But all I can do is nod.
Because my throat is tight. My chest is on fire. And inside me, something massive and ancient is thrashing like a warbeast trying to break loose.
She stands, brushing off imaginary dust from her dress. She doesn’t look away, though. Her fingers trail along my shoulder as she steps past me, light as a breath.
“Good night, Voltar,” she murmurs.
It’s the softest she’s ever said my name.
I don’t move until I hear the rooftop door hiss shut behind her.
Then I exhale like I’ve been punched in the lungs.
What the hell just happened?
I stay sitting on that rooftop for longer than I should. The night air creeps colder around me, but I barely register it. My mind’s still stuck on her mouth, the way it molded to mine like we were built for this exact collision. Her scent—vanilla and ozone. Her heartbeat, frantic against my chest.
I should be thrilled. Grinning like a lunatic. And part of me is. But underneath the buzz, there’s a growl I can’t silence. Something old and ugly twisting in my gut.
Need.
Not want. I know want. Want is easy. Want is flesh and impulse and adrenaline after a battle.
This is need.
And I don’t like it.
I head back down to the loft once I’m sure she’s asleep. The lights are dim, casting long shadows that flicker with every blink of the security panel. I pace. All my weapons are cleaned and stashed. My armor’s in perfect alignment on the gear bench. There’s nothing to do. Nothing to fight.
Except myself.
I’ve had women. Casual flings on leave. A few entanglements that fizzled when deployment came calling. They were nice. Some were fun. None were Sable.
Because I’ve neverneededsomeone to see me before.
She saw something today. Something I didn’t know I had left to be seen.
And stars help me, I want her to keep seeing it.
But I’m not… built for this. I’m a living wrecking ball. A blood-stained footnote in a dozen military tribunals. I’m a blunt instrument who thinks in tactics, not tenderness.
So how the hell do I not screw this up?
I drop into the gravity hammock and immediately bounce out of it again, nerves too hot for stillness. My feet hit the floor with a dull thud and I’m pacing again, arms folded tight like I’m holding myself together. Because if I let go, I’ll either punch a hole through the wall or throw myself into her bed just to be near her.
Neither option seems like the right move.
“I need to be better,” I mutter, running both hands over my face.
No one's ever made me want tobeanything. Not really. Not more. Just stronger. Meaner. Louder. A bigger warhead on legs.
But she deserves more. Hell, sheismore.
So I’ll figure it out. Learn what she needs. What I need to be.
I’m still pacing when my compad pings.
“Voltar.” It’s Lazarus. Of course it’s Lazarus. The universe has a hell of a sense of timing.
