Chapter 26
The access tube wasn’t built for two. Especially not when one of them was Carmen, who liked her personal space like she liked her control – absolute and uncompromised.
The curved metal walls pressed in, cold against her back.
The air was stale, recycled one too many times, thick with the sharp tang of ozone bleeding from the jury-rigged power conduits snaking along the ceiling and the greasy scent of lubricant from the disassembled jump-drive components scattered around them.
But beneath it all, cutting through the industrial stink, was her: warm fur, that maddeningly sweet musk, a scent that coiled low in Carmen’s belly despite the cold dread of their situation.
Mila.
Carmen wedged her shoulder harder against the bulkhead, trying to gain another inch of leverage.
Sweat plastered her tank top to her back.
Her knuckles ached where she gripped the micro torque driver, its high-pitched whine echoing in the cramped space as she fought a stubborn bolt securing the salvaged plasma-flow regulator to the cracked initiator matrix housing.
The damned thing was fused, probably from the core breach.
Like everything else on this cursed ship.
“Counter-clockwise pressure, Captain,” Mila’s voice came from inches away, soft but clear.
She was crouched opposite Carmen in the tube, her body folded with unnatural grace into the minimal space. Her green eyes, luminous in the dim work-light glow, tracked Carmen’s hands.
“The housing alloy expanded unevenly during the thermal spike. You may need to apply localized heat from the induction probe on setting three before the bolt yields.”
Carmen gritted her teeth. She knew that.
Zed had already suggested it twice. Hearing it from Mila, though, with that calm, competent certainty, pricked her pride.
Like being schooled by the walking bio-contaminant currently flooding the cramped tube with pheromones that made Carmen’s skin feel too tight.
“I got it,” she snapped.
She thumbed the induction probe Zed had passed down earlier, the tip glowing cherry-red. She pressed it against the bolthead. Metal hissed. The smell of superheated alloy joined the olfactory cacophony.
“Just manage the thermal shunt,” she ordered. “Keep the bleed-off contained. Last thing we need is this whole junction cooking because you got distracted.”
The accusation hung in the air, unfair but reflexive. A defense mechanism.
Mila didn’t flinch. Her clawed fingers moved with delicate precision, adjusting the heavy thermal shunt clamped around the regulator housing.
“Thermal gradient stable, Captain. Bleed-off nominal.”
Her gaze lifted from the shunt, meeting Carmen’s. There was no reproach, only that unnerving focus.
“Distraction is unlikely. The task requires full attention.” A pause, then, softer, “As does navigating our current predicament.”
Carmen’s hand tightened on the torque driver. The implication was clear.
Stop being distracted by me.
“I’m not distracted,” she said, gritting her teeth as she fought the fused bolt.
“I didn’t say you were.”
“I have a lot to think about. It’s not like this situation is easy to fix.”
“True,” Mila commented. “I would imagine trying to control all the variables yourself would be overwhelming.”
Carmen stopped working and stared at her. Was Mila making an accusation? Was she telling Carmen she couldn’t do it?
The Xena’s gaze was unreadable. Carmen shook her head and returned to fighting the induction probe. The sweet scent of those pheromones seemed to intensify with the renewed fire of the tool’s tip. Frustration settled around her shoulders like a blanket.
“Letitia’s right,” she said.
“What about?”
“I think better after I’ve been laid.”
As soon as the confession was out of her mouth, she wanted to die. Had she really said that out loud? Damn but their predicament was making her careless. She needed to get ahold of herself.
“Are you asking me to have sex with you?” Mila said, no surprise or confusion in her tone.
Heat unrelated to the induction probe flooded Carmen’s cheeks.
She refused to look at the Xena, instead jamming the driver hard into the bolt, throwing her weight into it.
The metal screamed, then finally yielded with a metallic pop.
She almost overbalanced, catching herself against the vibrating bulkhead.
Her elbow brushed against Mila’s furred arm.
The contact was brief, incidental. But it sent a jolt through Carmen, electric and unwelcome – especially with that damnable slip of the tongue out there. She jerked her arm back as if burned.
“Regulator’s free,” she announced, her voice rough.
She wrestled the component out of its housing, the salvaged part heavy and awkward in the confined space.
She passed it to Mila, their fingers brushing again.
Mila’s claws were cool, smooth. Carmen focused on the regulator’s weight, the grime on its casing – anything but the way her pulse hammered in her veins.
