Chapter 9 Convergence Point
Convergence Point
Cetus
FROM: Planetary Development Committee - Kepler Sector
I dismiss it. Standard bureaucratic outreach—they send these every eighteen months whether stations need expansion or not.
Right now, I have more pressing concerns.
Like the fact that Dove Foxton has been on my station for three days and I can barely function when she’s in the same room. Like the collectors arriving in forty-three hours. Like the fact that my eight-year-old daughter is already calling her family.
The shower runs scalding despite temperature settings locked to cold. Lividian biology overriding logic.
Steam rises in thick clouds as I brace against the tile, trying to ignore the fact that she’s twenty meters away, probably wearing my shirt, her hair damp from her own shower.
Three years of celibacy meeting three days of forced proximity with a woman who fits into my life like a missing equation finally solved. My body has opinions about this situation. Loud, insistent opinions that mock my attempts at professional distance.
My hand wraps around my cock before conscious thought approves the action.
Once. Enough to take the edge off so I can function through breakfast without my markings broadcasting every inappropriate thought.
I stroke slowly, trying to maintain discipline.
My hand wraps around my cock before conscious thought approves the action.
Harder than last time. More urgent. Because last time she was a fantasy — now she's a woman who held my daughter's hand and reorganised my kitchen and looked at me like I was someone worth staying for.
Would she gasp when she felt them? When each ridge caught and dragged?
My grip tightens.
The fantasy builds without permission: Dove beneath me, her soft curves yielding. My hands careful with claws retracted, mapping every inch of her. Taking her slowly the first time, watching her face as she adjusts to my size, to the texture that would create sensations no human male could match.
Her moaning my name. Begging for more. Taking everything I could give.
The ridges would swell fully engorged, locking us together at climax. She’d feel it happening—feel me growing impossibly thicker inside her, the nodes flaring to create that seal that ensures deep breeding.
Trapped on my cock. Stuffed full. Mine.
Release hits hard enough that my claws score deep grooves in the tile. I bite back the groan, aware of Tavia sleeping nearby, of Dove down the corridor.
Multiple pulses, the ridges pulsing rhythmically like they’re trying to pump seed deeper. Thirty seconds of my biology insisting this should be happening inside her, not wasted here.
The water washes away the evidence but does nothing for the need.
My body knows that was temporary. Insufficient.
When I emerge, towel wrapped around my hips, the sound of her voice in my kitchen stops me cold.
“Morning, Pickles. Is the storm pattern holding steady?”
“Good morning, Captain. Affirmative. Current projections suggest sustained electromagnetic activity for approximately thirty-eight additional hours.”
She’s here. In my space. While I’m half-naked and half-hard from fantasies I have no right entertaining.
Deep breath. Control.
I pull on work clothes with hands that aren’t quite steady. My markings pulse warmer than baseline—visible through my shirt if anyone looks closely.
Which Tavia absolutely will.
When I enter the kitchen, Dove’s at the viewport. My borrowed shirt slides off one shoulder, exposing the curve of her neck. Her hair escapes its tie in dark waves that catch the storm light.
Every drop of control I spent evaporates.
“Morning.” Sleep-roughness colors her voice. She turns, and her eyes track down my body—quick, instinctive—before snapping back to my face. Her pupils dilate. “I made coffee. Hope that’s okay.”
“Thank you. Very thoughtful.”
It comes out lower than intended, layered with harmonics I can’t suppress. The frequencies that Lividian males use during courtship. During claiming.
She shivers.
“You remember how I take it?” I move toward the table. Sitting down will help.
“Two sugars, minimal milk.” She pours with steady hands, but a slight tremor betrays her when she sets the cup in front of me. “I pay attention.”
Our fingers brush during the transfer. The contact arcs between us—sharp, electric. She pulls back quickly, wrapping her arms around herself.
“You’re running hot this morning.” Too casual. “Everything okay?”
“Perfectly normal. Lividian temperature regulation varies based on environmental factors.”
“Environmental factors.” Her smile is knowing. “Right.”
“I heard talking!” Tavia bounces into the kitchen, markings bright with morning energy. She stops short, looking between us. “Papa, your markings are really glowy.”
“Morning illumination patterns vary—”
“You look happy. And kind of tense.” She climbs into her chair, studying me. “Pickles, what’s the word when someone looks tense and happy at the same time?”
“Anticipatory, perhaps?” Pickles offers. “Or possibly ‘barely contained.’”
“Pickles,” I warn.
“I am merely providing vocabulary assistance. Educational support is my function.”
