Chapter 7 System Diagnostics
System Diagnostics
Zola
He took in a terrified alien blob and raised it as a pet.
I watch Crash sip his coffee, listening to the soft, warbling sounds Jitters is making as he basks in his owner’s approval. The big, lethal gladiator who accidentally bonded to me isn’t just a pile of muscles and scales and pheromones. He’s... soft.
Well, emotionally soft. Physically, he’s currently leaning against the galley counter without a shirt, and there is absolutely nothing soft about the ridges of muscle defined by golden scales, or the geometric markings that seem to pulse slightly with his heartbeat.
I should look away. Professional safety inspectors do not ogle the anatomy of their subjects.
But professional safety inspectors also don’t go to sleep wrapped around said subjects, feeling safe and cherished and ridiculously well-rested for the first time in years.
I glance at the workstation screen, where The Pirate’s Treasure is still displayed.
He was researching romance novels. To make me comfortable.
The image of this dangerous Exoscarab-hunter sitting in the dark, painstakingly reading bad human fiction because he wanted to be a “good suitor,” does something terrible to my defenses.
It makes me want to laugh, but it also makes my heart clench in ways that have nothing to do with the bond and everything to do with the fact that no one has ever cared enough to research how to court me properly.
Even if his research materials were questionable and his execution involved furniture-related injuries.
“Speaking of trust,” I say, deciding I need to focus on something technical before I do something unprofessional like hug him, “we should probably check your secretion glands.”
Crash chokes on his coffee. “The what?”
“Your secretion glands.” I gesture toward his throat and wrists, trying to keep my voice clinical even though my heart rate is already accelerating at the thought of touching him.
“When your combat and mate secretions mixed during the attack, it created an unprecedented biochemical reaction. I need to make sure there wasn’t any internal trauma.
Blockages, inflammation, that sort of thing. ”
His throat works on a swallow I can see from across the galley. “I usually... that is, medical examinations of gland function are typically performed by Velogian healers,” he manages, his voice slightly strangled.
“Well, unless you have a Velogian healer stashed in the cargo hold, I’m your best option.
” I set my coffee cup down with deliberate precision, letting the scientist in me take over before the woman who very much wants to touch him can overthink this.
“I have medical training, steady hands, and a vested interest in making sure your biology doesn’t explode again. ”
“You wish to... examine my secretion glands?” The way he says it makes it sound far less clinical than I intended.
“It’s a basic medical assessment,” I lie.
It’s not just a medical assessment. I know it, and judging by the way his pupils just dilated—vertical slits flaring wide—he knows it too.
But I need to touch him. The bond is humming between us, a low-level static that demands contact, and my engineer’s brain has decided that if I frame it as a “safety inspection,” I can indulge the craving without losing my dignity entirely.
“Remove your shirt,” I instruct, then realize he’s already shirtless. “I mean. Come to the medical bay.”
I’m extremely professional.
He moves with that liquid grace that should be illegal, all predatory muscle and barely restrained power, and settles onto the edge of the medical bay.
Captain Starfire indeed... He straightens his posture, offering himself up for inspection with a vulnerability that makes my mouth go dry and my hands shake slightly.
“Hold still,” I say, moving to stand between his knees because that’s the best angle for examining the glands at his throat. Definitely. It has nothing to do with wanting to be surrounded by him.
It’s a tactical error. Standing this close, I’m overwhelmed by everything that is Crash.
The scent of vanilla and ozone is dizzying, made stronger by proximity.
The heat radiating from his skin feels like standing next to a warp core running at full capacity.
And the way he’s looking at me—like I’m something precious and dangerous and utterly fascinating—makes it hard to remember why I’m supposed to be acting professional.
“This might be... sensitive,” I warn, reaching up to place my fingers on the gland at the base of his throat.
The moment I make contact, he goes absolutely rigid.
His skin is smoother than I expected, the scales so fine they feel almost like silk over the heat of him. Under my fingertips, his pulse hammers—a rapid, heavy rhythm that matches the thudding in my own chest. The gland itself is slightly swollen, warmer than the surrounding tissue.
“These are more prominent than I expected,” I murmur, forcing myself to look at the gland, not at the way his chest rises and falls with increasingly jagged breaths. “And warmer. Are they always this active?”
