But not forever.
And not much longer.
I close my eyes, breathe Pepper’s scent, and whisper to the dark:
“Come on, Liora. I’m ready when you are.”
CHAPTER 33
LIORA
I’ve practiced this speech so many times the words feel like pebbles rattling in my skull. I’ve rehearsed in the shower, over the sink, in the car, pacing the hall, even whispering to the dish sponge like a lunatic. Every version sounds terrible. Every one ends with me choking on my own guilt.
But today… it feels like maybe I can do it.
Pepper’s at school. The apartment is blissfully quiet. Morning light spills across the countertop in a warm stripe. The air smells like citrus cleaner and the faint sweetness of pastry crumbs I forgot to sweep up. And Gyon—my impossible, infuriating, patient mountain of a man—is in my kitchen making tea like he’s been doing it his whole life.
A Reaper. Making chamomile.
I watch him from the living room doorway. His broad back turned, muscles shifting under a too-tight shirt he insists isn’t too tight. The kettle clicks, steam curls, and he reaches for two cups—mine with the chipped blue rim, his with the crack he pretends not to notice.
This… is the moment. The universe practically laid out a red carpet, sprinkled rose petals, and said,Just tell him, you coward.
I inhale. My heart slams against my ribs like it wants out. “Gyon,” I start, voice quiet but steady. “There’s something I need?—”
My comm shrieks.
Not rings.Shrieks.
An alarm tone I’ve never heard. Sharp. Metallic. Bureaucratic.
My stomach drops.
“Oh gods, what now?” I fumble for the device on the coffee table, hands suddenly clumsy.
Gyon turns slightly. “Liora?” His brow furrows. He knows that sound. Of course he does. Warriors always know the sound of trouble.
I swipe the screen open.
A red banner fills my vision. Government seal stamped in the corner. IHC priority flag. Official notice. The text punches me in the face all at once.
INTERPLANETARY HUMAN COUNCIL NOTICE
NON-CITIZEN REAPER: GYON OF HOUSE RAEKOR
MANDATORY REPORT FOR DEPORTATION PROCEEDINGS. NO EXCEPTIONS.
My breath stops working.
“No,” I whisper. “No. No. No, this isn’t—this can’t—” My hand shakes so hard I nearly drop the comm.
Gyon sets the kettle down so fast the metal clangs. “What is that?” He strides toward me, voice low and edged. “Liora. What does it say?”
I hold the message in my hands like a detonator. The screen’s glow is harsh in the dim studio apartment—orange street-lights leaking through half-broken blinds, the hum of the image-inducer in the next room, the faint scent of syrup from Pepper’s bedtime snack lingering on my fingers. I hold it out tohim: the official IHC notice I swallowed down over breakfast, the legal hammer waiting to fall.
Gyon stands in the kitchen doorway. Soft light on half his face, half in shadow. His tea cup still warm in his hand. The steam curls up, making his profile flicker. I watch his features. His face doesn’t change—stone, impassive—but I see the tension: jaw locked tight, muscles under his skin rippled, eyes like black obsidian. The green glow of the inducer hum in his peripheral vision. The world hums with normal suburbia calm. But this moment? It feels seismic.
I swallow, voice thin. “This—this came for you.”
