Chapter 12 Christmas Comes Home
Christmas Comes Home
Ober
The coolant gas clears from the engineering section just as Noomi’s voice crackles through my comm: “Power disconnected! Detonation charges should be offline!”
Relief floods through me so powerfully it makes my knees buckle. The families are safe. Forty-seven lives saved because my brilliant, brave, impossible mate refused to let me handle the dangerous part alone. Because she trusted me to coordinate while she took the risk that should have been mine.
The irony tastes like copper and regret—I spent three years learning to be worthy of her, and now I might not live long enough to prove it.
“Confirmed!” Vex’s voice echoes through the bay, carrying exhaustion and something that might be redemption. “All explosive systems disabled. The families are safe!”
I try to stand straighter, to project the strength that forty-seven terrified people need to see in their protector, but the plasma wound from Krax burns like molten metal through my side.
Blood loss is making my vision flicker, and my enhanced healing—fast as it is—can’t keep up with the damage.
Too much internal bleeding, too much trauma, too much time spent fighting when I should have been seeking medical attention.
Through the blast door openings, I can see the distinctive glow of plasma cutters and figures in heavy armor. OOPS rescue teams, cutting through reinforced hull like it’s made of paper. The sound of salvation approaching while I bleed and try not to let anyone see how badly I’m failing.
“Section A, this way!” I call out, my voice carrying more authority than my body feels capable of.
The elderly Lividians support each other with trembling determination, their crystalline skin patterns flickering with hope instead of despair for the first time in days.
Some elderly humans from Earth move slowly, her arthritis clearly aggravated by three days of captivity on metal floors.
“Medical priority for these fine folk,” I tell the approaching rescue medic, forcing my tactical mind to function despite the blood loss. “Severe arthritis, likely inflammation from stress and inadequate positioning. She’ll need anti-inflammatory protocols and joint support during transport.”
The medic nods, immediately moving toward the elderly human couple with portable medical equipment. The lady’s grateful smile as the pain relief takes effect sends warmth through my chest that has nothing to do with blood loss.
This is why we do this work. For moments like that—when competent care transforms suffering into relief, when professional attention shows people they matter enough to save properly.
Behind them, the family from Section B streams past—the woman, who worked three jobs to afford surprising her parents with their grandchildren’s first Christmas visit. Her children clutch hastily-gathered belongings while calling excitedly to their grandparents through the rescue comm system.
“Abuela! Abuelo! We’re coming home! The nice people saved us!”
The joy in those children’s voices cuts through my growing weakness like sunlight through storm clouds. Three jobs. She worked three jobs to make Christmas magic happen for her family, and we’ve given her that chance back.
The little girl from Section B stumbles past with her grandmother, both of them running toward freedom that tastes like recycled air and impossible odds overcome. She looks up at me with eyes too wise for her age and whispers, “Thank you for saving Christmas, nice alien cat man.”
My hearts clench with emotions I don’t have time to process.
Children shouldn’t have to thank adults for not letting them die.
Families shouldn’t have to be grateful for the basic right to celebrate love and connection.
But here we are, and somehow we’ve managed to give them back their Christmas miracle.
What I wouldn’t give to see Noomi’s face when children thank her.
What I wouldn’t give to hold my mate while families reunite around us.
What I wouldn’t give for the chance to claim her properly—not the desperate, dangerous claiming of pirates and adrenaline, but the slow, thorough claiming of a male who has time to worship every inch of his female.
To mark her as mine in every way that matters, to spend Christmas morning in her arms instead of bleeding out on a platform while enemies escape and systems fail around us.
The memories flood through me as blood loss makes my mental barriers fail: Noomi’s scent when she’s aroused, the way she fits against my body like she was designed for me, the sounds she makes when I touch her in exactly the right way.
Three years of dreams, three years of wanting what I thought I’d lost forever.
Now I might lose it again, just when she’s finally ready to let me back in.
