When she steps out of a sleek black autocar, one of the last to arrive, my heart dances a staccato beat—then nearly stops completely when I register what she’s wearing. Holy hell, Dimples. She’s in a long, slinky lavender dress lined on the inside of the skirt with electric lights, which flash and twinkle through a slit that runs all the way up her thigh every time she moves. It’s cut low and fitted, with layers of fringe that hearken back to the old-fashioned flapper dresses on ancient Earth. Her dress shines amethyst on the pavement below her when she walks, and she’s in a pair of heels that would make a runway model blanch. She must be nearly as tall as me in those things.
The fiber optics are woven through her hair as well, which is still white-blond—she’s not trying to hide. Either she didn’t think I’d come—or she knew I’d come and doesn’t care. I’m not sure which option is better. The lights peek out through her curls and cast shadows across her flawless skin. She’s holding a small purse, pulling her invitation from it as she makes for the entry line. My mouth’s completely dry, and I can’t even pretend to myself that it’s all nerves. She looks incredible.
Almost as good as she looked lounging in our nest in the arcade, hair mussed, protein gel pack in hand, shooting me the one-dimpled smile I love so much—the one that’s real.
I can’t trust her not to give me the slip if she spots me, and there’s no way I’m letting her go up there alone, not when I can help her. Even if she’s got some plan to locate the rift and disable it without me, she’ll be safer if I’m there to help. And whatever’s passed between us, LaRoux’s attempt to take over the government is bigger than us—we can’t afford to fail tonight.
My nerves never bug me when I’m on a job, but this one is different, and my heart’s slamming in my chest as I make my way toward her. She could call me out, she could name me in front of everyone. She could accuse me of stalking or harassment and sic the security guards on me. She could turn her back on me and walk into danger on her own.
I keep behind her, out of her line of sight, until the last possible moment. When security starts scanning the invite of the couple just in front of her, I ease forward and slip an arm around her waist so we’re unmistakably a couple. She goes perfectly still, then carefully turns her head to check who’s just taken that kind of liberty. Her features barely flicker, but I see the fear flash in her eyes. The next minute she’s controlled it, and her hand’s coming to rest on mine where it sits at her waist. “I thought you weren’t coming,” she says, as light and friendly as if her fingernails weren’t digging into the tendon at my wrist, sending a bolt of pain up my arm, robbing me of words.
The attendant by the airlock bows politely and holds out his hand for Sofia’s invitation. “Jack Rosso and Bianca Reine,” she says sweetly, and he ushers us in. Her source was good, and the invitation holds up to his inspection. I’m weak with relief.
The shuttle itself is something else. I haven’t seen riches like this in years. It’s all soft lighting, plush red carpets, and overstuffed armchairs, rather than standard shuttle seats. Even the safety restraints are fancy, upholstered with velvet and embroidered to match the curtains at the viewports. It’s a slice of Victorian decadence, care of LaRoux Industries—the fashion outside might have moved on with a new season, but tonight we’ve been teleported back in time into the world of the Icarus. Sofia picks a pair of armchairs toward the back, still refusing to meet my eyes, and as we buckle in, a young man in sleek butler’s attire makes his way down the aisle with a silver tray full of gently bubbling champagne glasses. I relieve him of two—to hell with not drinking, I’m not sure I’ll make it through this without help—then down one in a couple of gulps. Sofia declines the one I try to hand her with a shake of her head.
“Listen,” I murmur, trying not to grip the remaining glass too tightly. Willing her to really hear me. I’ve rehearsed the words in my head—I know there’s no point in appealing to whatever she might have felt for me. I need to appeal to the steely determination that lives inside her, the part of her that’s kept her going over the past year. “You still need something. So do I. Get me up there and I’ll keep my promise. And after that, if you tell me to, I’ll never come near you again.”
She gazes out the viewport in silence, watching the distant crowd swirling back as the last of the gala guests board and there’s nothing left to gawk at. It’s not until the doors close and the light hum of the engines rises to a muted roar that she replies. “I said I’d kill you if you came looking for me again.”
I swallow, watching her profile. “I know.”
“But here you are.”
“We have to stop LaRoux.” And even if I can only admit it to myself, maybe keeping her safe is more important than all of it. I owe her that. And I want it for her, too.