12. Jax
JAX
T he storm doesn’t end so much as exhaust itself.
Wind drops from a scream to a ragged howl, then to a restless whisper that combs sand along rock in long, dragging sighs. The world outside our narrow shelter feels scraped raw. The crawler ticks as it cools, metal contracting in small, sharp sounds that echo under the overhang.
Sophie is curled against me, warm and solid and very real.
My arm is wrapped around her shoulders, her cheek resting against my chest like it belongs there. Sand dusts the edge of her hair. Her breathing has steadied, though not fully slowed. Neither has mine.
For a long time, neither of us speaks.
The desert smells different after a storm—metallic and charged, like the sky split open and showed its wiring. The air is cooler, slipping under fabric and across skin still humming from touch.
She shifts slightly, fingers tracing absent lines over my ribs.
“You’re thinking too loud,” she murmurs.
“I don’t think loud.”
“You absolutely do.”
I look down at her. “Is that a scientific assessment?”
“It’s a I-can-feel-your-heart-trying-to-punch-through-your-chest assessment.”
I huff a quiet laugh, the sound vibrating under her cheek. “It’s been a day.”
“It’s been several days,” she says. “You just compress time when it’s inconvenient.”
I let that sit.
The storm has carved the world clean for a moment. There’s no patrol noise. No engines. No distant gunfire. Just wind moving sand.
She tilts her head back to look at me.
“You okay?” she asks.
The question lands heavier than it should.
“I’m fine.”
She gives me a look that says she does not accept that answer.
“You almost died,” she says quietly. “More than once.”
“So did you.”
“That’s not what I’m asking.”
I stare past her at the mouth of the overhang, where the sky has shifted to a bruised violet. My ribs ache. My shoulder throbs in a slow, steady pulse. But that’s not what’s pressing against my lungs.
“I don’t like cages,” I say finally.
Her fingers still.
“I figured.”
“I don’t like not knowing if someone I—” I stop myself.
She waits.
Wind slides along the rock face, softer now.
“I don’t like not knowing if someone I care about is walking into something I can’t reach,” I finish.
Her gaze sharpens.
“That’s what you were thinking?” she asks.
“Yes.”
She studies me for a long moment, then props herself up on one elbow, hovering over me just enough that her hair falls forward.
“You’re not responsible for every outcome,” she says.
“I am when I choose to stay.”
“That’s not how partnership works.”
The word hangs there.
Partnership.
I swallow.
“I’ve spent most of my life not staying,” I say. “You don’t get attached to things you plan to leave.”
Her mouth curves faintly. “You’re not very good at that.”
“At leaving?”
“At not getting attached.”
I look at her.
Up close, I can see the faint freckles across her nose, the stubborn line of her jaw, the way exhaustion and determination coexist in her expression like they’ve signed a truce.
“You scare me,” I admit.
Her brows lift. “Excuse me?”
“You scare me,” I repeat. “You walk into storms. You pick fights with warlords. You refuse to quit when quitting would be safer.”
She snorts softly. “You just described yourself.”
“Exactly.”
The wind shifts again, brushing cooler air into the shelter.
“I don’t know how to—” I pause, searching for something that doesn’t feel weak. “I don’t know how to do this without losing it.”
“Losing what?”
“You.”
Silence.
She doesn’t laugh.
She doesn’t deflect.
She just looks at me.
“I’m terrified of being alone,” she says quietly. “You want to talk about fear? That’s mine.”
I frown slightly. “You don’t seem?—”
“Because I talk,” she cuts in. “Because I argue. Because I act like I’ve got it handled. That doesn’t mean I don’t wake up some nights feeling like I’m the only person in the universe who’s still looking.”
Her voice doesn’t shake.
That almost makes it worse.
“When my dad disappeared,” she continues, “everyone told me to accept it. To grieve something I don’t believe is finished. I came here because I couldn’t stand the idea of being the only one who still thought he was out there.”
Her fingers slide up to my collarbone, resting there.
“And then I crashed. And you pulled me out. And suddenly I wasn’t alone on a planet that eats people.”
The desert feels very quiet.
“I don’t want to go back to feeling like that,” she says.
“You won’t,” I say immediately.
She searches my face. “You can’t promise that.”
“I can promise I won’t walk away.”
Her expression softens in a way that feels like a decision.
“Good,” she says.
She leans down and kisses me, slower this time. Not storm-driven. Not urgent. Just deliberate.
I cup her face, feeling the warmth of her skin against my palm. The kiss deepens, not with desperation but with something steadier.
“I don’t want distance,” she murmurs against my mouth.
“Then don’t take it.”
“I won’t.”
Her leg slides over mine, fitting against me naturally, like this was always how it was meant to be. My hands move over her back, mapping the curve of her spine, the warmth of her skin under my fingers.
This time there’s no rush.
No adrenaline.
Just choice.
“Tell me if I hurt you,” she says softly.
“I will.”
“You’re a terrible liar.”
I grin faintly. “Then I won’t lie.”
