Built like hover tanks and twice as dumb.
The first charges with a war roar, dual fists swinging. I meet him head-on and plant a fist dead center in his chest. The impact cracks ribs and sends him flying backward into his own team. Two go down like bowling pins.
“Three o’clock!” Sable barks, sliding under a clawed arm and jamming her shock baton into another’s lower spine. He seizes mid-roar and crashes to the ground twitching.
“Thanks, sweetheart.”
“Don’t get cocky.”
Another Grolgath fires a plasma burst.
I dodge the first two, but the third tags me high on the bicep.
Pain lances through my arm like liquid fire. The smell of seared flesh hits me—familiar and nauseating.
I snarl and keep going.
“Voltar—!”
“I’m fine,” I grit out.
Blood runs hot down my side. Doesn’t matter. I rip the blaster from the Grolgath’s claws and use it to beat him unconscious with the butt end.
“Clear,” I pant.
Sable glances at my arm. “That’s not fine.”
“Fix it later.”
She swears under her breath and throws me a field patch. I slap it over the wound and keep moving. No time for weakness. Not now.
The explosions start two floors down.
Controlled charges, just like Lazarus said. He’s breaching walls to create diversions, scattering Otto’s forces like spooked birds. The floor shakes beneath our feet.
“Elevators are dead,” she growls. “Stairs?”
“No time.”
I take three steps back, then charge the nearest wall and slam my shoulder into it.
The concrete cracks, then caves.
Dust erupts like a sandstorm. I feel the wall give way under my weight, and suddenly we’re spilling through to the next corridor like gods with bad manners.
Sable coughs beside me. “You seriously need a therapist.”
“Later.”
We descend through two more levels of chaos.
One of Otto’s secondary squads intercepts us on Level 31—smaller, faster, more tactical. Doesn’t help them.
Sable hacks the floor panel, overloads the lighting grid, and plunges the hallway into strobe-mode hell. I move through it like a predator in a rave, flattening two enforcers before they can blink.
She disables their weapons remotely.
I break their ribs.
Teamwork.
By the time we reach the vault corridor, my armor’s scorched, I’m trailing blood, and Sable’s hair is plastered to her face with sweat. Her eyes blaze.
We round the corner—
And stop.
The vault door is open.
I don’t mean cracked. I mean open. Unsealed. Wide.
Too clean.
Too deliberate.
Sable freezes beside me. “This isn’t right.”
I move past her, weapon drawn, breath tight.
The vault is empty.
Not ‘we-just-got-robbed’ empty.
Sterile.
No dust. No crates. No server racks. Not even scuff marks.
Like nothing was ever stored here at all.
Sable steps in behind me. Her boots click against the pristine floor.
She stares around.
Mouth tight.
Voice hollow.
I lean hard against the wall of the empty vault, breathing through my teeth, fingers sticky with blood.
Sable doesn’t speak. She doesn’t have to. Her silence screams. She’s pacing—tight, controlled, but her limbs twitch at the edges, like she’s holding back the urge to hit something. Or someone. Or me.
We shouldn’t stop moving.
We never stop moving.
But the tremble in my left arm is getting worse. The plasma shot went deeper than I thought.
And I’m leaking all over Otto’s pristine tile.
“You’re bleeding too fast,” she says suddenly, dropping to her knees in front of me, her voice rough.
“I’ve had worse.”
“Don’t give me that soldier crap right now, Voltar.”
I close my eyes for half a beat.
Because yeah. I’m lightheaded.
The pain’s manageable. I’ve trained for worse. But the blood loss is real, and the pounding in my skull has reached a high-frequency buzz.
Sable fumbles at the edge of my armor. “Let me in.”
“I’m fine.”
She doesn’t even dignify it with a reply. Just rips the chestplate free with a grunt, exposing the burned shirt underneath, already soaked dark. The fabric peels like skin. I flinch.
She swears.
“Deep,” she mutters. “It cauterized the top layer, but it’s still bleeding under. Bastard hit your radial artery, I think.”
