31. Dayn
DAYN
N avigating the shuttle toward the edge of the Dead Sector, I grip the console so hard I feel the grooves dig into my palms. Dowron’s directive—recon a missing Alliance ship—makes a chill settle in my bones.
This place isn’t space. It’s a vacuum where even light hesitates to travel.
Beside me, Josie clicks her kit shut as the hatch cycles closed, sealing us in tighter than dread.
“You’re not going solo, assassin,” she says, voice low and taut. “And you’d blow something up without me.”
I smirk, though tension tugs at me. She sits beside me, fingers brushing mine. “You’ll bring the storm. I'll bring the knives.”
She chuckles—a small light in the growl of the engines—and flexes a welder’s torch holstered at her hip. “Deal.”
The moment passes as we punch into the Dead Sector. Sensors start to blink out—first static clouds, then blank screens. Crew members flick off communications one by one. Our shuttle hums like a dying heartbeat.
Then weird shit begins.
We pass a ghost hulk—an undamaged freighter drifting empty through the void, ominous and silent. Its hull reflects no light, just absorbs it, as if it's a hole in reality. Josie’s brow furrows, and I feel her pulse against my hand.
Then the audio beacon: a looping message in a cordial Alliance tone.
“—crew reports no external hostiles. All is well?—”
Over and over again, the same assurances, replayed for hours. That voice belonged to Captain Silas Merrow, who disappeared ten years ago.
Josie gasps. Her mask hides nothing. “This is junk code,” she murmurs. “Delirium loops.”
I swallow hard. My instincts scratch at me. Psychic warfare—something ancient, predatory, stirring. “Get wired up,” I say, nodding to the hardened VR visors. “No one thinks alone.”
Her fingers dance over the interface. “Locking in.”
As we move deeper, the shuttles queue: Hellfighters in clustered formation, nav lights dim and focused. The air is thick with static and unknown dread.
Gravity flickers for a moment. I hiccup as the world shifts. Josie grips my arm.
“Stay the blade-side up,” she mutters.
“Always.”
We drift into the debris field of the missing diplomatic vessel. Hull numbers etched: IA-C57N. Scorched but intact. No life readings.
The shuttle docks. The hatch opens: stale, heavy air stings my nostrils. I taste old cigarette smoke and fear. The corridor lights flicker like heartbeat—once, twice—and die, replaced by chilling supplemental glow.
I move first—knife out, eyes hard in the dim. Josie sweeps behind me, tools at the ready. We find bodies. Uniforms identical to Alliance diplomats, but their faces are empty, skin drained like old parchment. Each holds their own throat. Contorted. Ritual. Terrified.
She kneels beside one. “They killed themselves… thinking they were hunted.”
I suppress the word I wanted to say. “Vortaxian.”
Josie heads to the command pod. Red emergency light paints everything blood-dark. Her fingers flash across the cracked plating until she opens the core—the contamination beacon sits nestled among the circuits like a bug in honeycomb.
“No,” she breathes. “This isn’t just tech. It’s Vortaxian sorcery.”
I feel the gears in my chest click—mental defenses snapping into place. She pulls it free, and the lights flare, backbone of dread collapsing. The dead atmosphere relaxes. The shuttle’s sensors begin to wake again—heartbeat patterns returning to green.
She packs the beacon like lit TNT. “We need to erase every byte.”
I press a hand to her shoulder. “We do.”
As we back to the shuttle, I catch sight of her jaw set in that stubborn, furious way I know so well. She lifts her head and smiles, piratical and brave. “We outrun ghosts.”
I nod, voice gravel. “We make light.”
She grabs my hand as the hatch shutters close behind us.
The engines rumble awake. Stars return, the void receding, and I realize something: we didn’t just face down murder codes and sorcery. We found each other again—in the dark, in the chaos, in the alien terrors. And we — survive. Dean and Josie, storm and calm, heart and blade.
I glance at her. She’s already inspecting the beacon like a new toy, dusting off specs.
“Ready for a detour after this?” I ask quietly.
Her grin is as sharp as a blade. “Only if it involves danger and bad decisions.”
The shuttle noses out of the Dead Sector’s boundary. Sensors hum normal again. The beacon pulses like a slumbering volcano in her pack. Ahead lies more unknown. But behind me, there’s her.
I pull her close, savoring the scent of burnt ozone and determination.
“Together,” I whisper.
“Always.”
The ship drifts in the hush between stars, lit only by the pulse of medical monitors and the distant shimmer of passing quasars.
She lies against me now—Josie, warm and pliant, her breathing a soft rise and fall against my ribs.
Her cheek rests over my heart, that bruised curve of her jaw illuminated by the soft, sterile light of the diagnostics panel overhead.
My fingers trace idle patterns down her spine, lingering on the places where soot still clings to her skin, where the raw heat of the beacon’s discharge left faint tremors beneath her surface. She doesn't speak—can't, not yet—but her body presses closer when I touch her.
When I kiss the top of her head, her hand slides slowly down my chest, fingers fanning over scales and scars. She’s not trembling now. Not in fear. This is something else—something full of need and quiet fire. Something sacred.
