I scoff. “I hate you.”
Lonari’s eyes flicker with something almost like warmth. “No you don’t.”
My cheeks heat. I hate that too.
He starts toward the door, then pauses and looks back at me.
“Jordan,” he says quietly.
“Yeah?”
His voice is low, rough, honest in the way he only gets when he’s not performing. “You did good.”
My throat tightens again.
I blink hard, because I’m not crying. I’m not.
“Yeah,” I whisper. “So did you.”
Lonari nods once, then leaves, and the door hisses shut behind him.
The medbay hums.
My wound throbs.
And somewhere in the ship, Morazin is screaming into restraints while the galaxy starts chewing on the truth like it’s a bone it didn’t know it was starving for.
I stare at the ceiling and let myself feel one terrifying thought:
I’m not alone in this anymore.
And that might be the most dangerous thing of all.
CHAPTER 20
LONARI
The Nun’s Tooth smells like new steel and old violence.
It’s not my home the way the Defrocked Nun is—no velvet rot, no perfume over blood, no casino music trying to seduce you into thinking you’re safe. This ship is honest. It reeks of coolant and engine heat and gun oil. It vibrates with purpose. Every bulkhead feels like it was built to take a punch and keep moving.
I like it.
I don’t have time to enjoy it.
I stride out of the medbay corridor and the ship meets me with noise: comm pings, footsteps, orders barked low and fast. My crews are moving like a machine that’s been kicked into higher gear. Down the hall, I hear Morazin screaming again—muffled through containment bay doors, raw and furious.
Good.
Let him waste air.
Renn falls into step beside me, compad in hand, eyes sharp. “Boss. Gur’s holding.”
“Because Fyr’s scared enough to be useful,” I reply.
Renn’s mouth tightens. “He’s doing more than holding. He’s enforcing. Arrests, not executions. Civilians are noticing.”
That matters.