I laugh. It comes out more like a cough. “Romantic.”
“Shut up.”
She jams the medfoam into the wound. The hiss of the gas spreads cold through the torn muscle, and I groan—half agony, half sweet relief.
“You idiot,” she whispers. “You’re not allowed to die.”
“I’d never,” I rasp. “Too damn stubborn.”
Her face crumples—just for a second. Then she leans in and kisses me.
Hard.
It’s not pretty.
It’s desperate. Wet. Fierce. Her fingers knot in what’s left of my shirt like she’s afraid I’ll vanish.
I kiss her back, because I need to.
More than I need oxygen.
She shifts closer, straddling my lap, thighs bracketing my hips. Her armor scrapes mine, and we both hiss at the contact.
But neither of us pulls away.
The vault’s still trembling from explosions three floors down. But right now, all I hear is the blood in my ears and the hitch in her throat as she kisses down my jaw, across my throat, like she’s trying to memorize me with her mouth.
“Sable,” I whisper, half-warning, half-beg.
She pulls back just far enough to look me in the eyes.
“No regrets.”
I wrap my arms around her waist, groaning when the movement pulls at the fresh medfoam. But I don’t stop.
Because this might be the only moment we get before Otto drops a nuke on the whole building.
And I’m not leaving this life without loving her completely.
Her hands are already working at the plates on my belt, nimble and practiced. She mutters something about “terrible design” as the latch finally gives and the tension in the room shifts from survival to hunger.
I grip the nape of her neck and drag her back down.
This kiss is different.
Slower.
Deeper.
Like apology and promise and goodbye wrapped into one aching press of mouths.
She rolls her hips and I swear I feel my pulse in every inch of me that’s still working.
“You’re too big,” she gasps against my mouth, trembling as she shoves my ruined pants down past my hips. Her hand wraps around my cock—hot, ridged, thick with a faint gold sheen that pulses in rhythm to my heart.
“You’re too small,” I growl, breath hitching as she strokes me.
She grins, biting her lip. “Guess we’re fucked, huh?”
I laugh, then moan as her thumb glides over the head, smearing the drop of slick that’s already escaped.
My cock pulses harder in her grip, ridges flaring, the alien texture making her gasp as she explores every inch of me.
I fumble with her armor next, dragging it off her shoulder. She shimmies, curses, and tosses the plates aside, her undersuit pulled down in one quick slide. Her skin glows pale in the low vault light, flushed pink, breasts rising and falling with every shallow breath.
“You’re gorgeous,” I whisper, hand splayed across her lower back.
“I’m a mess.”
“You’re mine.”
She lowers herself slowly, teasing, guiding me with her hand. The moment I feel her heat—slick and velvet and burning—I nearly lose it.
“Sable…” I growl, eyes squeezed shut.
“I want you inside me.”
And just like that—she’s there.
Tight. Stretching. Wrapping around me like her body was made to fit mine.
We both cry out—her nails digging into my shoulders, my claws curling into her hips.
“You’re too deep,” she breathes, voice breaking. “Oh stars—”
I hold still. Every instinct screams to thrust. To claim. To fuck.
But this isn’t about that. Not just that.
“Tell me to stop,” I whisper, kissing her collarbone.
“Don’t you fucking dare.”
She moves.
Slow at first—testing, adjusting.
Then faster, her hips grinding down as her head falls back. Her pussy clenches around me with every drop of her hips, her rhythm frantic and hungry.
“Voltar—” she gasps, “I’m—”
I kiss her again, swallowing the cry as she starts to come, shaking against my chest, body trembling, her climax ripping through her in waves.
Her pussy milks my cock, tight and wet and perfect, and I can’t hold back anymore. I thrust up into her, hard, fast, rough.
She sobs my name—over and over—and I feel it snap inside me.
I come with a roar, my seed flooding deep, my vision blacking at the edges as the aftershock nearly buckles me.
She slumps against my chest, sweaty and panting.
We’re still in a warzone.
Still bleeding.
But for a few perfect seconds—this vault is heaven.