Page 29 of Phoenix's Last Heist
The pain evident on her face is so agonizing, I find myself unable to draw breath. She soldiers on between the gathering tears in her eyes, continuing as if we’re drawing poison from a wound.
“He got really obsessive about certain things; forgetful of others. He was slipping, and despite all my pleading, he wouldn’t relent or take time off to settle down for a bit. And then, the last score got the best of us. Someone tipped off the Feds and they shot him during our escape. I barely managed to get away, but it didn’t do me any good. They caught up to me in the long run and gave me the choice of prison or going back to Velusia. Kind of a rock-and-a-hard-place situation, but I wanted the chance to pay my respects to my mom’s shrine. Of course, while I was there on Velusia, I was required to participate in the patronage. I figured it wouldn’t be so bad, you know?” She laughs bitterly, and it makes me want to shatter the bottle, because I sense where this is heading.
“If I’d known where I would end up, I probably would’ve chosen prison. Within a month, my contract was sold to a patron in an arrangement that financially surpassed the previous seven generations of my mother’s household.”
“Brill,” I utter in a low voice. Some unnamed emotion—jealousy, maybe—rips through me and makes my vision burn red.
“Got it in one,” she says, tossing back her glass. “Still. The bastard let me keep my ship.”
“Which he uses for his own nefarious financial gain,” I mutter.
“Well, he’s not having me hunt down treasures to gift to the poor,” she says sarcastically. “I’ve been on his tether for fourteen years now, which is longer than most Velusian arrangements. Typically, they max out at five and then you return to Velusia to find a new patron or enter into civil service. It’s not a bad deal, actually. You can teach, or work in one of Velusia’s libraries.”
Before I can help myself, visions of taking Lyra up against a wall of bookshelves assaults my brain and my libido—her legs wrapped around my waist, hands digging into my ass as I thrust into her, all while stifling moans of pleasure in the quiet space. I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from groaning. The worrying, telltale tingle at the base of my spine has built to a burn, despite my attempts to ignore what it signifies.
“Over the last three years, he’s been dangling my freedom in front of me like a carrot on a stick—if I only bring himthisartifact orthisrelic, he’ll release me. Every time, it’s fallen through my grasp. Lately with Iathos, and now with you and the idol.”
The dull knife of guilt slashes at my insides. I suspected she was beholden to Brill somehow based on her behavior and the scant details she’s revealed over the last week, but the confirmation of her situation makes me see red.
“Why can’t you just leave him?” I ask. “You have the ship and the skills to take care of yourself.”
“Been there, done that. I’ve tried to leave before, and he always finds me and drags me back to his hellish planet.”
“In all this time, you haven’t tried to kill him?” I ask, surprising both of us with my bloodlust. “Meet with him under some false pretense and cut his throat. Or poison him. Whatever it takes.”
Her brows lift. “That’s pretty bold talk for a vegetarian pacifist, Ranger. Don’t you think I’ve thought about it? Brill is powerful and wealthy, with insane resources at his disposal. It’s not as easy as walking in with a blade hidden in my hair. Besides, I don’t want a life on the run,” she scoffs. “Brill’s Void Stalkers would find me and do stars-know-what to me. They’d certainly bring me back to Brill and let’s just say I hate being on his bad side.”
Briefly, I glimpse the nightmares in her eyes. Her gaze shutters almost immediately and I start to feel sick with anger and protectiveness again. I struggle to square this new knowledge with what I’ve believed about her—her selfishness and disregard for others. How she didn’t hesitate to kill when the Void Stalkers came for her. No doubt about it, Lyra is a killer. But she certainly isn’t a murderer.
Lyra sighs, eyeing the almost empty bottle between us and the cup of forgotten dice.
“Of course I dream of revenge,” she says darkly. “Death, and then some. I want to take everything from him. I want his money, his power…I want him to be isolated from everything propping him up. I want him devastated, in pain, and unable to claw his way back to anything. I want him to feel the abyss of grief and the void of loneliness—loss of hope—utter despair. I want him to wish for death. I want him to feel everything he’s made me feel.”
I’m nearly choking on my surging temper. Stars, I want to make him suffer.
“I’m so sorry, Lyra. I know the words don’t help, but I can empathize with a lot of what you felt. The darkness. Theloneliness. The…isolation.”Let me help you. Let me make him suffer.
She nods, unfocused as she’s lost in her memories.
“What happened to your mother?” I ask.
“I don’t know, exactly. My dad and I just heard that she’d died and when I returned to Velusia, no one would tell me what happened. I missed her funeral, and the Feds wouldn’t let me have one for my dad.” Her eyes well with tears, and this time she lets them spill down her cheeks.
“Bastards,” I growl, temper surging. “I can’t imagine not having a way to channel your grief. I’m so sorry, Lyra. We didn’t have a funeral for theArkaniumvictims because there wasn’t anything to recover and bury, but we did have a sort of memorial service. We were lucky to have that.”
She shrugs, the heavy movement bearing the weight of her grief. Lyra runs a hand over her face, wiping the tears from her cheeks. I rise somewhat unsteadily to cross to her side of the table. Slowly—giving her every chance to refuse—I pull her into my arms and hold her while she cries. When she relents and wraps her arms around my waist, snuggling into my chest, my pulse thunders with a rush of possessiveness I have no right to. I know she’ll chalk this moment of vulnerability up to the alcohol and I soothe her as best as I can, rubbing slow circles on her back and holding my tongue. She doesn’t need the placating words that make light of the sorrow accompanying the loss of a loved one.
I’m not sure how long we sit like that, but eventually she pulls away. The sight of her tear-stained cheeks and puffy red eyes shatters something in me that’s hardened over the last five years, leaving me feeling like a raw nerve. The irritating tingle at the base of my spine pulses now, but not unpleasantly.
Lyra sniffs and pours half of what remains in the bottle into the shot glass and hands it to me. She raises the bottle and we toast each other.
“To family,” she warbles.
“To family,” I echo. “As flawed as they were, we love them all the same.”
A twinge of regret twists her features.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, recognizing the look as something other than the pain of dusty memories.
