Page 16

QUINN

I walk through the winding paths of the Dome of Repose, my fingers brushing against exotic leaves and flowers. The scent of alien blossoms fills the air, sweet and heady. Water trickles somewhere nearby, a peaceful sound that does nothing to calm my racing thoughts.

The negotiations are stalled. Kallus sits smug and self-satisfied while Zantress grows increasingly desperate. And me? I'm distracted by thoughts of red scales and purple eyes.

Last night was supposed to be simple. A release. Sex as stress relief—something to clear my head so I could focus on saving an entire moon of pacifists from corporate exploitation.

Instead, I'm worse off than before.

I pause beside a small pond where luminescent fish dart beneath lily pads. My reflection ripples back at me, distorted and uncertain.

"You're a professional," I whisper to myself. "Act like it."

But Varnok isn't just a fling anymore. The way he looked at me this morning—like I was something precious, something worth protecting beyond just professional duty—it made my chest ache.

I close my eyes and lean against the railing. For a moment, I swear I can feel him—his frustration, his determination, a flash of pain so sharp it makes me gasp.

Is this what happens when you let someone in? This strange connection, this feeling of another presence inside your mind?

My father would have laughed at me. "Quinnie," he'd say, "you're overthinking again." Then he'd ruffle my hair and tell me to trust my instincts.

But my instincts led me straight into Varnok's arms, and now I can't think straight. If I let myself care too much, if I let myself believe we could be more than just a diplomatic fling...

I'd lose him. Just like I lost Dad.

Just like the Solari are going to lose their moon.

The thought ignites a flash of anger. I reach down, grab a smooth stone from the decorative border of the path, and hurl it as hard as I can into the dense foliage.

There's no sound of impact. No rustle of leaves. Nothing.

Then, a figure emerges from between the fronds of a massive fern. A Vakutan, scales black as obsidian, holding my stone between two clawed fingers.

"For a second, I thought you aimed this at me on purpose," he says with a smile that sends ice down my spine.

I take a step back. This isn't right. Security should have flagged an unauthorized Vakutan in the dome. The way he's looking at me—predatory, calculating—makes my skin crawl.

"Who are you?" I keep my voice steady despite the alarm bells ringing in my head.

He sighs dramatically, rolling the stone between his fingers.

"Bored," he says. "My partner got the fun assignment of taking out your bodyguard.

I'm stuck with a weak human..." He looks me up and down with contempt.

"And a female at that. Tell you what, I'll give you a twenty second head start to make it more fun. "

My blood freezes. Varnok. They're after Varnok.

I stand rooted to the spot, mind racing. The Dome is nearly empty at this hour. Security is focused on the entrances, not the interior. No one knows I'm here except?—

"Twenty," the Vakutan begins counting, his voice casual. "Nineteen..."

I fumble for my compad, fingers trembling as I try to send an emergency alert. The screen flashes red: SIGNAL BLOCKED.

"Eighteen... seventeen..."

I spin and run, my formal shoes slipping on the polished path. I dart around a massive potted tree, down a side path lined with bioluminescent fungi. The dome is a maze of greenery, and I have no idea if I'm heading toward an exit or deeper into isolation.

"Sixteen... fifteen..."

His voice carries easily through the garden. He's not even trying to chase me yet.

I duck behind a waterfall feature, my breath coming in quick gasps. Think, Quinn. Think.

Varnok is in danger. The sharp pain I felt earlier—was that him? Is he already hurt?

"Fourteen... thirteen..."

I slip off my shoes, clutching one in my hand. Not much of a weapon, but better than nothing. The heel is metal-tipped and pointed.

"Twelve... eleven..."

My thoughts aren't on my own survival. They're on Varnok. Where is he? Is he alive? The connection I felt earlier—I reach for it now, desperate for any sense of him.

There. Faint but present. Determination. Pain. He's alive.

"Ten... nine..."

I move again, keeping low, following the curve of the path toward what I hope is the main exit. If I can reach the security station?—

"Eight... seven..."

The counting is closer now. He's tracking me, taking his time. Playing with his food.

I spot a maintenance door half-hidden behind a trellis of climbing vines. I dart toward it, yank it open, and slip inside.

It's dark. The air smells of soil and fertilizer. I feel my way forward, bumping into shelves of gardening supplies.

"Six... five..."

His voice is muffled through the door, but still audible. Still coming.

My hand closes around something solid—a garden trowel. I grip it tightly, backing deeper into the shed.

"Four... three..."

