Chapter 4 “Baby, It’s Cold in Space” #2
I check my internal chronometer, calculating dock time and crew efficiency while trying not to notice the way her body heat seems to reach for mine across the small space. “Eight minutes if they hurry.”
“And if they don’t?”
“Then we find out how well your ship improvements hold up under fire.”
She shoots me a look that’s part challenge, part invitation, and entirely dangerous to my self-control. “My improvements can handle anything you throw at them.”
The double meaning hangs in the recycled air between us like a dare, and I have to fight every instinct I possess not to find out exactly what she means by that.
Instead, I force myself to focus on the tactical situation, even though focusing on anything other than the way she smells when she’s aroused is becoming increasingly difficult.
“Krax won’t risk destroying the packages if he thinks they’re valuable,” I say, moving to the secondary console while trying not to notice the way her body heat seems to reach for mine across the small space.
“Whoever fed me that intelligence tip probably told him the same thing—high-value cargo, worth intercepting. They wouldn’t have known the actual contents. ”
“And when he realizes they’re Christmas presents?”
“Then we better make sure he doesn’t get close enough to scan them.
” My hands move over controls I helped her install three years ago, muscle memory guiding me while being in her space does things to my concentration that have nothing to do with tactics.
“He’s operating on the same bad intel I was—thinks you’re smuggling something worth killing for. ”
“You still have the plasma cannon modifications?”
“Removed them.” Her voice is quiet, almost apologetic, and the scent of her regret mingles with everything else in the small space. “They were... taking up too much space.”
Of course she did. Because the woman who spent three years perfecting the art of controlled violence has apparently decided to become a pacifist who delivers holiday cheer to families across the galaxy.
“The missile launchers?”
“Converted to storage for medical supplies.”
“The shield boosters?”
“Replaced with a better filtration system.”
I stare at her, torn between admiration and exasperation and the growing need to crowd her against something solid until she explains exactly what happened to the woman who used to plan raids with the precision of a tactical genius.
“Nova, how exactly did you plan to defend yourself if you ran into trouble?”
“By not looking for trouble in the first place.” She meets my gaze steadily, and the direct eye contact sends heat spiraling through my chest. “Turns out most people don’t shoot at you if you’re not trying to rob them.”
“Most people aren’t information brokers with a grudge and a very flexible moral code.”
“No,” she agrees, fingers flying over the navigation controls as she plots our escape route. The competence is arousing in ways I’m trying not to think about. “And most people aren’t you.”
The accusation hits home because it’s true, and because the woman saying it used to love that about me.
Used to find my dangerous reputation thrilling instead of problematic.
Used to whisper “mine” against my throat when we’d celebrate another successful raid, her hands mapping the scars I’d earned keeping us both alive.
Used to look at me like I hung the stars instead of like I was the reason they were falling.
“I never fired on you,” I point out.
“You stole half my cargo and sabotaged my engines.”
“I was trying to protect you.”
“From what?” She spins to face me, green eyes flashing with anger and something that might be hurt.
We’re close enough now that I can see the gold flecks in her irises, close enough that her body heat mingles with mine in the small space.
“From myself? From my choices? From the possibility that I might actually be happy without you?”
The words hit like physical blows, and I feel my tail lash involuntarily. My enhanced senses pick up the spike of pain in her scent—old grief, carefully buried but still bleeding. “You weren’t happy. You were hiding.”
“I was healing.”
“From what?” The question tears out of me before I can stop it, raw and desperate and weighted with two years of not understanding why she’d chosen to disappear rather than fight for what we had. “What happened, Nova? What went so wrong between us that you’d rather fake your death than talk to me?”
She goes very still, and for a moment I think she might actually answer. Might finally tell me what drove her away, what I did or didn’t do that made loving me feel like dying. My enhanced hearing picks up the change in her heartbeat—pain and longing and fear all tangled together.
Instead, she turns back to the controls. “Your crew’s docking now. Packages should be aboard in five minutes.”
And just like that, the moment’s gone. But I can smell the grief on her, faint but unmistakable beneath the anger and determination and the arousal she’s trying to hide. Whatever broke us, whatever sent her running, it left scars deep enough that she’s still bleeding.
The docking tube extends with a soft thunk, and I can hear my crew moving cargo with efficient haste. Kex’s voice crackles over the comm: “Packages secured, Captain. We’re clear.”
“Good.” I key my own comm, speaking to my crew but keeping my eyes on Nova, watching the way relief and determination play across her features. “Return to the Shadowhawk. Maintain safe distance and monitor for threats.”
“What about you, sir?”
What about me indeed. Two days ago I was hunting her across three sectors, convinced she was playing the most dangerous game in the galaxy.
