Chapter 17
KRISTI
The adrenaline’s still flooding my bloodstream when we push open the rusted door of the safehouse.
It creaks like it hasn’t moved in years—and maybe it hasn’t. The place smells like dust and spice and memory. Old Voreni storage loft, tucked above what used to be a spice mill before the quotas gutted it. The stairs groan under our weight, every step echoing like a warning shot in the dark.
But we made it.
Kenron kicks the door shut behind us. He doesn’t speak.
Doesn’t need to. The success of the mission hangs between us like smoke—tangible and choking.
The data shard’s secure in his chest pocket.
The samples are triple-sealed and stored in a cryo-pack I haven’t let go of since we left the council facility.
They’re safe. For now.
But I’m not.
My hands are still shaking, not from fear but from everything else I’ve shoved down since I picked up that damn heat cutter. I slump onto an overturned crate, press the heels of my palms into my eyes.
I can feel his eyes on me.
The scrape of his boots across the floor. The clink of armor unlatching.
Silence.
When I look up, Kenron’s pulling off the last of his gear. His scales catch the dim light filtering through the broken shutters—sweat-slicked, battle-scorched. He stands like he doesn’t know how to relax anymore, tension carved into his shoulders, into the lines around his mouth.
“You’re bleeding,” I say.
He glances at his forearm. Shrugs. “Just a scrape.”
I stand, walk over, catch his arm before he can pull away. The cut is shallow but angry—split just beneath the scale.
“You need to clean it.”
“So do you,” he says, nodding toward my cheek.
I’d forgotten about that. The scrape from where I dove behind the server panel.
Kenron turns toward an old utility sink in the corner, opens a crate marked MEDSUP. Somehow, it’s still stocked. He sets out the basics—wipes, bandages, disinfectant.
I follow.
We work in silence again, but it’s different now. Not avoidance. Not resentment.
It’s something else.
He finishes dressing his arm, then gestures for me to sit. I do. He kneels in front of me and dabs at my cheek with a soaked cloth, his touch surprisingly gentle.
“You’re shaking,” he murmurs.
“I know.”
“You cold?”
“No.”
He meets my eyes.
“Then what is it?”
I open my mouth, close it again. My throat tightens.
“I don’t know,” I whisper. “Maybe it’s everything. Maybe it’s you.”
His hand stills.
“Kristi…”
I shake my head. “Don’t. Just—don’t make this about right or wrong. Not right now. We got the proof. That should be enough.”
He finishes with the bandage and stands.
“No,” he says. “It’s not.”
I blink. “It’s not?”
His voice is low. Rough. “Not for me.”
I rise to meet him, barely breathing. The air between us shimmers, thick with everything we haven’t said.
“I thought you hated me.”
“I did,” he admits.
“But not anymore.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because even after everything, I still see you.”
My chest tightens. “And what do you see?”
He steps closer.
“Someone who’s scared. But brave enough to act anyway.”
“I didn’t think you’d come.”
“I didn’t think I’d forgive you.”
I look down. “Maybe you haven’t.”
He lifts my chin. “Maybe I’m not ready to stop caring.”
And just like that, the dam breaks. Our mouths meet—clumsy, fierce, aching. It’s not delicate. It’s not clean. It’s everything we are right now—desperate and on fire.
The kiss we started doesn’t end. It escalates.
There’s no finesse, no poetry. Just war. Tongues clashing like blades. Mouths devouring like we’ve been starved for years. Hands gripping fabric, flesh, anything solid to remind us we’re still real. Still here. Still allowed to feel.
Kenron growls—a deep, guttural sound that vibrates through my chest like a battle drum—and I answer with a gasp as I tug his belt free. The metal buckle clangs to the floor.
“Kristi,” he breathes against my jaw, his voice fractured, raw.
I kiss him again. Harder. “Don’t stop.”
He doesn’t.
He lifts me like I weigh nothing and sets me down on the makeshift table. The wood creaks under us. The smell of old spice and oil clings to everything, but all I smell is him—sweat and scorched leather and something uniquely Vakutan. Bitter and warm, like charred cedar and lightning.
My shirt hits the ground.
His armor drops, piece by piece, each with a metallic thunk that feels like shedding centuries.
I run my hands over his chest, his scales warm and slick under my palms, tracing old scars with reverence and rage. His muscles ripple beneath my fingers—firm, immense, alien in ways that make my thighs ache.
“You shouldn’t still want me,” I whisper.
“I shouldn’t still breathe,” he snaps back.
His mouth crashes into mine again, and the kiss is brutal and sweet, lips and teeth and tongue fighting for every ounce of air we’ll never get enough of.
His hands grip my thighs, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise, and I welcome it—every sting, every scratch, every reminder that this is real.
Pants hit the floor. Then the rest.
I reach for his cock and I can feel him pulse beneath my palm, hot and thick and scaled in places that make me gasp.
He growls again, shuddering when I stroke him, a bead of precum slicking my fingers.
He’s impossibly hard, the length of him fitting in my hand like a weapon crafted for war and worship.
“Fuck, you’re beautiful,” I whisper.
His breath stutters. “Say that again.”
“You’re beautiful,” I repeat, slower, threading the words with everything I’ve never said.
He grabs my hips and pulls me forward, my pussy slick and aching, throbbing with need. He presses the tip of his cock to me and we both go still.
“This okay?” he asks, voice trembling with restraint.
“Yes.”
Then he pushes into me.
I cry out, biting my lip hard, my body stretching to take him. He’s huge, too much, just right, every inch deeper wringing a sound from me I didn’t know I could make. My fingers claw his shoulders, scraping scales.
“Shit,” I breathe. “Kenron...”
He answers in Vakutan—words like gravel and thunder, soft and savage in equal measure. He presses his forehead to mine as he buries himself to the hilt.
“You feel like fire,” he groans. “Like home.”
We move. Slow, at first, savoring the stretch, the wet heat, the unbearable pleasure of fitting together so completely. Then faster. Hungrier.
My heels dig into his back. My pussy clenches around his cock, milking him, drawing him deeper.
“You feel everything,” he gasps.
“I feel you,” I pant. “Gods, I feel you everywhere.”
He lifts one of my legs, angling me so every thrust slams against that perfect spot inside me, and I scream—raw, wrecked, begging. The table thumps with every motion. Our bodies slap together, soaked and shining with sweat and desire.
He grinds against me, and I unravel. My orgasm hits like lightning—blinding, burning, infinite. I sob his name, stars bursting behind my eyelids.
He doesn’t stop.
He fucks me through it, then up into another, and another, until I’m gasping, shaking, spent. Only then does he let go, roaring my name as he spills inside me, his cock pulsing deep, each spasm like a vow.
We collapse together, skin to scale, chest to chest.
Our breathing slows. Our heartbeats sync.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper against his skin.
He brushes a strand of hair from my face. “Don’t be. Just... don’t leave.”
I nod.
Not because I’m sure.
But because right now, I want to believe there’s still something left to stay for.
When he finally pulls back, I curl against his chest. His arms wrap around me like a fortress.
Outside, the wind howls through the broken shutters.
Inside, the fire crackles low.
But for the first time in weeks, the storm in my chest is quiet.
I don’t know what tomorrow brings.
But tonight, I am warm.
And I am not alone.