11. Sophie
SOPHIE
T he gates of Sweetwater close behind us with a sound that feels softer than it should.
Not a clang. Not a warning.
Just stone meeting stone and the faint metallic hum of locks engaging, like the settlement trusts the world enough to turn its back on it.
I don’t look back.
If I do, I might hesitate.
The crawler rolls west under a sky so clear it feels exposed. The early air is cool enough that it slips under my sleeves and raises goosebumps along my arms. The scent shifts as we leave the basin—less green, more mineral, dry salt crust and sun-warmed rock waiting for the day to turn brutal.
Jax drives like the desert speaks a language only he hears.
He doesn’t follow the main trade route for long. He veers off at an angle that feels almost wrong, tires crunching over hardpan instead of sinking into familiar ruts.
“You don’t trust the road,” I say, spreading Gaeshi’s map across my thighs.
“Roads are predictable,” he replies. “Dzu likes predictable.”
The word makes my jaw tighten.
Dzu.
I’ve heard the name since I crashed here. Consolidating territory. Absorbing smaller factions. Rewriting alliances with force.
“South corridor’s flagged,” I murmur, tracing the faded ink with my finger. “Three sightings in the last week. That’s not patrol. That’s pressure.”
He glances at me, quick and assessing. “You’re reading that from a smudge?”
“I’m reading that from pattern,” I say. “Three sightings means someone wants it known they’re there.”
A faint smile tugs at his mouth. “You adapt fast.”
“I don’t have a choice.”
The wind shifts as the sun climbs. Heat gathers in the metal frame of the crawler, radiating up through the soles of my boots. The horizon wavers in silver distortions. I mark coordinates along the map, sketching potential crash vectors from memory.
“If my father lost power like I did,” I say, “and correction thrusters failed unevenly, drift would’ve carried him west-southwest before descent. Atmospheric drag would shift that north again if the hull breached asymmetrically.”
Jax nods once. “Assuming he held altitude long enough.”
“I’m assuming he’s stubborn,” I say, sharper than I intend.
Silence stretches between us for a few seconds.
He doesn’t challenge it.
Instead, he steers wide around a narrow pass.
“Why not cut through?” I ask.
“Because that ridge is perfect for an ambush,” he says. “High ground. Narrow exit.”
I squint at it, then look back down at the map. “If Dzu’s running suppression along trade routes, they’ll want choke points. That ridge. The dried riverbed north of it. And here.” I tap the map. “Old relay station.”
He studies me longer this time.
“You’re not thinking like someone who just crashed here,” he says.
“I grew up reading star maps,” I reply. “Patterns don’t scare me. Surprises do.”
A faint rumble reaches us from the east. Not thunder. Engines.
We both hear it at the same time.
Jax kills the throttle instantly.
The crawler goes quiet, coasting the last few feet before settling against a low rise. He motions, and I grab the field cloth without being told. We throw it over the metal frame, dusting it quickly to break its outline.
Engines crest the distant ridge seconds later.
Three vehicles. Angular. Black plating.
Dzu.
They don’t follow the trade road. They cut across open terrain in a formation that suggests discipline, not opportunism.
I press low against the crawler’s side, the metal still warm against my cheek. My heartbeat pounds in my ears so loudly I’m certain it carries.
“Count,” Jax murmurs.
“One lead. Two flank. No visible cargo,” I whisper.
“They’re hunting.”
“For what?”
“For whoever thinks they can move freely.”
The patrol slows at the ridge, scanning. I force myself not to breathe too deeply. Sweat slides down the curve of my spine.
After what feels like an hour but can’t be more than a minute, they peel north.
The engines fade.
I exhale slowly.
“That’s new,” I say.
“Yeah.”
We wait another minute before moving again.
This time, when Jax veers off the hardpan, I’m already adjusting the route in my head.
“Cut north-east here,” I say. “There’s a wind-carved trough. We can ride it for a mile without showing silhouette.”
He doesn’t argue.
Just shifts course.
The crawler dips into the trough, walls of sand and rock rising high enough to hide us from distant eyes. The air grows cooler down here, shadows stretching long and protective.
“You’re thinking like someone who plans to live,” he says quietly.
“I am,” I reply.
By late afternoon, the sky changes.
It happens subtly at first. The blue deepens toward bruise-purple along the horizon. The wind shifts, losing heat and picking up grit. I taste it before I fully register it—metallic, electric.