“Ober!” Noomi’s voice cuts through my growing haze, and suddenly she’s back, plasma burns on her jacket and determination blazing in her eyes.
She takes one look at my condition and moves to support my weight with the kind of protective instinct that makes my alien biology sing with possessive satisfaction.
Mine. Even when I’m failing, even when I can’t protect her the way every instinct demands, she’s still mine. Still chooses to stand with me while the galaxy watches our love story unfold in real time.
“How bad?” she asks quietly, her scent carrying fear and fury in equal measure.
“Bad enough that I’m grateful,” I tell her honestly, leaning into her strength while my own fades. “Grateful we found each other again. Grateful you let me prove I could change. Grateful you’re here, even if—”
“Don’t.” Her hand finds my face, warm and steady against skin that’s growing cold despite my enhanced metabolism. “Don’t you dare say goodbye to me when we just figured out how to be partners in everything.”
The blast doors finally give way completely with sounds like thunder, and Mother’s rescue teams pour through in organized waves.
The efficiency is beautiful to watch—medical personnel immediately triaging the families while security sweeps for remaining threats, communications specialists coordinating transport assignments, and logistics teams ensuring every single Christmas package is accounted for.
Through my comm, Kex’s gravelly voice crackles with military efficiency: “Captain, rescue coordination is proceeding smoothly. Shadowhawk and Crimson Tide are escorting family transports to designated safe zones. All Christmas packages secured for delivery.”
“Transport assignments?” I manage, though speaking is becoming more difficult.
“Transport Seven has the Yamamoto family and three others from Section B—destination Kepler Mining Station, priority medical en route for the elderly gentleman’s cardiac issues.
Transport Twelve is handling Section A evacuees, including your Kowalski priority case.
Transport Fifteen...” He continues with the systematic precision that reminds me why I chose him as second-in-command.
My crew. Still following orders, still protecting the mission, still making sure every family gets their holiday celebration despite the chaos we’ve survived. Each transport carefully matched to passenger needs, each destination confirmed with families waiting anxiously for news.
“The young Therian couple from Section C,” I ask, my enhanced hearing tracking their voices through the evacuation noise. “The ones with the bonding crystals?”
“Strava and Kelvin? They’re on Transport Nine with the other bonding-age adults. Stravan asked me to tell you they’ve decided to have their ceremony tomorrow—says surviving this together proved they don’t need to wait for perfect circumstances.”
A wedding born from surviving terror together.
The kind of love story that emerges from darkness stronger than it went in.
I think about bonding ceremonies, about the claiming rituals my species uses to mark permanent mates, about how desperately I want to perform those rituals with the woman currently holding me upright.
“Good,” I whisper, meaning it with every cell in my body. “Make sure they get priority transport and safe passage. New bonds deserve protection.”
“Already handled, sir. ETA to their homeworld is eighteen hours, medical support standing by.”
Even dying, I’m still thinking like a protector. Still calculating who needs care, who requires assistance, how to ensure every soul under my protection reaches safety. It’s what I am—what we are—and I’d rather burn out doing this work than fade away having accomplished nothing.
“Attention all rescue teams,” a new voice cuts through the comm with the kind of authority that makes smart people stand straighter.
“This is STI Coordinator Luzrak, operating under official emergency protocols. All civilians are to be processed through medical screening before transport. Priority goes to elderly, injured, and children under twelve.”
Luzrak. Mother’s mate, arriving with the government authority to make this rescue legally bulletproof.
Through my fading vision, I catch sight of him coordinating with the rescue teams—tall, elegant, moving with the predatory grace that marks enhanced Kytherian senses.
His amber eyes sweep the bay with tactical precision, cataloging threats and calculating logistics with the kind of competence that explains why Mother chose him.
“Furthermore,” Luzrak continues, and there’s satisfaction in his tone that suggests he’s enjoying this, “be advised that this operation is being broadcast across seventeen star systems. Any interference with family reunification efforts will result in charges of terrorism and crimes against civilian populations.”