Page 21 of Gravity of Love


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“Yeah.”

“You think he’s after me?”

“No. He’s after the data. You’re just collateral.”

“Wonderful.”

“We can’t shake him out here. Too many civvies. Need to divert. Fast.”

I grab her hand and yank her through the crowd. She stumbles once—heels not made for this terrain—but I catch her. We pass a vendor shoving glowfruit into customers’ faces, a trio of goblin-kin singing pirate shanties, and a man getting tattooed by a hovering syringe-bot. I clock the perfect spot: a dive bar etched into the ribs of a gutted cargo hauler.

The sign buzzes overhead: HULL BREACH.

Fitting.

I pull her inside.

It’s every bit the hellhole I hoped. Lights dim, booths slick with grime, air thick with sweat and disappointment. A bouncer the size of a boulder nods once, doesn’t stop us. Music thumps—slow, guttural beats you feel more than hear.

“Why here?” she asks under her breath, eyes scanning.

“Because it’s loud and dirty and full of degenerates. Nobody questions weird behavior here.”

“Weird behavior like dragging me into a bar while someone stalks us?”

I nod toward a half-shielded booth with enough angle to see the door and just enough cover to pretend we’re innocents on a date.

“Sit. Act close.”

She hesitates. Then she slinks into the seat, and gods help me, she slips onto my lap like it’s second nature.

“You better have a plan,” she whispers against my ear.

“Working on it.”

“You kiss me right now, and I swear to every deity, I will carve your name into my compad just so I can make a blacklist.”

“You still smell like sugarfruit,” I whisper, brushing my lips just above hers.

Her fingers tangle into the scales at the base of my throat. My whole body tightens, core heat rising like a storm surge.

“Valtron,” she warns.

“I’m not kissing you.”

“Good.”

“I’m just making it look like I might.”

“Well, make it quick—he’s coming in.”

I glance toward the bar’s entrance.

The Odex glides through like a shade. He scans the room, pausing only once—our direction. Just long enough to make the hairs on my nape lift.

“Keep your hands on me,” I murmur.

“What?”