The maintenance door creaks open. Light spills in, silhouetting the massive Vakutan.

"Two... one..." He chuckles. "Ready or not, here I come."

I raise the trowel, heart hammering in my chest. But all I can think is: Varnok, please be alive. Please find me.

The Vakutan steps into the shed, his eyes gleaming in the darkness.

"There you are," he says. "Now the fun begins."

A blur of red scales crashes into the shed, slamming the assassin against a wall of gardening supplies. Tools clatter to the ground as Var and the black-scaled Vakutan collide in a tangle of limbs and snarls.

"Quinn! Run!" Var shouts, his massive fist connecting with the assassin's jaw.

But I can't move. My eyes lock on the dark stain spreading across Var's abdomen. Blood—his blood—soaking through his clothing. The wound is deep, and he's already lost too much.

"You're hurt," I whisper, though neither Vakutan can hear me over their combat.

They fight like titans, smashing through shelves and equipment. The black-scaled assassin moves with predatory grace, while Var's movements are powerful but sluggish. He's injured, weakening with each passing second.

The assassin notices too. His reptilian eyes narrow, calculating, and he begins targeting Var's wound with vicious precision. Each blow to Var's abdomen makes him roar in pain, makes me flinch as if I can feel it too.

"Not so mighty now, Annihilator," the assassin taunts, driving a knee into Var's wound.

Var doubles over, purple eyes clouding with pain. Blood drips onto the floor, forming a small pool at his feet.

Something inside me snaps.

I scramble across the floor, grabbing the first substantial tool I can find—a three-pronged cultivator with a long metal handle. It's heavy in my hands, but anger makes me strong.

"Get away from him!" I scream, charging forward.

The assassin turns, surprised by my attack. I drive the tines toward his face with every ounce of strength I possess. The metal connects with his scales and—shatters. The prongs break off, leaving me holding nothing but a useless handle.

The assassin's laugh is cold and cruel. "Is this your backup plan, Annihilator? A tiny human with a garden tool?"

Before I can react, his hand connects with my face. The force of the blow sends me flying across the shed. My back slams against the wall, and pain explodes through my body. I slide down to the floor, the world spinning around me.

Through blurred vision, I see Var's face transform. The pain in his eyes shifts to something primal, something terrifying. His lips pull back from his teeth in a snarl that makes my blood run cold.

"You. Touched. Her." Each word emerges as a guttural growl.

The assassin doesn't have time to respond. Var launches himself forward with renewed strength, moving so fast he's almost a blur. His massive hands grip the assassin's shoulders, and there's a sickening crack as he twists the Vakutan's head with brutal force.

The assassin's body goes limp, head facing backward, eyes staring blankly at nothing.

Var drops the corpse and staggers toward me, collapsing to his knees at my side. His breathing is labored, his scales pale.

"Quinn," he gasps, cradling my face with surprising gentleness. "Are you alright?"

I try to nod, but the movement sends pain shooting through my skull. "You're bleeding out," I whisper, reaching for his wound.

"It's nothing," he lies, his massive body swaying slightly.

I try to sit up and immediately regret it as the shed spins around me. "We need to get help."

"I've had worse," Var insists, though his voice is weaker than I've ever heard it.

Despite his injury, he gathers me into his arms and struggles to his feet. I can feel his body trembling with the effort, feel the warm stickiness of his blood against my side.

"All you ever do is carry me around," I mumble groggily against his chest.

He lets out a pained chuckle. "It's a job."

We both laugh, then groan simultaneously as the movement aggravates our injuries.

"We should get ourselves some medical attention," Var admits, leaning heavily against the doorframe.

I rest my head against his shoulder, breathing in his scent. Even bleeding and battered, he makes me feel safe. "Var," I whisper, "who sent them?"

His arms tighten around me. "Kallus," he growls. "It has to be."

The name ignites fresh anger in my chest. "We need proof."

"What we need is a doctor," Var counters, stumbling out of the shed and into the garden. "Then we can worry about bringing Kallus down."

As he carries me through the lush pathways of the Dome, I feel his strength fading. Each step is slower than the last, his breathing growing more labored.

"Put me down," I insist. "You're making your injury worse."

"And let you walk with a concussion?" He shakes his head stubbornly. "Not happening."

"We're quite the pair," I murmur, fighting to stay conscious. "The diplomat and the destroyer."

His chest rumbles with another painful laugh. "We make it work."

And despite everything—the pain, the danger, the impossible situation—I find myself smiling against his scales. Maybe we do.