“Storm,” Jax says.
“How bad?”
“Bad enough.”
The first gust hits like a slap. Sand lifts in sheets, skittering across the ground before rising into spirals. The crawler shudders under the impact.
“Not riding this out in the open,” he says.
We scan quickly.
A low rock formation juts up to the west, half-collapsed but solid enough to break wind. Jax guns the engine and pushes hard toward it as the sky darkens unnaturally fast.
The storm arrives in full fury before we’re fully sheltered.
Sand lashes sideways, stinging exposed skin like thrown needles. The air turns opaque, visibility collapsing to a few feet. The crawler rocks under the force of it, metal rattling.
“Inside!” Jax shouts.
We wedge the crawler tight against the rock face and duck into the partial overhang. It’s barely big enough to shield us, but it cuts the worst of the wind.
The storm howls.
It isn’t just wind. It’s a living thing. It claws at the rock, screams through narrow crevices, drives sand into every seam. The temperature drops sharply, heat replaced by biting cold that creeps under fabric and into bone.
I wrap my arms around myself instinctively.
Jax notices immediately.
“Come here,” he says.
I hesitate half a second.
Then I move.
We sit with our backs against the rock wall, legs tangled awkwardly because there isn’t space for dignity. The crawler hums faintly outside, its frame taking the brunt of the storm.
Another gust slams into us hard enough to make the rock vibrate.
I flinch.
Jax’s arm comes around me without comment.
His body is warm.
Not abstractly. Not romantically.
Just solid, steady heat against the cold.
“You okay?” he asks.
“I hate not seeing what’s coming,” I admit.
He nods. “Storms do that. Force you inward.”
“Inward where?”
He shrugs slightly. “Yourself.”
The wind screams again, louder this time. Sand sprays into the overhang, dusting our boots.
I tilt my head back against the rock and look at him.
Up close, the bruises look worse in this light. The cut at his lip. The stiffness in his shoulder.
“You should’ve let me stay,” I say quietly.
“And let you get captured too?” he replies. “No.”
“You don’t get to decide what I risk.”
His jaw tightens. “Neither do you.”
The storm surges, punctuating the silence between us.
“I didn’t want you alone,” I say finally.
His gaze shifts to mine.
“You weren’t,” he says.
I swallow.
We’re closer now. Not by accident. The space is small. The storm is loud. Our breathing overlaps in the narrow shelter.
His hand rests at my waist, steady and grounding. My palm is flat against his chest, feeling the rhythm there.
“You adapt fast,” he says softly.
“I’m trying not to die,” I answer.
“That’s not all.”
The wind dips for a moment, then roars back.
I don’t think about it.
I lean in.
It’s not dramatic. There’s no speech. No permission asked.
Just a quiet decision.
His mouth meets mine like he’s been waiting for the storm to give us an excuse.
The kiss is slow at first, cautious, like we’re both testing whether this is real. Then the wind howls again and something in me breaks open.
I pull him closer.
He responds immediately.
Heat replaces cold.
My fingers curl into his shirt, dragging him toward me. His hand slides up my spine, slow and deliberate, leaving a wake of warmth that spreads outward in waves.
The storm fades to background noise.
There’s only the rock wall at my back, his body pressed against mine, the taste of dust and heat and something entirely him.
When I shift closer, he inhales sharply.
“You sure?” he murmurs against my mouth.
“Yes.”
It isn’t reckless.
It isn’t impulsive.
It’s chosen.
His hand cups my jaw gently, thumb brushing my cheek. The kiss deepens, slower now, more certain. My pulse races under his touch, skin hyperaware of every point of contact.
The wind batters the crawler outside.
Inside the narrow shelter, everything narrows to breath and warmth and the slow unraveling of distance we’ve been pretending wasn’t there.
When he lifts me slightly to adjust our position, I feel how careful he’s being despite the heat building between us.
“You’re hurt,” I whisper.
“So are you,” he replies.
I laugh softly against his mouth.
The storm keeps raging.
We don’t.
We move together slowly, deliberately, hands mapping each other like unfamiliar terrain we’ve decided to claim.
The desert can howl all it wants.
We don’t let go.
He kisses me again, deeper this time. My head tilts back, and his mouth trails from mine to my neck, grazing heat across sensitive skin. His breath is ragged now, but still held in check.
