Chapter 3 I’ll Be Home for Christmas （If You Can Find Me）
I’ll Be Home for Christmas (If You Can Find Me
Noomi
Meridian Station’s Docking Bay Seven smells like fuel vapors and broken dreams, but at least the Wandering Star’s tanks are finally full. Six hours of creative engineering after Ober’s sabotage means my ship is now faster than it’s ever been, but speed won’t help if I can’t complete my deliveries.
Because half my Christmas cargo is sitting in the hold of a pirate ship, and three families are counting on me to deliver miracles I no longer possess.
The Hendricks family package. The terraforming station delivery for that single father and his daughter. The Meridian Outpost run for a mother who hasn’t seen her children in eight months. All stolen by the one man in the galaxy who should understand what it means to keep promises.
But here’s what’s eating at me—how did Ober know about this job?
Mother’s been running OOPS for twenty-three years, and her routes are tighter than military encryption.
Corporate courier work doesn’t just randomly attract the attention of the most feared pirate captain in three sectors.
Which means either Mother’s security is compromised, or someone fed Ober information about my Christmas run.
Someone wanted him to intercept me.
The question is: who, and why?
My modified tracking beacon chirps softly from my console, displaying Ober’s location with cheerful precision. Three systems away according to the readout, probably examining those stolen packages and questioning whether I’m really running charity work or something more lucrative.
But my skin is crawling with the kind of awareness that has nothing to do with electronic signals and everything to do with survival instincts honed by three years of partnership with a predator.
“PIP, run another scan for ships matching the Shadowhawk’s configuration,” I mutter, fingers drumming against the control panel in a rhythm that matches my elevated pulse. “And cross-reference any vessels that filed flight plans to intercept OOPS Christmas routes.”
“Scanning, Noomi. However, I should note that you’ve requested similar scans eighteen times in the past hour. Are you experiencing equipment malfunction symptoms? Or perhaps romantic paranoia manifestations?”
“Watch it, PIP. And it’s not paranoia if someone actually is hunting you.”
The scan results populate my screen, and my blood goes cold. Three ships filed flight plans that would intersect known OOPS Christmas delivery routes. One matches the Shadowhawk’s configuration. The other two...
“Son of a bitch,” I breathe. “PIP, those other ships—identification?”
“Unknown configurations, but energy signatures suggest information broker operations. Shall I cross-reference with known criminal databases?”
“Do it.” But I already know what he’ll find.
Information brokers don’t hunt Christmas couriers unless someone’s paying very well for specific intelligence.
They deal in the currency of ruin—blackmail material, hidden identities, family secrets that fracture bloodlines.
In the right hands, one well-timed revelation is worth more than a cargo hold of weapons.
The kind of intelligence that could expose a supposedly dead pirate who’s been inconveniently breathing and delivering legitimate packages.
Someone set me up. Used Mother’s Christmas run as bait to flush me out of hiding. And Ober—the possessive bastard—walked right into it.
Which means we’re both being played.
The beacon shows Ober still three systems away, but learned early in our partnership that Ober Kraine doesn’t always announce his presence on official channels. Stealth modifications, false transponders, and a Felaxian’s natural patience make him the perfect ambush predator.
My fingers drift to my throat automatically, searching for the pendant that isn’t there—hasn’t been there for two years. The bio-reactive crystal that used to glow warm against my skin whenever he was close, a constant reminder that someone dangerous and possessive had claimed me as his own.
I’d almost thrown it into a recycling chute when I faked my death, but instead I hid it from my sight in a small zipper pocket I swore never to open again.
The phantom heat still blooms across my skin at the memory.
The way it felt like carrying a piece of him everywhere I went.
The way he’d press his mouth to that exact spot and whisper “mine” like a prayer and a promise.
The way I’d believed him, right up until believing him became more dangerous than breathing.
“Scan complete,” PIP announces. “The unknown vessels match configurations associated with Krax Korvain’s information network. Noomi, I believe someone may have placed a significant bounty on data regarding your survival status.”
Ice and fire chase each other down my spine.
