Her fear fades in real time.
Not all at once.
Not magically.
But I can see it happening behind her eyes, the way her gaze changes from wary to focused, from braced-for-violence to braced-for-truth.
It terrifies me more than her screaming ever did.
“Get some rest,” I say hoarsely. “We’ll continue tomorrow.”
She nods.
“Okay.”
I stand and turn away before she can say anything else that cracks something open in me I do not have time to deal with.
Behind my ribs, the jalshagar hums low and warm instead of sharp and feral.
For the first time in my life, restraint does not feel like a prison.
It feels like a choice I might be able to keep making.
CHAPTER 9
KIMBERLY
The café Lenara Vox chooses sits three districts away from the safehouse, perched like a glass-and-chrome tumor on the edge of a transit hub that smells faintly of ozone, imported coffee beans, and money that’s never had to think about rent. Artificial waterfalls spill down translucent walls in soft, constant sheets, their white noise engineered to drown out nearby conversations, and every surface gleams with the kind of sterile elegance that exists solely to remind you that you are either rich enough to belong here or decorative enough not to matter.
I clock the exits in under three seconds.
Front door, obviously, all glass and gold trim and a discreet biometric lock that would slow civilians but not anyone who came prepared. Two service corridors behind the bar, one of which smells like citrus cleaner and hot metal and probably leads to a freight elevator. Emergency stairwell concealed behind a wall panel near the restrooms, marked by a barely visible icon in the corner of a holo-ad that cycles luxury watch brands.
Progress.
Tur stays outside, two storefronts down, pretending to study a transit map on a public kiosk while actually scanning thermal signatures and drone reflections in the café’s glass façade. We didn’t argue about that part. He offered to come inside with me, and I said no, and for once he didn’t push it.
My arm aches under the compression wrap, a low, steady burn that flares every time I forget and move it wrong, and my ribs still feel like someone took a hammer to them and then charged interest. I keep my shoulders back anyway, my chin level, my expression bored in the way that reads as expensive confidence if you do it right.
I choose a table with my back to a wall and a clear sightline to every entrance.
Lenara Vox is already there.
She’s tall and sleek and pale in a way that doesn’t look human so much as curated, her skin the color of polished marble and her hair pulled back into a severe knot that makes her cheekbones look like weapons. Data-ink curls like lace along the left side of her throat, fine black script that shifts and reconfigures itself every few seconds in a proprietary cipher that probably says something impressive and illegal.
She doesn’t stand when she sees me.
She doesn’t smile.
She just tilts her head a fraction of an inch, eyes skating over my jacket, my boots, the faint stiffness in my gait.
“Kimberly Fierson,” she says. “You look less dead than I expected.”
I sit.
“High praise,” I reply. “You pick all your meeting spots like villain lairs, or am I just special.”
A corner of her mouth lifts.