“I’ve wanted this,” I whisper, feeling bold and raw and so goddamn alive. “Since you pulled me from the fire.”
His body stiffens slightly. “I didn’t do it expecting this.”
“I know.”
My hands find the clasps of his vest—weathered leather, stiff from the sand, warmed by his skin. I undo them slowly, deliberately. His chest is a landscape of red scale and darker ridging. My fingers trace along the hard line of muscle overlaid with that alien texture.
He lets me explore. Watching me with those golden eyes that glow faintly in the dark.
“I want to see you,” I murmur.
“You will,” he says, voice low, like gravel stirred by fire.
He shrugs off the vest and it falls to the side, leaving him bare to the waist. Scars crisscross his scales, earned and unhidden.
I run my palm over the brand on his shoulder—the winged dragon seared into flesh.
“What is this?” I ask.
“Reminder,” he says. “Of who I swore to be.”
I press a kiss to it.
A sound escapes him—half groan, half shudder.
His hands slip under my shirt, pulling the fabric up. He’s careful, slow, almost reverent. I lift my arms and let him strip it off.
The air is cool, but his hands are warm—blazing where they skim the underside of my breasts, the curve of my ribs.
“You’re beautiful,” he says, quietly. Like it hurts to say it.
I cup his jaw, guiding his mouth to mine again. His kiss turns rougher now, need simmering just beneath the surface.
He presses me back against the shelter wall, one arm braced beside my head, the other tugging at the waistband of my pants. My breath catches.
He pauses. “Tell me to stop, and I will.”
“Don’t you fucking dare.”
He growls low, and it's not human. It makes me ache.
My pants slide down with effort, his claws careful not to tear them. When they’re gone, I’m bare to him. Naked under his gaze. I should feel exposed—but all I feel is wanted.
Then he rises and starts to undress fully.
What’s underneath isn’t just different—it’s breathtaking.
Jax is massive—every part of him built for strength. But between his thighs, his cock is something else entirely.
Thick. Darker than the rest of him. And ridged. The base flares into a series of hard ridges and two visible spurs near the crown. The head is slick already, leaking. My breath stutters.
“You’re not afraid?” he asks.
“No.” My voice comes out hoarse. “I want you.”
“You’ll feel everything,” he says. “The spurs... they’re meant to anchor.”
“I want to feel it.”
He exhales like he’s been holding his breath for hours.
When he kneels between my thighs, I think I might come from the anticipation alone. His mouth finds my inner thigh first. Then higher. And then?—
“Oh god—Jax?—”
His tongue is impossibly long, textured, and skillful. He licks through my folds, circling my clit with slow, devastating precision. When I arch up, he holds my hips still with ease, murmuring something low in his language against my pussy.
The sound vibrates through me.
I grind against his mouth, shameless. Desperate.
“More—don’t stop—please?—”
When I come, it’s sudden, blinding. My thighs quake, my hands buried in his hair.
He rises slowly, eyes glowing, cock slick and pulsing.
“I need?—”
“Now,” I pant. “Now.”
He lifts me like I weigh nothing, laying me on the padded blanket beneath us. The crawler shelter groans slightly in the wind, but inside, the world is narrowed to him.
He lines up, and I feel the head press against my entrance.
“Breathe,” he says, voice strained. “Let me in.”
He pushes slowly—inch by inch, stretching me. My body resists, then yields.
When the spurs press inside, something sparks inside me.
I cry out, not in pain—but in pure, sharp pleasure.
“Jax—fuck—you feel?—”
“Perfect,” he growls, sinking deeper. “You take me so well.”
He bottoms out with a groan that turns into something like a snarl.
Then he starts to move.
The rhythm is deep, slow, claiming. Each thrust pushes the spurs against a place inside me I didn’t know existed.
I can’t stop moaning.
“I’m full,” I pant. “God, I’m so full.”
“You’re mine,” he says. “Right now. No storm. No war. Just this.”
“Yours,” I whisper. “Yes.”
The pace builds. He grips my thighs, angling deeper. My second orgasm crashes through me before I realize it’s coming.
He snarls, losing rhythm, thrusts jerking erratically as he follows.
When he comes, it’s violent—his body locking tight, cock pulsing inside me.
I hold him close, arms wrapped around his massive frame.
The storm still howls outside.
But in here, it’s only us.
Heat. Breath. Skin.