Inside: rows of servers, blinking like eyes in a nest of wires. At the center—a core terminal.
We step in.
And the fire between us—that thing we buried beneath mistrust and pain—burns like it never left.
Not a blaze of comfort.
But of purpose.
Two soldiers.
One war.
And this time, we fight together.
CHAPTER 17
KRISTI
The adrenaline’s still flooding my bloodstream when we push open the rusted door of the safehouse.
It creaks like it hasn’t moved in years—and maybe it hasn’t. The place smells like dust and spice and memory. Old Voreni storage loft, tucked above what used to be a spice mill before the quotas gutted it. The stairs groan under our weight, every step echoing like a warning shot in the dark.
But we made it.
Kenron kicks the door shut behind us. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t need to. The success of the mission hangs between us like smoke—tangible and choking. The data shard’s secure in his chest pocket. The samples are triple-sealed and stored in a cryo-pack I haven’t let go of since we left the council facility.
They’re safe. For now.
But I’m not.
My hands are still shaking, not from fear but from everything else I’ve shoved down since I picked up that damn heat cutter. I slump onto an overturned crate, press the heels of my palms into my eyes.
I can feel his eyes on me.
The scrape of his boots across the floor. The clink of armor unlatching.
Silence.
When I look up, Kenron’s pulling off the last of his gear. His scales catch the dim light filtering through the broken shutters—sweat-slicked, battle-scorched. He stands like he doesn’t know how to relax anymore, tension carved into his shoulders, into the lines around his mouth.
“You’re bleeding,” I say.
He glances at his forearm. Shrugs. “Just a scrape.”
I stand, walk over, catch his arm before he can pull away. The cut is shallow but angry—split just beneath the scale.
“You need to clean it.”
“So do you,” he says, nodding toward my cheek.
I’d forgotten about that. The scrape from where I dove behind the server panel.
Kenron turns toward an old utility sink in the corner, opens a crate marked MEDSUP. Somehow, it’s still stocked. He sets out the basics—wipes, bandages, disinfectant.
I follow.
We work in silence again, but it’s different now. Not avoidance. Not resentment.