“They... respond to stimuli,” he says, his voice a rough rumble that vibrates through my fingertips where they rest against his throat. “Emotional state. Proximity to... to compatible individuals.”
“Compatible individuals,” I repeat, letting my thumb trace the curve of the gland in what I’m telling myself is a purely diagnostic manner. His whole body shudders. “Like bonded mates?”
“Yes.” The word comes out strangled.
“Fascinating.” I press slightly firmer, feeling the structure beneath the skin. “The tissue is engorged but not inflamed. That’s good. It suggests active function rather than damage.”
“That is... very good,” he manages, though he sounds like he’s being tortured.
I should probably stop touching him. But I’m a thorough inspector, and thoroughness requires comprehensive examination.
“I’m going to check the wrist glands now,” I announce, reaching for his hand.
He offers it without protest, but I can see the tremor running through his muscles. His claws are carefully retracted, but I can see the sheaths where they hide. The contrast between the lethal weaponry built into his body and the trembling restraint in his hand is intoxicating.
The glands at his wrists are smaller, more discreet, but equally warm under my exploring fingers. I press gently, feeling for any irregularities in the tissue.
“Are you... vibrating?” I ask, because his whole arm is trembling under my hands.
“Velogian muscle tension,” he grits out. “Very normal physiological response.”
“Really? Because it feels like you’re about to launch into orbit.”
“That would be... an exaggeration of my current state.”
He’s trying so hard. I can feel it through the bond—the immense, crushing effort he’s exerting to stay still, to not grab me, to not do whatever it is his biology is screaming at him to do. His control is impressive. His discomfort is obvious. And God help me, I want to push him.
Just a little.
“What triggers active secretion?” I ask, pressing a little firmer against the wrist gland and watching his eyes nearly roll back.
“Threat response for combat mode,” he says, his voice sounding like gravel dragged over broken glass. “Mate recognition for... for the other type.”
“Mate recognition.” I look up, meeting his eyes. They’re blown wide, the vertical pupils almost round with dilation. “What does that feel like? Physiologically speaking.”
“Like...” He stops, swallows hard. “Like fire in my veins. Like every nerve ending is hyperaware of exactly where you are and what you’re doing. Like I need to—” He cuts himself off abruptly.
“Need to what?” I ask, because I’m apparently determined to torture both of us.
“Need to mark. To claim. To make sure you know you’re mine,” he admits roughly, and the raw honesty of it strips away any pretense that this is still a medical examination.
The air leaves the room. My own pulse spikes—a traitorous leap of excitement that I know he can feel through the bond. His nostrils flare like he can smell my reaction, which he probably can with those enhanced senses.
“The neck gland,” I say, my voice coming out breathier than intended. “Turn your head slightly so I can examine it properly.”
He complies immediately, exposing the long line of his throat with a trust that makes my chest heavy. The large gland there is visibly swollen, pulsing slightly with his elevated heartbeat. I lean in, close enough that my breath ghosts over his skin, and I feel him shudder again.
I tell myself I’m checking for inflammation. I am lying to myself spectacularly. I want to know what he tastes like.
“This one’s significantly larger,” I observe, letting my fingers trace its perimeter with deliberate slowness. “What’s its primary function?”
“Marking,” he breathes, the word barely audible. “During... intimate contact.”
Intimate contact. The words hang between us, heavy and electric and full of implications that have nothing to do with medical science.
“And it responds to proximity?” My thumb finds a particularly sensitive spot, and his whole body jerks.
“It responds to you,” he corrects, his voice rough with strained control. “Only you. My biology has decided you are mine, and every system I possess is trying to convince you of the same thing.”
I should step back. This has gone well beyond any reasonable medical examination. But I can’t. The bond feels like a physical tether, pulling me closer instead of letting me retreat to safe professional distance.
“There’s some scarring here,” I murmur, fingers tracing a faint line across the gland. “Old injury?”
“Arena fight. Thek-Ka’s claws.” His voice is tight. “He was aiming for the kill. Got the gland instead.”
The casual mention of nearly dying makes my chest constrict. “Does it affect function?”