Chapter 15
JOLIE
The sweep hits wrong.
Not just fast—wrong.
The rhythm of the corridor feels different in a way that doesn’t belong to routine movement, and I feel it before I consciously process it, that tightening in the air that comes when too many boots move with the same purpose at the same time.
I don’t wait to confirm it.
I move.
My boots hit the floor in controlled strides as I cut down a side corridor, abandoning the main route without hesitation. The lighting dips as I go deeper, flickering unevenly overhead, and the air thickens with heat and recycled metal, dragging against the back of my throat with every breath.
“Clear the lower sectors.”
The voice echoes behind me, closer than it should be.
“Check all access points.”
I adjust direction mid-step, recalculating distances and angles, but the corridors here don’t offer clean exits. Everything narrows, compresses, funnels into dead spaces that don’t leave room for error.
Then a hand catches my arm.
I react instantly, my body twisting, my free hand coming up—
“Relax,” Hrask’s voice cuts in, low and close, his grip tightening just enough to redirect me without forcing it.
He pulls me sideways into a maintenance alcove barely large enough to fit us both, then steps in front of me, blocking the opening with his body.
The shift is immediate and total. The corridor disappears, replaced by a confined pocket of heat and shadow where the air feels thicker, closer, saturated with the scent of metal, dust, and him.
“What are you—” I start, but he shakes his head slightly, his gaze flicking past me toward the corridor.
“Listen,” he murmurs.
Boots pass by just outside, the sound heavy and deliberate, voices overlapping in short, controlled bursts that suggest more than a routine check.
“Nothing here.”
“Keep moving.”
The noise recedes, but not enough to risk movement.
The space forces us to stand close. Really close, and there is no way to ignore it.
My back presses lightly against the wall, the metal warm from the systems running behind it, and he stands close enough that every breath I take brushes against him.
My traitorous nipples harden at the incidental contact.
The heat between us builds quickly in the enclosed space, thick and unavoidable.
Our eyes meet, and my heart thuds harder in my chest. Yet, I don’t look away.
“You’ve got terrible timing,” he murmurs, his voice low enough that I feel the vibration of it more than I hear it.
“You dragged me in here,” I reply, keeping my voice just as low, though it comes out tighter than I intend.
“You were about to walk straight into them.”
“I had it handled.”
“Yeah,” he says, a faint edge of dry amusement slipping in. “Looked that way.”
I glare up at him, but the angle is wrong, the distance too close, and the tension between us deepens instead of settling.
“You don’t get to—” I begin sharply.
His hand clamps over my mouth, silencing me.
“Shh,” he says.
I shush, all right. Not that I have any choice. The power in just one of his hands is more than I have in my entire body. Suddenly I can’t stop thinking about those hands all over my body.
The voices pass again, nearer this time, and instinct overrides everything else. I still completely, my body aligning with his without thinking, my attention snapping outward while the rest of me remains acutely aware of how close he is.
Too close.
The corridor quiets again, but neither of us moves.
The air thickens, the heat building in layers that have nothing to do with the environment anymore.
“You’re tense,” he says.
“No, I’m not.”
“You are,” he replies, shifting slightly.
The movement is small, barely noticeable, but it changes everything. The contact between us becomes more defined, more intentional, and I feel it in a way that pulls my focus away from the corridor and straight back to him.
“Maybe because I’m stuck in a box with you,” I say.
“That’s not why.”
I tilt my head slightly, narrowing my eyes.
“Then explain it.”
His gaze drops, slow and deliberate, tracing the space between us before returning to my face.
“Because you’re not thinking about the sweep anymore,” he says.
The words settle into me, and I hate how accurate they feel.
“It should be the only thing I’m thinking about,” I reply.
“Probably,” he agrees.
Neither of us moves.
The silence stretches, but it isn’t empty. It fills with the sound of our breathing, with the faint hum of the systems, with the awareness of every inch of space that doesn’t exist between us.
“This is a bad idea,” I say.
“Yeah,” he replies.
“You’re not helping.”
“Wasn’t trying to.”
My breath catches slightly, and I don’t like that he notices.
“You keep doing that,” he says quietly.
“Doing what?”
“Pretending you don’t feel it,” he replies.
My pulse kicks harder, sharp and insistent.
“I feel it,” I say.
“Then why are you still here?”
The question lands hard, because I don’t have an answer that doesn’t unravel everything.
Instead of stepping back, instead of creating space, I reach for him.
My hand closes around the front of his uniform, fingers tightening, pulling him the rest of the way into me with a decisiveness that surprises even me. The contact snaps into place instantly, tension collapsing into something physical, something immediate that leaves no room for distance or denial.
“Maybe I’m done pretending,” I say, my voice lower now.
His breath shifts, sharper, and his hand comes up to my side, firm and steady, not forcing but not leaving either. The heat between us spikes, the confined space amplifying every movement, every shift of contact.
“You’re sure about this?” he asks, his voice rougher now.
“No,” I answer honestly.
“That’s not reassuring.”
