Chapter 6
The airlock cycled with a heavy, pressurized hiss that sounded like home.
Kirr stepped through, and the smell hit him at once—ozone and weapon oil and the slight tightness in his chest loosened. He glanced back as Harper stepped over the threshold, her eyes wide as she took in the docking bay of his flagship, the Ra'Tervas.
She looked tiny here. Small and soft against the harsh lines and the utilitarian grey of the bulkheads. But she didn't shrink away. Her gaze darted everywhere, assessing everything.
"Welcome aboard," he said, his voice echoing in the vast space.
"Holy shit," she breathed, peering down the main corridor. “It’s huge.”
His lips quirked. "It's a K'raniis-class heavy cruiser. It has to be big to carry the guns."
He led her toward the lift, shortening his stride so she didn't have to run to keep up. She was under his protection. That meant adjusting his pace to hers, even if his instincts screamed at him to scoop her up and carry her just to feel her against him again.
The lift ride was short. He activated the lock on his stateroom, and the heavy door slid aside.
The main living area was dominated by a briefing table displaying an inactive holo-map and a desk cluttered with dataflexes. Beyond that, a seating area with actual leather furniture, imported at great expense, and a viewscreen that took up half the wall.
She walked in, turning in a slow circle as she took everything in. She ran her hand over the back of the leather couch, her fingers trailing along the material.
"Do you live here?" she asked, looking back at him. "I mean, instead of on the station?"
He moved to his desk, organizing a stack of reports that his second-in-command had left for him. “Most of the time, yes. This ship is my home."
She frowned, a small crinkle appearing between her brows. "So, why are you at the station?"
“For refuel and resupply, or just to annoy the higher-ups,” he grinned. “Depends who you ask. Once the repairs on the port thrusters are complete and the power couplings are replaced, we’ll leave to head back to our patrol sectors.”
Her hand stopped moving on the couch. Her shoulders dropped, just an inch.
"Oh," she said, her voice quiet. "Yeah, that... that makes sense. You have a job to do."
She turned away, pretending to study a piece of art on the wall, but the tension in her neck gave her away.
And that… that he wasn't having.
Kirr abandoned the reports. He moved across the room, his boots silent on the thick carpet, stopping just close enough that her scent wrapped around him.
"The repairs are extensive," he said, his voice dropping low. "Engineering estimates two weeks. Maybe three."
Biting her lip, she slid him a sideways glance over her shoulder. "That's... good. For the ship, I mean.”
"And I have command," he added, taking a step closer. He waited until she turned fully to face him. "I decide where the ship and clan go. And when."
Her eyes widened. The gold flecks in her irises caught the overhead light. "You do?"
"If I had a reason to stay..." He let the sentence hang as his gaze dropped to her mouth, then back up to her eyes. "I could be… persuaded to delay our departure."
Color flooded her cheeks.
"A reason?" she squeaked.
"A compelling one."
She broke eye contact, flustered, and spun away toward the open archway on the right.
"Is this the rest of it?" she asked, her voice higher than normal as she ducked into the next room.
He bit back a grin and followed. Running away. She did that a lot. But she hadn't run out the door… she'd run into his bedroom.
Crossing his arms over his chest, he leaned against the doorframe.
The bedroom was sparse compared to the main cabin. Spartan. Functional. Dominated by the bed.
It was a custom build. Latharian males were large, and Kirr was large even for a Lathar so he’d used his rank and position as head of the warclan to have custom furniture made that fit his frame.
The bed was a massive slab of comfort, covered in dark, heavy furs from his home world and silk sheets that cost more than the empire paid for a small shuttle.
She stood at the foot of it, staring.
"It's..." She trailed off, gesturing vaguely. "That's... a lot of bed."
Pushing off the doorframe, he prowled into the room.
"I told you," he murmured, coming up behind her. He didn't touch her, but he loomed, the warmth of her back beating against the broad expanse of his chest. "Mine is bigger than Rohn's."
She choked on a laugh, turning to look up at him. Her face was bright red now, her eyes sparkling with a mix of scandal and amusement. "You are impossible. You know that, right?"
He stepped closer, invading her personal bubble until she had to tilt her head back to maintain eye contact. Her scent shifted. Sweetened. He noticed. There wasn’t a thing about her he didn’t notice.
"I sleep on the right," he said, his voice rough. "Just so you know."
