She works fast, efficient. No wasted motion. Her fingers tremble, but only a little.
“You’re good at this,” I mutter.
She snorts. “I took a trauma aid course. Once. For a segment.”
“Remind me to thank your producer.”
Silence stretches as she patches the wound, her touch softer now. She won’t meet my eyes.
“You’re gonna get me killed,” she murmurs.
I reach for her hand, catch her wrist before she pulls away. “Then I’ll die keeping you alive.”
She freezes.
That moment holds—like breath, like gravity, like fire waiting to burn.
And I know.
She’s not walking away from me this time.
Neither of us is.
CHAPTER 6
RHEA
The world feels like it's holding its breath, and I’m right there with it.
We’re stuffed in the belly of a rust-riddled civilian transport, wedged shoulder to shoulder with drifters and traders, miners and old-timers with stories soaked in whiskey and regret. Valtron’s hunched awkwardly beside me, trying to make his seven-and-a-half-foot frame disappear, which is like asking a solar flare to dim. Every inch of him radiates heat and tension and the kind of suppressed power that makes people glance twice before pretending they didn’t see him at all.
The hum of the engines thrums low in my bones. I smell rust, sweat, cheap engine oil, and over-worn filter masks. Somewhere up front, a kid coughs, hacking like she’s inhaled half a desert. Valtron shifts beside me and the entire bench groans in protest. A nearby merchant flinches but says nothing. He doesn’t want trouble. He definitely doesn’t wantthiskind of trouble.
I glance at Valtron. His hood is low, his posture compact, but I see the slow flex of his jaw, the flicker in his golden eyes. His fingers curl around his ID chip like it might bite him. Not a good sign.
Border patrol drones drift by the outside of the hull—silver glints through the viewport, smooth and silent and watching. They pass, one by one. Then a smaller one drifts close. Too close. It halts near our window, hovers with a curious whine.
The drone’s scanner pulses. Blue. Blue. Pause.
Blue. Red—no, wait, it flickers back to blue.
I feel sweat bead at the back of my neck, itching under my collar. The woman next to me mutters a prayer. The man behind us shifts something under his coat—weapon? Contraband? Don’t know, don’t care. The drone zips away, finally satisfied.
My lungs inflate for the first time in what feels like a full minute. I exhale slow.
“Valtron…” I murmur.
“I know.”
The transport jolts forward again, lurching over uneven grav-plates. The woman’s kid coughs harder. I wrap my jacket tighter around myself, pretending it’s warmth, pretending everything isn’t fraying at the edges. The transport's lights flicker, and everyone pretends not to notice.
When we finally dock, the air that hits me smells like metal and ionized dust. Like something burnt and abandoned. Vorthys Orbit—the edge of Alliance territory. Not technically off-limits, but only the desperate and the dirty come here.
Valtron steers me through the exit ramp without a word. His hand is firm against the small of my back, and I pretend I don’t feel the electric jolt it sends up my spine. It’s not the time. It’s never the time.
The outpost we walk into is a graveyard of secrets. Rust-eaten walls. Flickering lights. A main corridor so narrow even Valtron has to duck. “Black motel,” they call it. Temporary beds for fugitives and fixers and people who need to disappear.
We’re shown to a room that smells like coolant leaks and mold. No windows. One door. A single bulb sways overhead, flickering with every breath.
