Page 105 of The Lottery

I run a hand through my hair, frustration gnawing at me. Fucking computers. “Who was she with?”

“Buddy Fischer.”

I slam my fist against the steel wall at the sound of his name, denting it. My eyes drift to the crimson stain on the floor. The blood. He hurt her. He fucking hurt Azalea. I will kill him. I will rend him limb from limb and gut him until his spine shows through his stomach. I will unmake his very soul for causing harm to the woman I love.

“Metis, summon Astrid and Declan, then run a scan on all of our supplies. Tell me immediately if anything is missing. Look at the rovers first.”

I wait.

I pace and I fucking wait.

I fight the urge to sprint away and search blindly. I cannot throw myself out of this ship, with no plan. That will not save Azalea.

But this? This waiting.

It is killing me.

It could be killing her.

No. I cannot allow myself to think such things. If he had wanted her dead, he could have taken her life while on the ship.

No.

But then.

No.

Fuck.

I cannot allow myself such thoughts.

The door bings and Astrid and Declan enter, worry on their faces. “Zae’s missing?” Astrid asks without preamble.

I nod.

“Metis, take us through every moment from when Buddy entered the ship to when they left.”

A video projects onto the screen on the wall, showing Buddy re-boarding. Using a stolen uniform, it was embarrassingly easy for the banished billionaire to slip back on the ship and blend in with the crew. I am reminded of Azalea’s disapproval of the uniforms, and how now might be time to let them go for good.

That is a problem for another day. A day when my beloved is back safely in my arms.

I refocus on the video, and force myself not to avert my eyes when Buddy attacks Azalea from behind as she enters our suite. As he slams a wrench at the back of her head.

Astrid gasps. Declan stiffens.

“We need to find her,” I say to the room. “We need to find her now.”

The fire in me is lit. A burning inferno. I will kill Buddy Fischer.

* * *

ZAE

If Buddy doesn’t murder me, I might actually die choking on my own blood.

I need him to take the gag out, but he won’t listen to my pleas. He is pacing back and forth, agitated, fidgety. His clothing hangs off him loosely, tattered and dusty. His facial hair is overgrown, his eyes gaunt, his cheeks hollow. He looks like a man in the throes of a breakdown.

An unstable man.

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