“Don’t sell yourself short,” she says, dry. “You’ve got great cheekbones.”
My mouth twitches. “I need someone who can counter her narrative. Someone with presence. Mystery. Fear.”
“And you think that’s me.”
“I think the Butcher hasn’t been seen in years. I think her showing up now would rattle Marj’s grip.”
She leans forward, elbows on knees, grin sharp. “And what if I’m not the Butcher?”
I meet her stare, level and unmoved. “Then I guess we’re both dead.”
That surprises her.
She laughs—short, real, surprised. “That’s your plan?”
“It’s honest.”
She watches me, eyes darker now. More focused. Like she’s re-evaluating the whole room, the whole ship, the whole mess we’re in.
Finally, she nods. “I like honest.”
I say nothing. Because if I open my mouth now, it’ll be more than honesty that spills out.
Instead, I watch her as she turns toward the window, her body lit in soft pulses by the instrument panel glow. She’s quiet again, but not like before. This time there’s weight behind it. Thought. Strategy.
She’s hiding something.
But she’s still here.
And in this galaxy, showing up counts for more than anyone likes to admit.
I tap a final sequence into the console, setting course markers and threat alerts. But my attention keeps sliding back to her. The shape of her shoulders. The stillness in her spine. The way she breathes through tension without letting it show.
Whatever she is—Butcher, con, or something else entirely—I’ve already committed.
She’s in.
Which means she’s under my protection.
CHAPTER 10
ROXY
The second the bathroom door seals behind me, I lock it. Twice. My fingers tremble on the panel like they’ve got their own goddamn agenda, jittering between panic and instinct. The low mechanicalclickof the lock settles into my spine like a temporary shield.
I let out a breath I didn’t know I’d been holding.
It fogs in front of me.
The lights in here are dim, sterile, buzzing faintly like everything aboard this ship has seen better days but refuses to admit it. The walls are brushed steel, cold and clean. Too clean. The air smells like recycled water and antiseptic. No perfume. No skin. No warmth.
It doesn’t smell like anyone lives here.
I lean over the narrow sink and stare at my reflection. Pale. Wide-eyed. My pupils blown out with adrenaline, sweat prickling behind my ears. I look like a woman who just stepped off the edge of a cliff and only now realized there’s no ground underneath.
I grip the sides of the sink. My knuckles go white.
What the fuck am I doing?
