Page 85 of Phoenix's Last Heist
“I almost didn’t get to you in time,” I whisper. “And the thought of that—of never holding you again—it nearly broke me.”
She presses her mouth to my jaw again, soft, reverent. “We’ll get out,” she murmurs. “You and me.”
I nod. “But when we do—Lyra, you need to know. I’m not letting you go again. I can’t.”
The flickering outside slows. The blackout’s entering its final cycle. It’s almost time to move, but for now, we stay pressed together in the dark.
It’s probably onlya few minutes that we’re stuck in the closet, but it feels like both an eternity and no time at all. WhenLyra finally moves, unwinding her limbs from around me, my mating instincts rage and I’m forced to fist my hands at my sides to keep from reaching forward and pulling her back to me.
It hasn’t escaped my notice that she hasn’t said anything about my confession, but when we’re safe and back on the ship, we can talk it out. Work through it. I’m determined not to try and stifle her, despite my hormones clamoring for me to chain myself to her feet and worship her with my entire body.
I pause at that—the thought eerily similar to my response the very first time she demonstrated the power of hervellia. This time, however, I know it’s not her biology at the root of it.
She tugs at my wrist again, pointing outside our cramped hiding space. Some of the activity has died down, and we both seem to be of a mind that it’s safe to slip out and meet up with Vega for our rendezvous.
As I’m about to open the door, Lyra stops me—her hand on mine.
“Before we go,” she whispers. “I—thank you. Thank you for coming. I know I said I wanted you to go, but…I’m really glad you came back.”
“I meant what I said, Lyra. I will always come for you,” I say. There’s a faint lift to her lips and a glint of heat in her eyes—I can tell she wants to make a prurient joke at the phrasing, but she seems to think better of it.
The lights stutter off again, and we use the opportunity to slip out of the closet and head out through the corridor. We’re meant to meet Vega in the lower levels of the compound that are just above these maintenance floors. Ada is managing to keep the rotating blackout pattern in an effort to give us bursts of cover, but it means we have to time every movement precisely.
We make it halfway through the corridor when I hear it—a low, rumbling hiss and heavy boots. Lyra freezes beside me, whirling around.
Kraxis.
Lyra’s eyes dart across the dark hallway for an exit, a duct, anything, but it’s too late.
He steps out from the shadows like he’s been waiting here this whole time—hulking, plated in his telltale fitted black armor, the low thrum of a plasma rifle in his hands humming like a death sentence. His eyes glow faintly in the flicker of emergency lighting.
“Lyra Phoenix and her Xylothian ranger,” he growls.
Rude. Ihavea name.
Lyra moves fast. She shoves me aside and dives behind a collapsed beam, her motion drawing Kraxis’s attention for just a second, but it’s enough. I pull the plasma pistol from my thigh holster and aim, but he fires first. A bolt of plasma slices past my cheek and melts a hole through the wall behind me. The shockwave sends a bloom of heat licking over my skin.
Lyra pops up and hurls a piece of metal—a broken vent cover. It clangs off his shoulder with no real damage, but it distracts him again.
She moves like lightning. She launches herself at him, using the lower strut of the beam as a springboard. Mid-air, she twists and drops onto his back. He snarls, slamming her into the wall, but she clings on and rips a blade from the holster on his waist. I see the moment it shifts—from struggle to fury.
She stabs him in the shoulder, and then in his side. Once. Twice.
Kraxis roars. He slams her into the floor, but she rolls, agile and vicious. Her strikes are savage—blows to the ribs, the joints. She's relentless, fighting like she wants to peel him out of his own skin.
But Kraxis isn't just brute force—he's a killer with a penchant for pain.
With a snarl, he feints left, then pivots. His hand latches around my throat, dragging me up. The plasma pistol is back in his hand, humming with deadly promise, and it presses against my temple. Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me—not again.
Lyra freezes.
“Drop it,” he spits. “Or I paint the floor with his brains.”
Her chest heaves. For a moment, I see the storm of indecision in her eyes—pure rage and helplessness. But then she lets the blade clatter to the floor.
“Good girl,” Kraxis sneers, adjusting the grip on his weapon. “You know, I’ve never understood your appeal. Brill always was such a fool about you. But I harbor no delusions, and I’m tired of having to chase you around the galaxy, making sure you’re not about to betray him. It will save me so much work if I just kill you now.”
He turns the barrel toward her.