She laughs under her breath and kisses me again.
The wind fades to background noise as we draw closer, hands exploring with slow certainty. There’s heat, yes—but there’s also conversation in every touch, a quiet asking and answering that feels more intimate than anything reckless.
When she presses her forehead to mine, breath warm against my mouth, she whispers, “Stay.”
“I am.”
The storm outside loses its last teeth.
We don’t.
Her lips are plush against mine, trembling with the same nerves that twist my gut.
But she doesn't pull back. Neither do I.
Every breath between us is deliberate now, shared like a vow.
I can feel her fingers exploring the ridges of my jaw, brushing over my scaled skin without hesitation.
Most humans flinch at the sensation. She never has.
“I want to see you,” she whispers. Her hand slides over the leather strap crossing my chest, fingers lingering where the plates of my armor loosen. I let her undo them. One by one.
The cave flickers with the stormlight outside—brief flashes of gold and shadow painting her skin in flickering warmth. Her hair is tangled, face smudged with dirt and windburn, and she is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
Her hands are careful as she bares me. Not fearful—curious. Reverent. I feel her gaze before I see it. She takes me in with wide eyes—my chest, my scars, the thick red scales mottled across my skin. Then lower.
When she sees the sheath of my cock, the way it unfurls slowly as I harden under her attention, she makes a sound—half wonder, half hunger. “Fuck.”
My voice comes rough. “Too much?”
She doesn’t answer with words. Her hand wraps around me—tentatively at first, then with more confidence. Her thumb brushes the small spurs near the head. My hips jerk despite myself.
Her eyes flick up. “Sensitive?”
“Yes.” It’s almost a groan.
She strokes me again, slower now, watching the way the ridges react to her touch.
I catch her wrist. “You don’t have to?—”
“I want to.” Her voice is low. “I want to make you feel what you make me feel.”
I lean down, catching her mouth in mine again, but this kiss is different. It’s hungry. Demanding. Her back arches under me, and I push the coverall off her shoulders. The fabric peels away like fruit skin, revealing pale curves, soft heat, and a scent I want to drown in.
“Sophie,” I whisper. Her name tastes like promise.
Her thighs part as I kiss lower. I trace the inside of her hip, the hollow above her thigh. She gasps when I lick once—slow and deep—across her pussy. Her fingers twist in my hair.
“Fuck, Jax?—”
I do it again, savoring the taste, the way her legs tremble. She’s wet already, and growing wetter with every flick of my tongue. I slide two fingers inside her, curling them gently. Her moan is raw and real.
“More,” she gasps. “Please, Jax?—”
I give her more.
Tongue and fingers working in tandem, I listen to the rhythm of her breathing, the way she begs without shame. Her pleasure coils through me like fire, tightening with each shudder of her body.
When she comes, it’s with my name on her lips and her thighs locked around my head.
And I’m not done.
When I slide up her body and press the head of my cock against her entrance, her hips rise in invitation.
“I need you,” she whispers. “Now.”
I push in slow—careful, even though every instinct in me screams to take. Her heat engulfs me, inch by inch. When the spurs brush her walls, she cries out—not in pain, but shock and want.
“God—what is?—”
“Part of me,” I grunt. “Can stop?—”
“Don’t.” Her nails dig into my back. “Don’t stop. Don’t you dare.”
Her words dissolve into moans as I bottom out, the thick ridges of my cock fitting inside her like we were made for this. I hold still for a moment, letting her adjust, but her hips buck up almost immediately.
“Jax,” she breathes. “Please. Move.”
I obey.
Slow thrusts at first, letting her feel every ridge, every drag. The spurs stroke her inner walls just right—judging by the way her breath catches and her pussy clenches around me.
I brace on my elbows, eyes locked to hers.
“You feel like fire,” I say, voice raw. “You were never just a passenger, Sophie. You changed everything.”
Her hands slide into my hair, pulling me down to kiss her again. It’s messy, gasping, and everything I didn’t know I needed. Her legs wrap around my waist and I fuck into her deeper, harder, the cave echoing with skin and breath and the storm’s fading growl.
“You were right,” she whispers between thrusts. “I was scared. I still am.”
“Means it matters,” I echo.
Our bodies slam together again and again, rhythm wild now, urgent and consuming. I feel the edge coming—feel her nails raking my shoulders, her breath catching again.
“Jax—fuck—I’m gonna?—”
“Let go,” I snarl against her throat. “I’ve got you.”
She cries out as she comes again, pussy clenching so tight around me I see stars. I follow, roaring her name as I spill deep inside her, hips jerking, heart pounding.
We stay locked like that, gasping, trembling, forehead to forehead as the last tremors fade.
Outside, the storm is gone.
Inside, we’ve created one of our own.
She curls into me, spent and warm, her fingers dragging lazy patterns across my chest. I brush the damp strands of hair from her face and press a kiss to her temple.
“You’re not alone,” I murmur.
“Neither are you,” she says, eyes closed.