Page 61 of Beautiful Prey

Come out, prey. I want to watch you run again.

“One of them kept me alive.”

Onyx studies me. “So he was decent?”

“He...” The word catches before I can smooth it away. “He made sure nobody touched me.”

His hand around my throat. Swallow.

“He wasn’t what I expected.”

“No?”

I shake my head. “No.”

Black hair, rain on his face, his mouth pressed against my palm, kissing me as the storm tore at the cave outside.

Onyx watches me for another second, then lets his head settle back against my shoulder. “Well, I’m proud of you, JaJa.”

I look down at him. “For getting eliminated?”

“For going.” His fingers close loosely around my wrist. “For trying. You walked into that place because of me.”

“I just wish I could’ve made a difference.”

“You did.” His thumb brushes once against my wrist. “You came back.”

My throat tightens. “Yeah.”

A tired smile pulls at his mouth. “You love me.”

“More than anything.”

“I love you too.”

Within minutes, his breathing evens out against my shoulder. I pull the blanket higher around him and look out the window at the stars.

Who carries the carrier.

He meant it as a joke, but for one dangerous second, I imagine there being an answer.

I shut that down. In three days, we’ll be back on Calder. Back to the clinic bills, the shafts, the ration lines, and counting credits before buying anything that isn’t absolutely necessary. Back to figuring out how to keep him alive without the one thing I went to Tempest to get.

Normal.

Except nothing feels normal anymore.

Asher came looking for me, and I still don’t know why.

I hate that part of me keeps wondering.

The shuttle settles onto Calder without ceremony, a dull jolt running through the cabin before the engines wind down. The hatch opens to dry heat and dust, and Onyx shifts against me as we get to our feet.

Passengers spill onto the platform in quiet streams. Tempest shuttles arrive every few days, bringing back the rejected, the injured, and the lucky ones who still get to go home. Overhead, holo-copters drift between the towers, carrying people rich enough not to notice the dust, while the tram rattles along its rusted track toward the mining districts.

By the time we step off, the towers have disappeared behind us. Concrete apartment blocks lean toward one another across narrow streets stained black with decades of coal dust. Conveyor belts crawl endlessly towards the processing plants on the horizon, their low mechanical hum woven so deeply into the neighborhood that I stopped hearing it years ago.

The air tastes of iron. Of home.