“Then stop me.”
He doesn’t.
The line that’s been sitting between us for weeks disappears completely, replaced by something heavier, something that pulls instead of resists.
The tension that used to sit in our arguments, in the way we stood too close and refused to acknowledge it, redirects into something that demands attention instead of avoidance.
Everything sharpens.
The feel of his grip tightening slightly at my side, the way his breath brushes against my skin, the way the space that once felt too small now feels like it exists only for this.
His hand slides to the small of my back, and he crushes me against him in a fierce, possessive hug. A low growl escapes his throat, but not an angry growl. No, this is…hungry.
Hungry for me.
His mouth is on my neck, and the juxtaposition of his soft lips and hard, sharp teeth drives me crazy. Not to mention his soft, dry scales and his hot, wet mouth…
I clutch at Hrask’s huge head, pulling him into me. His cock twitches hard beneath his uniform, then strains against the fabric as if desperately trying to be free. He unsnaps my fly with incredible dexterity for someone with such huge hands.
A deep moan escapes my throat, and right now I don’t care if someone hears it.
Instinct and desire have taken over fully.
My trousers slide off, baring my legs. He runs his palm along the curve of my hip down to my thigh.
With somewhat less alacrity, I undo his buckle and free his cock from its prison.
A gasp issues from my mouth as I feel his rod. Throbbing hardness so thick I can barely get my hand around it. I explore him even as he explores me. Hrask’s fingers slide through the groove of my pussy and come away wet.
Hrask lifts me off my feet with one arm. I move my body to accommodate his weapon as it slides slowly inside of me. My eyes flutter closed as he stretches me, fills me, not painfully but quite fully. I can feel his heartbeat throbbing inside of me.
I hate the Grolgath. I hate the coalition. But I don’t hate this. It’s so raw and natural, primal, that logic is gone out the window. I wrap my legs around his waist as he leans into his thrusts. Pleasure crackles from my pussy, spreading all throughout my body.
I can’t help it. My mouth flies open with deep, guttural cries of passion.
“Hush, sweet Jolie,” he growls barely above a whisper, his hand again covering my mouth. I let out my sharp, lusty exhalations against his huge palm. His claws scratch against my cheek, not enough to draw blood but enough that I can feel their sharpness.
Our bodies move together as if on instinct.
For a bad decision, this feels amazing. Like I’ve waited my whole life for this moment without realizing it.
He could crush me like an insect, yet I feel safe in his grasp.
Safe enough to relax, submitting to being silenced--well, sort of.
Some sound still escapes. His heavy grunts and growls fill the tiny room, to.
Some part of my brain still capable of rational thought realizes the patrol sweep must have moved on.
He strains taut as a bowstring against me, releasing his seed. His cock throbs like mad, and I fly over the threshold of climax without stopping to blink. I grab his scaled body, and scream into his hand as pulse after pulse of sheer ecstasy shoots through me.
Time stretches, compresses, loses structure entirely as the moment deepens, as proximity turns into something more consuming, something that leaves no room for the outside world.
The corridor, the sweep, the risk—all of it fades until the only thing that matters is the contact, the heat, the undeniable pull that neither of us is resisting anymore.
When it finally slows, it doesn’t end cleanly.
It fades in layers, breath by breath, movement by movement, until the space between us starts to exist again.
I step back first.
I have to.
The distance feels wrong immediately, like something just got torn away too quickly, but I force it anyway, dragging a hand through my hair as I try to pull myself back into something controlled.
“That changes nothing,” I say, my voice steady even as my pulse refuses to settle.
Hrask watches me, his expression unreadable for a second before something faintly knowing slips through.
“Sure,” he says.
I shoot him a sharp look.
“I mean it.”
“Yeah,” he replies. “I know.”
“You don’t sound convinced.”
“I’m not.”
I exhale sharply, crossing my arms as if that creates distance that actually matters.
“This was a mistake.”
“Then why did you start it?” he asks.
I don’t answer right away, because the truth doesn’t come out clean.
“Doesn’t matter,” I say instead.
“It does,” he counters.
“It doesn’t change the situation,” I say. “We’re still doing the same thing. Same objective. Same risks.”
“Right,” he says. “Nothing changed.”
The way he says it makes it clear he doesn’t believe it.
I step back again, forcing more space.
“Good,” I say. “Then we’re aligned.”
He studies me, his gaze sharper now.
“You keep telling yourself that,” he says.
“I don’t need to tell myself anything.”
“No,” he replies. “You just need to walk away.”
The words hit closer than they should.
So I do.
I turn and step out of the alcove, the corridor air hitting cooler against my skin even though nothing about it has changed.
“Jolie,” he calls.
I stop, but I don’t turn fully.
“What?” I ask.
“You didn’t pull away,” he says, his voice quieter now but carrying anyway.
“That doesn’t mean anything.”
“Yeah,” he says. “Keep telling yourself that.”
I don’t answer.
I keep walking.
Because if I stop—
I already know I won’t leave.