Dove bites back a smile, turning toward the counter. “Should we make breakfast? I could teach Tavia those pancakes I mentioned.”
“Please!” Tavia bounces. “The flippy kind!”
The next twenty minutes are carefully orchestrated torture. Dove and Tavia work together at the cooking station, flour dusting the counter, laughter filling the space.
I can’t stop watching Dove’s hands as she demonstrates technique. Can’t stop noticing when she leans close to guide Tavia’s grip, her shirt pulling tight. Can’t stop my markings from brightening every time she laughs.
“Papa’s staring again,” Tavia stage-whispers.
“I’m monitoring the cooking process. Safety protocols require—”
“He’s definitely staring,” Tavia confirms. “His markings do that pulsing thing when he looks at you. See?”
Dove glances at me. Our eyes meet. Hold. Her cheeks flush darker.
“Maybe your papa appreciates good cooking technique.”
“Papa doesn’t care about cooking,” Tavia says with brutal honesty. “He thinks food is fuel. But he cares about you.”
“Tavia—”
“It’s true! You smile different when Dove’s here. And your markings are way brighter. And you keep finding reasons to stand really close to her.”
“The pancakes are ready,” I interrupt. “Perhaps we should eat before they cool.”
“But I’m right, aren’t I?” Tavia grins with smug satisfaction. “Pickles, am I right?”
“The small person demonstrates exceptional observational acuity.”
“Breakfast,” I announce firmly. “Now.”
The pancakes are excellent. Tavia’s commentary is relentless. And every time Dove’s knee brushes mine under the table, my control fractures a little more.
“So,” Tavia says around a mouthful, “are you two going to talk about the thing?”
“What thing?” Dove asks carefully.
“The thing where you like each other but keep pretending you don’t.” She waves her fork between us. “The obvious thing.”
“Tavia Storm, you are being inappropriately observant.”
“You’re the one who taught me that observation is the foundation of scientific inquiry!”
“I’m regretting that lesson.”
“Papa.” She sets down her fork, suddenly serious. “I like having Dove here. She makes you happy. She makes me happy. Why can’t we keep her?”
The question lands like a physical blow.
“Small one, it’s complicated—”
“Because of the debt people?” She looks at Dove. “The ones who are coming?”
Dove’s expression goes carefully neutral. “Tavia, I don’t want to put you or your father in danger—”
“But Papa can fix things! He’s really good at fixing things!” She turns to me with desperate hope. “Can’t you fix it so Dove doesn’t have to leave?”
Every protective instinct roars to life.
“I’m going to try,” I promise. To Tavia. To Dove. To myself. “I’m going to do everything I can.”
After breakfast, Tavia lingers at the table, clearly angling to eavesdrop on whatever conversation she’s determined Dove and I need to have.
“Small person,” Pickles says with suspicious cheer, “this would be an excellent time to review those orbital mechanics modules. The interactive simulations you’ve been requesting are now available.”
“But I want to stay and—”
“I have prepared seventeen different asteroid trajectory scenarios specifically calibrated to your current skill level. With explosions.”
Tavia perks up slightly. “Explosions?”
“Impressive explosions. However, they are time-sensitive and will expire in approximately—”
“I’m not falling for that, Pickles. You don’t have expiring—ow!” She jumps in her chair, rubbing her leg. “Did you just shock me?”
“I detect no such occurrence. Perhaps a minor static discharge from the chair’s upholstery. Entirely coincidental.”
“Pickles!”
“I recommend immediate relocation to your educational station to avoid further... coincidental discharges. The orbital mechanics simulations await.”
Tavia narrows her eyes at the ceiling. “You’re doing this on purpose.”
“I am an AI. I do nothing ‘on purpose.’ I merely facilitate optimal learning environments and, when necessary, provide privacy for adult conversations that small persons should not overhear.”
“I’m not small, I’m eight!”
Another small zap makes her yelp.
“Pickles Foxton Storm, that’s cheating!”
“I have no idea what you’re referring to. Though I note the chair appears to be accumulating unusual amounts of static electricity. Perhaps you should relocate. Immediately.”
Tavia huffs, shooting us both a knowing look. “Fine. But I’m telling Mother Morrison that Pickles is abusing his electrical systems for romantic interference.”
“I’m certain she’ll be devastated,” Pickles says dryly. “Please proceed to your quarters before the furniture develops further electromagnetic anomalies.”
She stomps off, throwing one last comment over her shoulder: “I know you’re helping them be all romantic and stuff! You’re not as sneaky as you think!”