Now I’m abandoning my ship to help her deliver Christmas presents to families I’ve never met, and the only thing I’m certain of is that being this close to her is both agony and the closest I’ve been to home in two years.
“I’m seeing this through,” I tell them, and I mean it in ways that have nothing to do with Christmas deliveries.
“Noomi,” PIP announces cheerfully, “docking sequence complete, packages secured, and might I add that the ambient temperature in here has risen another degree in the last two minutes. At this rate, you’ll need to adjust the environmental controls soon.
Also, just a heads up—the cargo bay is now quite cramped with all those packages.
Lots of opportunities for... accidental contact. ”
“Not now, PIP,” Nova mutters, but there’s color in her cheeks that has nothing to do with the ship’s lighting and everything to do with the same awareness that’s making my skin feel like it’s on fire.
“Also, for your planning purposes, the fold-out bunk in your quarters is approximately sixty centimeters wide. Just thought you should know!”
I bite back a growl. “Does your AI always provide running commentary on—”
“Always,” Nova says firmly, but I catch the way her scent spikes with something that might be anticipation. “PIP’s observations are... comprehensive.”
“I prefer ‘thorough,’” PIP corrects. “And speaking of thorough, you might want to examine those packages sooner rather than later. My scans indicate some of the quantum seals are showing stress fractures from the hasty transfer.”
Nova’s face goes pale, and the scent of her fear cuts through everything else. “How bad?”
“Nothing immediately dangerous, but I’d recommend a visual inspection. Some of the more delicate items might have shifted during transport.”
She’s moving toward the cargo bay before PIP finishes speaking, and I follow, trying not to notice how the ship’s narrow corridors force us into constant proximity.
Trying not to think about how her body heat seems to seek mine across the small spaces between us.
Trying not to remember what it felt like when she’d deliberately crowd against me in tight spaces, using the ship’s architecture as an excuse to touch.
The cargo bay is indeed cramped, packed with containers I stole from her and packages she’d managed to keep. Everything is carefully secured, but I can see what PIP meant about stress fractures—hairline cracks in the quantum sealing that could destabilize if jostled too hard.
“These three,” Nova says, crouching beside a set of containers marked with priority shipping codes.
The position puts her at eye level with my hips, and I have to fight not to think about all the times she’d knelt in front of me for very different reasons.
“The Hendricks family delivery. If the internal padding shifted...”
She’s reaching for the manual release when the ship lurches violently to port, artificial gravity wavering as the engines struggle to compensate. Emergency lighting flashes red, and I hear PIP’s voice announce: “Krax’s ships have achieved weapons lock. Suggest immediate evasive action.”
Nova’s thrown off balance by the sudden movement, and I catch her before she can hit the deck, my hands spanning her waist as I pull her back against my chest. For three heartbeats we stay frozen like that—her soft curves pressed against me, her scent filling my lungs, my hands remembering exactly how she fits against me.
Her pulse hammers against my enhanced hearing, and the scent of her arousal spikes sharp and sweet in the confined space.
“I’ve got you,” I murmur against her hair, and feel the way she shivers in response.
Then one of the damaged containers breaks free from its restraints entirely.
I twist, keeping her shielded with my body as quantum-sealed packages scatter across the cargo bay floor. Most stay intact, but one—marked with Hendricks family codes—cracks open like an egg, spilling its contents across the deck.
A child’s teddy bear. Hand-knitted clothes. A data pad with family photos. And tumbling free from the bear’s embedded message system, a small holographic projector that activates automatically when it hits the floor.
A little girl’s face appears in the space between us—alien features with the distinctive cranial ridges of her species, but heartbreakingly young nonetheless. Her voice is bright with excitement and love, speaking in accented Standard:
“Hi Daddy! It’s Grixa! Mommy says this will reach you at the mining station for Christmas.
I made you a scarf—see? It’s blue like your eyes!
And I drew you a picture of our house so you remember what home looks like.
The nights are getting longer here, but Mommy says you’re coming home soon.
I hope Santa finds you way out there in space.
I’ve been extra good this year, I promise.
I love you more than anything in the whole galaxy, Daddy. Please come home for Christmas.”
The message loops, the child’s voice echoing in the sudden silence of the cargo bay. Home for Christmas. Love more than anything. Please come home.
And I realize, with the kind of crushing certainty that caves in your chest and stops your breathing, that I’ve spent two years hunting down the woman I love so I could steal Christmas from a little girl who just wants her daddy to come home.
The teddy bear lies between us, soft and innocent and accusing, and I can smell Nova’s tears before I see them. Can feel the way her body trembles against mine—not with desire now, but with the weight of all the families I’ve hurt in my obsession to reclaim what I thought was mine.
What have I done?