She shifts against me, one leg sliding over my thigh, hips rolling gently forward.
I feel it.
Her heat. Her want.
"Josie," I murmur, voice hushed in the chamber's stillness. “You sure?”
She nods—slow, steady—and meets my gaze. Her brown eyes hold mine, pupils wide with desire and trust. She raises her hand, draws a shaky fingertip over my collarbone again.
Take me.
I roll us gently, letting her lie back against the padded med-cot. She arches slightly, eyes fluttering closed as I slide my hand down her thigh. The soft curve of her body is familiar, but every time I touch her it feels like rediscovering gravity.
My fingers find the waistband of her sleep trousers. She lifts her hips to help me peel them down. She’s not wearing anything beneath.
Her pussy is slick already—wet, swollen, glistening in the low light. I drag two fingers through her folds and watch the way her chest rises in anticipation. Her clit is hard, begging for contact.
"Stars above..." I whisper, brushing my thumb across it gently. Her breath catches—one sharp gasp, then a stuttering exhale.
“You’re ready for me,” I murmur. “Even after everything. After the explosion. After nearly—” My voice breaks before I say losing you.
She pulls me down into a kiss before I can fall too deep into that edge.
Her lips are soft, but her kiss is demanding. Her hands find the scales on my back, clawing lightly, dragging me closer. I growl softly into her mouth—hungry, careful. I move down her body with my mouth, kissing between her breasts, across her belly, and lower.
Her thighs part for me like breath itself, and I settle between them. The scent of her—rich, warm, earthy with sweat and need—fills my lungs. I press my mouth to her pussy and lick.
She moans—loud, raw, and choked with relief.
I tongue her slowly at first, drinking in every whimper, every shift of her hips. My tongue is longer than a human’s, forked subtly at the tip, and I use both prongs to curl around her clit, then flatten and drag the full length down her slit.
Her hand fists in my hair, pulling me closer. Her thighs tremble around my head, and her hips start grinding up into my face.
I slip a finger inside her—then a second. She’s tight and wet, her pussy fluttering around my hand. Her moans grow louder, breath catching with every thrust of my fingers and swirl of my tongue.
She’s close. I can feel it.
Her legs start to shake, her body tensing beneath me. I pull my mouth away for just a breath.
“Let go, Josie. Come for me. Right now.”
She cries out—high and sharp—hips jerking against my mouth as she comes. Her pussy clenches tight, soaking my fingers, her body arching against the medical cot.
I don't stop. I lick her through it, swallowing her pleasure, letting her ride the wave until she goes limp beneath me, gasping.
When I rise above her, her eyes are dazed, lips parted, sweat glistening on her collarbones. I kiss her deeply, and she tastes herself on my tongue, moaning into the connection.
Her hands reach down between us, wrapping around my cock.
It’s hard and heavy, dark and ridged, the tip flushed purple-black with need. She strokes me, slow and reverent, her fingers barely able to close around the girth.
She doesn’t need to speak. The look in her eyes says it all.
I line up, the head of my cock pressing into her pussy. She’s still slick, still twitching with aftershocks. I push in—slow, careful, but deep.
She gasps—eyes wide, mouth open. “Oh—fuck—Dayn?—”
Her voice is broken, ragged from disuse, but the words are there.
“I’ve got you,” I whisper, sinking deeper. “I’ll always have you.”
I bottom out, fully inside her. She’s stretched wide, stuffed full, trembling beneath me. Her pussy clamps around me like a vice, pulsing in time with her breath.
I start to move.
Each thrust is slow, deliberate, grinding deep. My hips roll against hers, cock stroking every ridge and nerve inside her. She whimpers with each movement, nails digging into my back, clinging to me like I’m the only thing anchoring her to the ship.
“You feel like home, ” I growl, voice caught somewhere between worship and hunger.
She pulls me closer, gasping in my ear, her voice barely audible. “Harder.”
So I give it to her.
I drive into her with force, still careful but relentless.
Her cries echo off the sterile walls. Her nipples brush against my chest, stiff and sensitive.
My claws dig into the cot on either side of her head, holding me up as I slam into her over and over, her slick pussy gripping me tighter with every stroke.
Her second orgasm crashes through her with a scream—pure, wordless. Her body locks, then shudders, eyes rolling back.
“ Yes, ” she gasps. “Yes—don’t stop—fill me— please ?—”
I feel the heat gathering at the base of my spine. My third eye flares, glowing like fire behind my forehead. I thrust harder, faster, each stroke brutal and raw.
Then I come—roaring her name as I spill deep inside her, my cock pulsing with each thick jet of release. Her pussy clenches around me like it never wants to let go.
And I don’t.
We collapse together—sticky, breathless, wrecked. My body shields hers, my scales cooling against her flushed skin.
Her hand rises again. Two fingers trace a single word over my sternum:
Constant.
And in the silence that follows, I kiss her brow, hold her tighter, and breathe in her soul.
“Yes,” I whisper, voice breaking. “Always.”