Page 26 of Phoenix's Last Heist
“Will I do it again? I don’t know. We run in the same circles and we both like to drink until we don’t feel sad, which takes an extraordinary amount of alcohol. As Ada would say,the probability is high.”
“He hurt you,” Orion insists, his temper rising. “But you would let him touch you again?”
I shrug. Because what else can I do? If Iathos is mixed up with Brill or the hunt for the Dark Star, then he’s not just a threat—he’s a lead. And if sleeping with him will get me closer to freedom, well…maybe I’m not done making bad decisions.
“I’m certainly not keen on any drunken booty calls right now, no. I’m just saying, we all make mistakes. Haven’t you ever sent a late-night message to an ex? Or had a little too much to drink and screwed someone you shouldn’t? Oh, who am I kidding, of course you haven’t. You probably have one true love back on Xylothia and your people probably mate for life and you all have worshipful, sexually fulfilling partnerships that never go stale.”
“Not exactly, but Xylothian men aren’t often in a habit of bruising their women,” he grits out, his gaze landing on the mark on my arm that’s darkening to a bluish purple. “And you forget, Lyra, my people aren’t exactly thriving. We mate for life, but it doesn’t happen often. Regardless of binding matehood, women are honored and respected.”
“Of course they are,” I huff, not at all surprised that thehonorableranger comes from suchhonorablepeople. “But I’ll tell you, Xylothians are in the minority there. I’ve met a lot of different species and genders and I can tell you one thing: it is a cruel quirk of fate for Velusians to have desire and pleasure in their veins like a born addiction, and to end up using sex as currency in the pursuit of power. Because power always comes with violence.”
Finally, Orion’s eyes meet mine in the dim light of the cockpit—with only the glittering stars and the vastness of spacesprawling before us. I set our course and engage Ada’s autopilot, and now I need a long shower, something to eat, and to find my comfiest pair of clean sweatpants. I rise from the captain’s chair and Orion follows the movement.
“Power can come from many places, Lyra,” he said softly. “Too often, violence is an expression of weakness, not strength.”
“Oh, really?” I tease. “So, throwing Iathos into the Amphitrean sea was a show of weakness for you?”
He crosses over to me, his expression serious. Slowly—impossibly slowly—he lifts a hand to the bedraggled updo on top of my head and unpins the clip fastening it together. My long hair falls over my shoulders and he lifts a lock of it, rubbing the silken strands between his fingers.
The small, deliberate motion steals the air from my lungs. I know why he’s doing it—it’s not dominance or possession. It’s curiosity. Reverence, maybe. His fingers graze my scalp and my whole body goes still, heat blooming low and fierce. He smells like gnuberry pie and spices, a trace of saltwater from Amphitreas still clinging to him. I can feel the warmth of his chest just inches away, the thrum of restrained energy radiating off him like a live current. He’s too close. I should step back, but…I don’t.
My heart can’t decide if it wants to beat out of my chest or stop beating altogether.
Eyes gone dark, he utters one word that turns my insides topsy-turvy.
“Yes.”
8
orion
Who Thought a Drinking Game Was a Good Idea?
Lyra stares at me,unable to hide the flash of panic in her eyes. It’s quick—a heartbeat’s worth of naked fear before her mask slides back into place. But I see it. The sharp inhale. The tremor that isn’t quite a step backward. For all her bravado, she’s terrified of what this could mean—of me, or maybe of herself. Regret slices through me at my admission. Rousing herself from the awkward moment, she clears her throat.
“I need a drink,” she says.
I drop the lock of hair and step back, embarrassed. What had I been thinking—closing the space between us like that, baring the truth behind my temper? Why had I thought to be honest with her about my moment of weakness back on Amphitreas? Not the throw itself, but the impulse behind it. That flash of possessive rage I can’t explain, not even to myself. It’s not my place to protect her or to fight for her honor. She certainly didn’t ask for it and I highly doubt she’d welcome it.
I turn to head back to my berth. It’s been a long day, and my emotions are still a tangled web I need to parse—theunspent lust from the lab and the clothes shop, the wild fury at seeing another man grab her arm and the swell of violence that followed. Throwing Iathos into the sea had been a mercy, because what I had wanted to do was rip his arms from their sockets and beat him to death with them.
Not just because he hurt her, but because he’dtouchedher. Because the thought of his hands on her skin sent something ancient and ugly roaring through me. And then the miserable revelation that not only did he touch her, but he’s touched her in all the ways my body longs to. Pair that with the disturbing realization that it isn’t just hervelliadrawing me to her, but something else. Somethingmore. Something coming entirely from within me. It feels dangerous, this pull—like standing too close to a dying star and pretending you won’t get vaporized.
Suddenly, being trapped on this ship with her—even with our fools’ bargain—seems to herald catastrophic self-destruction. I don’t think I can keep denying my growing feelings for her, but I still don’t trust her enough to lay those feelings at her feet. Doing so would make me too vulnerable when we both have so much to lose. And yet, as I turn to go, the scent of her hair still clings to my hands—a silent betrayal I can’t wash off. The guiding voices of my ancestors are conspicuously quiet, which makes the reverberating echoes of my loneliness that much louder.
“I’ll leave you to it, then,” I say.
“Let me guess,” she says, one corner of her mouth tugging up into a smirk. “Xylothians don’t drink. Or if they do, it’s all ceremonial wine in ritual goblets saved for sacred devotion to your gods.”
I bristle, taking the bait. “Hardly. Not only do we indulge, but we do so with alacrity. And still, we manage to hold our alcohol—likely better than both humans and Velusians.”
“Well, now, if you’re challenging me to a drinking contest, no need to skirt the issue. I’ll meet you in the kitchen in a few,” she replies.
“I look forward to reminding you that you asked for this,” I say.
But the challenge in her expression makes me wonder if I’d be the one to regret it.
Twenty minutes later,after I’ve changed out of my absurd bedsheet costume and into the green tunic and brown pants we purchased, I sit across from Lyra with my arms crossed over my chest. She’s removed her Velusian garments—thank the stars—but she’s just as stunning in her soft gray sweatpants and thin white t-shirt.