Krax Korvain—information broker, occasional pirate, and someone with a very long memory for perceived slights.
If he’s tracking OOPS Christmas routes, it’s because someone’s paying premium rates for proof that Nova Jaxson didn’t die in that transport explosion.
“Time to intercept?”
“If they maintain current heading and velocity, approximately four hours. However, Nova, I’m also detecting some unusual energy signatures from the outer docking bays.”
“Define unusual.”
“Elevated ambient temperature readings, trace pheromone signatures, and what appears to be active cloaking field fluctuations. I believe someone may be attempting to mask their presence in the station.”
My heart slams against my ribs like it’s trying to escape. Elevated temperature. Pheromones. Someone who can afford military-grade cloaking and has reason to hide from station sensors.
The tracking beacon still shows him three systems away, but I’d bet my ship’s engines he’s modified it to give false readings while he hunts me through the station’s corridors like some twisted game of cat and mouse.
Except this mouse learned a few tricks during their partnership.
“PIP, begin pre-flight preparations but keep it quiet. No engine cycling, no external communications. Make it look like we’re settling in for an extended stay.”
“Are we expecting trouble, Noomi?”
“We’re about to go hunting.” I stand, checking my sidearm out of old habit. “And when I find that predatory bastard, he’s going to answer some very pointed questions about who fed him my delivery route.”
The maintenance corridors of Meridian Station are a maze of service tunnels, ventilation shafts, and emergency access panels that most visitors never see.
But I spent three years learning to think like a pirate, which means knowing every possible route through any structure you might need to escape from.
Or in this case, use for an ambush.
I move through the cramped passages with practiced silence, following the station’s thermal readings toward the source of those elevated temperature signatures.
My heart hammers against my ribs, but there’s something else building beneath the adrenaline—anticipation.
The same rush I used to get when we’d plan raids together, moving through space like twin shadows, thinking three steps ahead of everyone else.
The kind of rush that always ended with us burning up the oxygen in our quarters afterward.
Professional courier, I remind myself. But my body doesn’t seem to have gotten the memo. Heat pools low in my stomach, muscle memory responding to the thrill of the hunt despite two years of going straight.
Some addictions live in your bones.
The thermal signature leads me to a maintenance alcove overlooking Docking Bay Seven—exactly where my ship sits like bait in a trap.
From here, I have a perfect view of the cargo containers stacked around the bay’s perimeter, the shadows between fuel conduits, and the airlock that leads to the Wandering Star.
And there, moving through those shadows with liquid grace that makes my breath catch, is the most dangerous man I’ve ever loved.
Ober stalks between the cargo containers like the predator he is, every movement controlled and purposeful.
He’s dressed in dark clothing that blends with the shadows, but I’d recognize that feline grace anywhere.
The way he moves his head, testing the air for scents.
The careful placement of each step to avoid making noise.
The patient way he circles closer to his target.
To me.
Watching him hunt sends an unwelcome thrill through my nervous system, the kind of visceral response that has nothing to do with fear and everything to do with recognizing an apex predator in his element.
This is how he used to look when we’d plan boarding operations—focused, deadly, beautiful in the way that sharp things are beautiful right before they cut you.
The way he’d look at me afterward, pupils dilated with adrenaline and want, before backing me against the nearest bulkhead and reminding me that some hunts end with the prey exactly where they want to be.
My skin goes hot and cold simultaneously, phantom sensations that remember what it felt like to be the exclusive focus of that intensity.
When those dark eyes would track my every movement like I was the most fascinating creature in the galaxy.
When his enhanced senses would catalog my heartbeat, my breathing, the micro-expressions that betrayed what I was thinking.
I used to love being hunted by him. Used to make a game of staying one step ahead until he’d corner me somewhere private and remind me exactly who I belonged to.
Now I’m about to remind him that this prey has learned to bite back.
I wait until he’s positioned himself near the main cargo stack—close enough to my ship to intercept any escape attempt, far enough from the airlocks to think he’s unobserved. Then I drop through the maintenance hatch directly behind him.
“Hello, Ober.”