9. Nyra #3
He looks at me over his shoulder, his eyes still radiating with that residual red heat. "Stay here. If you touch another panel, I will not be so lenient next time."
"I’m not staying put, Draevik!" I yell as he moves toward the door.
"You will," he guarantees, the door hissing open at his command. "Because if you don't, the ship will vent the atmosphere in this wing to protect the core. It’s a safety protocol I cannot override once it begins."
He disappears into the hallway, the door slamming shut with a finality that makes my stomach drop.
I’m alone again.
My stolen tools lay across the floor beneath the mangled maintenance panel. My hands shake because for some reason, his heat lingers on my skin like a phantom weight.
"I hate you," I hiss to the closed door.
Instead of returning to the bed, I linger by the panel to stare at the broken wires. I failed. I’m still here, and now I’ve just proven to him that I’m a danger to his precious ship. But as I stand there in the indigo light, I realize something.
He could have broken my wrists for what I did to his ship. Instead, he held me. He looked at me like I was something precious, even while he was calling me a disruption.
Sinking to the floor, I lean my head against the cold obsidian. I stay because I have to.
That should be the end of it. Instead, my skin still prickles where he touched me, and I have no framework for what that means.
"You're not keeping me," I mutter to the ceiling, the words catching in my throat. "I'm going to find the exit. I'm going to find it, and I'm going to run. I don't care how many stews you feed me or how many books you leave out."
A baritone, trembling vibration echoes through the walls that lulls me into a restless silence. I’m still a prisoner. I’m still a bounty. And I’m still going to discover a way to burn this cage to the ground, even if I have to burn with it.
I spend the next several hours in a state of energetic tension. Every time the ship shudders, I think about the reactor core, about the blue liquid veins I almost severed. I think about Draevik’s bare arms and the way his hearts sounded.
He thinks he’s contained me. He thinks he’s the one in control. But I saw the way his restraint cracked. I saw the way he looked at me—like a man starving for a fire too big to contain.
I move to the sleeping dais. I sit on the edge instead of lying down, staring at the closed door.
My mind fills with a whirlwind of escape routes and technical schematics.
I need to get to the hull. I need to get to the Harrow.
I need to get away from the heat of the mark and the weight of his gaze.
"He's a monster," I tell the empty room. The room offers no disagreement, but the air feels warmer than it did two days ago.
Picking up one of the ancient, flowery books he left for me, I blindly flip through the pages, letting my fingers trace the alien script. I’m looking for anything beyond his ship, his walls, or his face.
I act as the singular variable destined to break his entire equation.
As the hours crawl by, the indigo light of the Sanctum dims, signaling a "night" cycle. The ship’s acoustic resonance deepens, a deep-tone lullaby that traverses through the dais. I find myself leaning my head back against the wall, my eyes heavy with exhaustion.
The door cycles open.
Without moving, I keep my eyes on the book, though I can't see a single word. I feel his presence before I perceive him—a heavy, warm shadow that fills the room. Without saying anything, he walks to the central console and begins to work, his fingers clicking softly against the interface.
The stillness that separates us feels different now. It’s the silence of two people who have stood in the heart of a sun and are still trying to figure out if they’re burned.
I look up at his back. He still isn't wearing the armor. He looks tired, his shoulders slumps slightly.
"Is it fixed?" I ask gravelly.
"The surge is contained," he responds in a deep-toned rumble. "The ship is stable."
I close the book with a snap. "Good. Because I’d hate for the ship to die before I find the exit."
He finally turns, his crimson and gold eyes locking onto mine. A shadow crosses his features—a sharp, dangerous trace of genuine respect.
"You persist as an uncontrollable variable, Nyra."
"I’m a scavenger, Draevik," I throw back at him. "Persistence is all I have. And I will never stop. I’m going to keep trying until I’m gone or the ship is scrap."
He watches me, still and unreadable, the light in his skin unchangeable and deep. "I know."
He turns back to his console, silent about sleep, silent about the stasis field. He just works.
I lay back on the silks, the scent of iron and ozone clinging to the fabric.
He thinks he’s contained me, but he’s just given me a front-row seat to his weaknesses.
I refuse to get caught up in his web or mistake his restraint for anything other than a different kind of leash.
I close my eyes, the warmth of the mark a regular, thumping movement against my skin.
I silently promise to myself that I will leave and get my ship back.