Thoryn
Iwoke up not dying, which was a pleasant surprise.
The room smelled wrong. Too clean. Antiseptic instead of blood, recycled air instead of rock dust. A bed instead of a metal cot bolted to stone.
My body felt strange too. The vibro-blade wound in my side had been properly sealed, not just slapped with field foam.
The plasma burn on my shoulder had actual bandages, the kind that promoted tissue regeneration instead of just stopping the bleeding.
Someone had plugged me into an autodoc. The back-alley kind, judging by the mismatched tubes and the way the diagnostic screen flickered between Tamzari and what looked like Jazurai biological readings.
Still, it worked. The infection markers were dropping.
My scales had shifted from dying-gray to merely exhausted-green.
But the real difference, the one that made me lie still and just breathe for a moment, was the bond.
No pain.
For eight years, my nervous system had been rewired to scream whenever I got close to my mate.
The Consortium’s scientists had been very proud of that.
They’d turned love into agony, proximity into torture.
Even after Maris’s healthy bond had broken their conditioning three days ago, there’d been that constant background ache, like healing bones.
Now? Nothing. Just warmth. A steady, comfortable hum where the pain used to live.
Maris was asleep in a chair next to the bed.
She’d pulled the chair close enough that her knee touched the mattress. One hand rested on the bed near mine, fingers curled loosely. The other held her blaster, safety off, pointed at the door. Her head had tipped forward, hair falling across her face.
She looked exhausted. Dark circles under her eyes, deeper than yesterday. A fresh cut on her jaw I didn’t remember. Blood on her knuckles, probably from gripping the ship’s controls too hard. Her clothes were the same ones from the escape, stained with my blood and hers.
She’d saved me. Somehow gotten us through whatever chase had happened while I was unconscious, found this place, paid for the autodoc, and then sat guard while I healed.
Still protecting what was hers, even when what was hers was broken.
I studied her while she slept. The soft edges I remembered were gone, replaced by sharp angles and scars. The woman who’d laughed at my bad jokes was now someone who slept holding a weapon. My disappearance hadn’t just hurt her. It had transformed her.
Into someone magnificent.
The Smuggler Queen of the Outer Fringe. She’d built an empire from nothing while I was being turned into a failed experiment. She’d survived. Thrived. Become terrifying. And when I’d stumbled back into her life, bleeding and broken, she’d protected me anyway.
The bond hummed between us, steady and sure. I could feel her exhaustion through it, the bone-deep weariness she was hiding even from herself. Could feel her determination too. The same stubborn refusal to quit that had kept her alive.
She stirred, fingers tightening on the blaster before her eyes opened. Gray eyes found mine immediately, assessing. Checking for pain, for fever, for whatever might need fixing.
“You’re awake.” Her voice came out rough from sleep.
“Mm.”
“How’s the pain?”
I considered lying. Telling her it was fine, I was fine, everything was fine. But she’d know. She always knew.
“Four,” I said.
Her eyebrows went up slightly. Yesterday, just existing had been an eight. The day before, a ten.
“The bond pain?”
“Gone.”
Something shifted in her expression. Relief, maybe. Or exhaustion finally winning. She set the blaster on the side table and rubbed her face.
“Good. That’s... good.”
She stood, stretching. I heard her spine pop in three places. How long had she been in that chair?
“Hungry?” she asked.
My stomach answered before I could, growling loud enough to echo in the small room. When was the last time I’d eaten? The ration bar she’d given me before the assault on The Fortress? That was... yesterday? Two days ago? Time had gotten slippery.
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
She moved to a small cooler in the corner, pulling out two containers. Actual food, not ration bars. The smell hit me as she opened them. Some kind of stew, with real meat and vegetables. My stomach cramped with want.
She handed me mine and sat on the edge of the bed. Not the chair. The bed. Close enough that her hip pressed against my thigh.
We ate in silence for a while. The stew was barely warm and overseasoned, typical station food, but it was the best thing I’d ever tasted. My body needed calories to heal, and it knew it.
“Where are we?” I asked between bites.
“The Haven.” She scraped the last of her stew from the container. “No questions asked if you pay enough. I paid enough.”
“The ship?”
“Docked. Barely. She’ll need repairs before we go anywhere.”
“How bad?”
She made a sound that might have been a laugh. “Three hull breaches, half the systems fried, viewport held together by spite and sealant. But she got us here.”
I wanted to ask about the chase, about how she’d managed to fly and keep me alive at the same time. But I could see it in the exhaustion written across her face, the blood on her knuckles, the way she kept blinking like she was fighting to stay awake.