Her breath caught. She glanced at the empty expanse on the left side of the bed.
"Is that... is that a rule?" she whispered.
"A preference," he said. "But I'm willing to negotiate about the pillows."
She stared at him, her lips parted. For a second, he thought she might step forward.
Might reach out and touch him, might bridge that final gap and let him pull her down onto those furs.
His hands ached to reach for her. His muscles coiled, ready to snatch her up, ready to strip that shapeless station jumpsuit off her and show her exactly why he needed a bed this size.
Then her eyes flicked past him.
"We... we should probably get back," she stammered, stepping around him. "Delilah... the medical bay... visiting hours."
He ground his teeth, frustration warring with patience. She was scared. He knew that. Pushing her now would only make those walls higher.
"Right," he said, forcing his body to relax. "Visiting hours."
He escorted her out, his mood darkening with every step. He needed to hit something. Or fuck something. Preferably the female walking three feet ahead of him, but since that wasn't happening, he'd settle for an intense session in the training ring later.
The walk back was silent as they headed back through the cargo bay. She kept glancing at the machinery, the racks as weapons lockers were restocked, and the warriors who snapped to attention as they passed.
They reached the gangway… the reinforced tunnel connecting the Ra'Tervas to Devan Station's docking ring. It was busy with foot traffic as supplies were loaded and unloaded. As they stepped onto the metal grating, the ship’s quartermaster intercepted him, dataflex in hand.
“My lord. The munitions manifest needs your authorization. Discrepancy in the core count."
Kirr took the pad, scanning the figures. Harper drifted ahead, drawn by activity near the cargo bay doors. He tracked her in the corner of his eye as he scrolled through the inventory.
She stopped, watching as a team of handlers guided drakeen in their loading cradles into the hold. The combat robots were offline, their armor gleaming under the industrial lights, but even inert they radiated danger. She leaned closer, fascinated.
Signing off on the manifest, he handed it back. "Sorted. Next time, don't let it get to discrepancy stage."
The quartermaster saluted and disappeared.
He looked up and went still.
A warrior leaned against the bulkhead near the station-side airlock with the arrogant posture of a male who hadn't seen real combat yet. He was young and Kirr didn’t recognize him, which meant he was on his first real combat rotation.
As Harper walked past, the kid straightened.
His gaze didn't just land on her. It crawled over her. Started at her boots, slid up her legs, lingered on the curve of her hips, slow-walked up to her chest.
Disrespectful. Hungry. Predatory.
Kirr went cold.
The kid didn't notice. He was too busy leaning forward, a sleek, practiced smile sliding onto his face as he intercepted Harper's path.
"Well, hello," he said. "Don't see many humans down this end of the ring. You lost, kelarris? Need someone to show you the—"
He didn’t get a chance to finish the sentence.
Kirr slammed him into the bulkhead with enough force to pulverize bone.
The kid’s feet dangled six inches off the deck as Kirr’s massive fist clenched around his throat, crushing just enough to cut off air.
"You don’t touch her," he snarled, right into the kid’s face.
The kid's eyes bulged. His hands scrambled at Kirr's forearm, useless against the strength of a War-Commander.
The hold had gone silent behind them, but he didn't look around. He didn't care who was watching. He leaned in, his face inches from the gasping male, teeth bared in a snarl.
"You don’t look at her," he said as he squeezed tighter. The kid turned a dark, suffocated shade of violet. Part of him hoped the kid fought back. Gave him an excuse. "You don’t even think about her. You do?”
He slammed him against the wall again, hard enough to dent the metal plating.
“And you die."
He held him there for a second longer. Then, with a sneer of disgust, released his grip.
The kid dropped to the deck, gasping and heaving for air. Scrambling backward with a look of horror on his face, he turned and fled.
Kirr didn't watch him go. He turned, his chest heaving, and stopped suddenly.
Harper stood behind him, her hands clapped over her mouth.
Her eyes were huge… wide and shocked. And she was staring at him.
Harper was being escorted. That was the word for it, not walked or accompanied—escorted, like a prisoner or a fragile piece of cargo that might break if jostled.
Kirr's bulk blocked her view of every passing crew member, every shadow in the corridor.
She should probably be annoyed about it, but after what happened on the gangway, she couldn't quite manage it.
The medical bay doors slid open with a soft hiss, and Kellat looked up from where he sat at a console, brow arching when he saw them.