“Get the new one seated,” she commanded. “Tight. No play.”
Mila accepted the regulator without comment. Her movements were economical, efficient. She didn’t fumble in the tight space.
She watched, unable to look away, as Mila aligned the replacement regulator cannibalized from Turret Alpha into the housing. The yellow and red fur on her back rippled with the effort, muscles shifting beneath. The stripes stood out like war paint.
Carmen’s mouth went dry. Should she answer Mila’s question? What if she gave the answer she wanted to?
What if Mila agreed?
She forced herself to look at the housing, at the exposed wiring, at anything but the alien woman whose very presence felt like a physical violation and a magnetic pull.
“Alignment confirmed,” Mila murmured. She reached for the torque driver Carmen still held. “May I?”
Carmen handed it over, her fingers deliberately avoiding contact this time. Mila took it, her eyes lingering on Carmen’s face for a heartbeat too long before she bent to the task. The whine of the driver filled the tube again.
Silence stretched, thick with the hum of the ship and the unspoken tension coiling between them. Carmen leaned her head back against the warm metal, closing her eyes for a second. Exhaustion warred with the relentless buzz of awareness Mila generated.
“You carry it all,” Mila said, her voice cutting through Carmen’s thoughts, soft but penetrating.
She wasn’t looking at Carmen; she was focused on tightening the bolts securing the new regulator.
“The ship. The crew. Their fear. Their anger. Their survival.” A bolt clicked into place with finality.
“You believe it is yours alone to bear.”
Carmen’s eyes snapped open. She stared at the curve of Mila’s spine, the way her fur caught the low light.
“It is mine,” she retorted, the words automatic. “I’m the captain. The buck stops here. Always has.”
She thought of Sark’s terrified face, Norvik’s cold pragmatism, Letitia’s furious disappointment. W’Ooshlee’s sightless eyes. Her failure.
“Especially when things go to shit,” she added. “Which they do. A lot.”
Mila finished the last bolt and straightened slightly, turning her head to look at Carmen. Her green eyes held no judgment, only a deep, unsettling understanding.
“Responsibility is not the same as control, Captain. One is duty. The other …” She paused, her gaze tracing the tight line of Carmen’s jaw, the tension in her shoulders. “The other is a cage. A cage you lock yourself inside, believing it keeps the chaos out. But it only traps you with it.”
Carmen stiffened.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.” Her voice was low, dangerous. A warning.
“I know what I see,” Mila replied, unflinching.
She set the torque driver aside, her movements deliberate.
“I see a woman who grips the helm so tightly her knuckles bleed, afraid that letting go for even a moment will send everything spinning into the void. I see her in her quarters, alone, wrestling with decisions that could kill us all, refusing to share the weight because she believes only her hands are strong enough.”
She leaned forward slightly, the scant space between them shrinking. Carmen could see the fine texture of the fur on her cheek, the dilation of her pupils in the dim light. The scent intensified, warm and inviting.
“I see her directing, demanding, controlling every touch, every glance, as if even contact with another being is a variable to be managed.”
“Shut up,” Carmen hissed. “You have no right—”
“I have every right,” Mila interrupted, her voice still soft but layered with an authority Carmen hadn’t heard before. It wasn’t harsh; it was commanding, certain. “Because I see what you need, Carmen Díaz. What you crave, buried under all that steel and guilt and desperate control.”
Her gaze locked onto Carmen’s, intense, magnetic.
“You need to stop. To let go. To surrender. Not to fate, not to the void, but to hands strong enough to hold you, to take the weight. To give you what you truly hunger for.”
Carmen’s heart pounded. Her breath quickened.
“And what’s that?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
“Release,” Mila answered.
The word hung in the cramped, steamy air. It vibrated in Carmen’s chest, resonating with a terrifying truth she’d spent a lifetime running from.
Release. The very idea sent a bolt of pure panic through her, warring violently with a deep, aching yearning that rose from some hidden, starved place within her. It wasn’t just the pheromones. This felt primal, necessary.
She couldn’t look away from Mila’s eyes. The green was deep, fathomless, promising oblivion. Promising peace.
“You think you can give me that?” she whispered, betraying the vulnerability she fought so hard to conceal. “You think you can handle me?”
A faint, knowing smile touched Mila’s lips.