“You should sleep,” I said.
“I’m fine.”
She wasn’t. But arguing would be pointless. Years of being alone had made her forget how to accept help. Or maybe she’d never known. I couldn’t remember anymore.
She set her empty container aside and studied me. Her hand moved to my forehead, checking for fever. Her fingers were cool against my scales.
“Your color’s better. Less gray.”
“The autodoc helped.”
“Piece of junk barely worked. Had to reprogram it twice just to recognize Tamzari biology.”
Of course she had. While I was unconscious. After flying through what was probably hell to get us here.
“Thank you,” I said.
She pulled her hand back. “Don’t.”
“Maris—”
“I said don’t.” But there was no heat in it. Just exhaustion. “You would have done the same.”
I would have. But that wasn’t the point.
She stood, moved to the chair, then stopped. Looked at the bed. At me. I could see her calculating. The bed was big enough for two. Barely. She needed sleep, real sleep, not the half-aware doze of someone on guard.
“The door’s locked,” I said. “Three different ways, knowing you.”
Her mouth twitched. Almost a smile.
“Four.”
“Sleep, Maris.”
She hesitated another moment, then sat back on the bed. Then lay down, still fully clothed, on top of the covers. Her back to me, but close. Close enough that I could feel her warmth.
“Two hours,” she said. “Then we need to contact the Raptor.”
She was asleep in thirty seconds.
I lay there, listening to her breathe. Feeling the bond hum between us, warm and stable and painless.
The war was over. The conditioning was broken. We were both still broken in other ways, probably always would be. But we were alive. We were together. And for now, we were safe.
My stomach was full. The bed was soft. Maris was sleeping beside me, her breathing deep and even. The bond thrummed with contentment.
I should have been thinking about next steps. About the Raptor, about the data we’d retrieved, about the Consortium still hunting us. But all I could think about was the woman next to me. The way she’d fought for us. The way she’d refused to let either of us die.
She shifted in her sleep, moving closer. Her hand found mine, fingers threading through my larger ones. An unconscious gesture, but it made the bond sing.
All of those years in hell, thinking she was dead. But she was here. Warm and real and alive. Still too thin, still too guarded, still carrying weapons even in sleep. But here.
I turned my hand, gripping hers gently. She didn’t wake, but her fingers tightened on mine.
The Haven was dangerous. The Consortium was still hunting us. We had maybe a day before someone figured out where we’d gone.
She made a small sound in her sleep and pressed closer. Her back against my chest now, fitting against me like she always had. The bond purred with satisfaction.
I was halfway to sleep myself when my hand, the one still holding hers, flexed in a dream. The small movement was enough to pull her from the depths.
She stirred, her breathing catching. She turned in my arms, still more asleep than awake. Her eyes opened, unfocused, finding mine in the dim light.
“The pain?” she mumbled, voice thick with sleep.
She studied me for a long moment, as if testing the truth of what I’d said. Then her hand came up, fingers tracing the edge of a scale on my jaw. It was a test. The touch sent warmth through me. Just warmth.
She let out a breath she’d been holding. Her eyes searched mine, seeing the lack of any pained reaction.
“You really meant it,” she whispered. “It’s... gone.”
“Yes.”
Her fingers continued their exploration, mapping the new territory of painless touch. Each contact sent sparks through our connection... and for me, they were grounding. Real. After eight years of agony, this simple, painless touch was overwhelming.
Her exhaustion was fading, but my control was gone. I’d been starved of this, of her, for a lifetime.
“Maris.” My voice was rough, unrecognizable.
I couldn’t wait for her. I caught the hand on my jaw, stopping its movement, and pulled her to me.
I kissed her.
Soft. Careful. Testing. When I didn’t pull back in pain, she made a sound against my mouth. Relief and need tangled together.
“The bond doesn’t hurt?” It was like she couldn’t believe it.
“No.” I kissed her again, harder this time, to prove it.
She pulled back enough to look at me, her breath catching. There was a question in her eyes. Not about pain or safety... a question about us. About what we were to each other now, after everything.
I touched her face, thumb brushing the new scar on her jaw.
A small, logical part of my brain—the part that had kept me alive for eight years—whispered that we were exhausted.
That we were vulnerable. That we should sleep.
“We should be sensible,” I said, testing the words.
“We should,” she agreed, her voice just as tired.
I looked at her. At my mate, alive and warm and here. The bond hummed between us, clean and right.
“Sensible can wait,” I said, and pulled her back to me.