Chapter 13
VROK
The lights flicker again—third time in the last hour—and my ship groans like it’s sick of both of us.
I tap the side panel hard enough to make it beep in protest. “You better not be dying on me tonight,” I mutter.
Behind me, she laughs. “Talking to it like it’s your pet?”
“It’s got more attitude than most crew I’ve had.”
“You’ve had crew?”
“Briefly.”
She hums. I don’t turn. The truth is, the ship’s attitude isn’t the problem.
It’s the power fluctuation. It’s the glitch in the environmental regulator. It’s the fact that now, during recalibration, both systems—backup and primary—need monitoring, which means manual oversight.
And that means I can’t sleep in the cockpit tonight.
And neither can she.
“This one’s yours,” I say, thumbing the door open to the smaller bunk chamber.
“I figured,” she says. “You’ve been in it the last three nights.”
“You want the cockpit?”
“No.”
She steps inside, surveys the space like she’s calculating her odds of surviving it.
And I stand there.
Because it hits me—how small the room is. How small the distance is. And how much of my control is held together by duct tape and denial.
“Cozy,” she says, eyeing the single bunk. “Real subtle, this seduction strategy.”
“I didn’t design it.”
“You chose it.”
I let that sit.
She sits down on the bunk. Not sprawled, not lounging—perched. Like she hasn’t decided what she wants yet.
The room’s dim, and the ship hums low and slow, and I feel the pressure of the moment like gravity’s shifted. Not heavy. Just dense.
I lean against the bulkhead. “You tired?”
She shrugs. “Not really.”
I nod. My jaw flexes. My claws curl just slightly against my thigh.
Then she looks at me. Just looks. Like I’m a question she’s already answered and is waiting for me to catch up.
So I move.
Not fast. Not slow. I close the space between us, giving her time to flinch, to speak, to stop.
She does none of those things.
Her chin lifts, and her body stills—but not like prey. Like challenge.
So I reach out, touch the line of her jaw with two fingers. Her skin’s warmer than mine, soft like she bathes in suns.
She doesn’t move.
“You always let strange men into your bed?” I ask.
Her breath catches. “You’re not strange.”
“No?”
“You’re very… specific.”
My mouth quirks. “And that’s a yes?”
“It’s a ‘I’m still deciding.’”
I drop my hand. Let her choose.
She doesn’t hesitate. She reaches for me, grabs the front of my shirt, and yanks.
Her mouth crashes into mine like we’re already mid-fight.
I lift her off the bed without thinking. Her legs wrap around me, and she grinds into me like she’s trying to start a fire. She probably will.
We hit the wall—thud, breath, low growl—and I’m kissing her like I’ve earned it, like I need to, and I do, stars help me.
Her hands tear at my shirt, nails scraping over scales, and I hiss. She smirks into the kiss, and it does something dangerous to me.
“You always this bossy?” I ask against her lips.
“You always this mouthy?” she shoots back.
“Only when I’m thinking clearly.”
“So stop.”
She kisses me again—hot, fierce, all tongue and teeth and something wild. And my restraint fractures.
I carry her to the bunk, toss her down—not rough, not gentle—and stare.
Her chest rises fast. Her pupils are blown wide. Her lips are slick.
“I don’t want careful,” she says.
I pull my shirt off in one motion. “Good.”
Her shirt’s gone next. Then her pants. Then her everything.
She’s all curves and attitude, scars and softness, and she looks at me like she dares me to say something sentimental.
I don’t.
I kneel over her. My hands skim her thighs, slow and reverent, and her breath hitches. I trace the edge of her hip, then lower, and she shudders.
When I kiss the inside of her knee, she makes a sound that nearly undoes me.
“You sure about this?” I ask, voice rough.
Her answer is to grab my wrist and pull.
I slide my hand between her thighs, find her wet and wanting, and my cock throbs hard enough it hurts.
“Fuck,” I murmur.
“Took you long enough.”
I tease her, slow and thorough. She gasps. Arches. Curses.
And then I fuck her with my fingers until she’s shaking, eyes wild, back bowed.
When she comes, it’s not polite. It’s not pretty.
It’s honest.
And I nearly follow her over the edge just from watching.
She pulls me up, breathless. “Clothes. Off. Now.”
“Yes ma’am.”
She watches me strip like she’s cataloging weak points. When I drop my pants, her eyes go wide.
“Stars,” she breathes. “Do you come with a warning label?”
“Wouldn’t help.”
When I push inside her, she grabs my arms so hard she’ll leave bruises.
I don’t care.
She feels like heat and heaven and hell all at once, and I have to brace a hand against the wall to keep from losing it.
She meets every thrust, nails in my back, breath in my mouth.
“Harder,” she demands.
“Greedy,” I growl.
She grins. “You like it.”
I do.
I fuck her like I’m trying to burn away every doubt either of us ever had.
She claws my shoulders, bites my throat, whimpers my name like it’s the only one she knows.
And when we come—together—it’s not clean.
It’s not quiet.
It’s war and worship and something that leaves me panting over her, forehead pressed to hers, heart thundering like a predator’s drumbeat.
She cups my jaw, thumb brushing the edge of my mouth.
“You okay?” she asks, softly.
I nod. “Yeah.”
She tilts her head. “You’re not gonna get all weird on me, are you?”
“Too late.”
She snorts. “Fine. But if you write me poetry, I’m out.”
“I don’t do poetry.”
“Good.”
We breathe.
The ship hums.
And deep in my chest, the jalshagar bond flickers—dim but present, like a pilot light I didn’t mean to ignite.
I ignore it.
For now.
Because whatever this is—it’s real.
And that means it’s dangerous.
So I take her lips again, and she melts into me.