Voltar’s voice isn’t loud this time. It’s a whisper into the crown of my hair, low and steady, vibrating through my whole body like a battle hymn sung just for me.
My feet leave the pavement entirely, tucked up instinctively. His arms wrap around me like he’s building a fortress with muscle and skin. My arms are already clinging to him, my face buried under his collar where his skin meets armor, where he smells like ozone and scorched metal and something primal I can’t name.
I don’t care if the street is watching.
I cling.
Hard.
His breathing is calm. Slower than mine. Controlled. “It’s alright. I’m here.”
“He wasthere,” I whisper against his neck. “He said you paid him off. He looked like a—like a damn galaxy catalogue exploded all over him and he monologued at me like a villain on intermission. He didn’t eventouchme, Voltar. That’s the worst part. He just—talked.”
Voltar doesn’t answer. Doesn’t need to. He just holds me tighter. My body starts to sync with his—heartbeat for heartbeat, breath for breath—like gravity finally remembered which way is down.
Minutes pass.
Or hours.
When I pull back, he’s already checking me over—eyes roaming like scanner beams, thumbs brushing along my jaw, my arms, my ribs. He sees everything.
“Barefoot?” he says, tone disapproving but soft.
“I panicked.”
“You didn’t panic. You ran. That’s different.” He cups my cheek, golden eyes blazing. “And smart. You got away.”
He lowers me slowly, making sure my feet touch down like I’m glass. I hiss when my heel makes contact—small cuts and bruises are already blooming, angry and raw.
Voltar scowls. Without asking, he scoops me up again.
“Apartment,” he growls.
I don’t argue.
The elevator doorsopen with a hiss that feels too loud. The hallway looks normal.
I know better.
The moment the front door slides aside, I feel it like a slap.
Smoke.
Ash.
Heat.
Voltar steps over the threshold and sets me gently down inside what used to be my home.
Now it looks like a war crime.
The living room’s blackened along the far wall, paint bubbled and furniture charred beyond recognition. The security turret installed above the window is nothing but melted casing and frayed wires. Glass crunches underfoot. My coffee table is… gone. Just gone. Vaporized.
I stagger forward, breath catching.
It’s not just a wreck.
It’s personal.
