Chapter 17 #3
"I trained at the police academy for six months.
Then field training. Then years of continuing education—tactical response, close quarters combat, threat assessment, weapons proficiency.
I qualified expert marksman ten years running.
" She leaned forward, her eyes locked on mine with an intensity that made me feel like she was looking straight through me.
"I took down suspects twice my size who were high on PCP and didn't feel pain.
I made split-second decisions that meant the difference between going home and going to the morgue. "
She paused, letting that sink in.
"I'm not some civilian you picked up who needs protecting. I'm trained police. And I've already proven I can handle myself in exactly this kind of situation." Her voice softened slightly, but the steel remained. "Or did you forget who got your ass off Merisalle?"
"But you were shot," I said, the words coming out rougher than I intended. "In New York. You told me—"
"I was shot because I was alone." The steel underneath her voice didn't waver.
"I was doing my job, chasing a dealer through Hell's Kitchen at two in the morning.
My backup was tied up with another situation.
I made a tactical error—I got tunnel vision, focused on the suspect, didn't clear my corners.
I was vulnerable because I was by myself, making decisions alone, with no one watching my six. "
She reached out and took my hand, her fingers small and warm against mine.
"But I'm not alone anymore. I have you. We're a team, Enslak. Together, we're stronger than either of us could ever be apart."
The fear was still there, coiled tight in my chest like a serpent. But something else had joined it. Recognition. Understanding. Respect.
"How many did you count?" she asked, her tone shifting to something more tactical, more professional. "You said ten voices?"
"At least ten. Maybe eleven. Hard to say with how sound carries through the trees and how spread out they were."
"And the transport holds twelve maximum?"
"Yeah. Standard Ulkommenian light transport. I've seen them before—they used them for prisoner transfers."
She nodded, working through the math. "So worst case, there could be three at the landing site if they brought a full crew. Best case, just one if they sent everyone to hunt us."
"Most likely two," I said, following her logic. "Standard protocol would be minimal guard, maximum search capability. They want to find us quickly, before we can escape or the Alliance responds to our distress signal."
"Agreed." She was fully in operative mode now, and I could see why she'd been good at her job. "We approach from the north side—that's where the densest cover is. Get within visual range, assess the actual number of hostiles, then decide our approach based on what we see."
"If there are more than two—"
"Then we adapt," she said firmly. "Find another angle. Wait for an opening. Create a distraction."
"The ship needs to be powered up before we engage," I added. "If we take out the guards but can't get the engines online fast enough, we're trapped. They'll hear the startup sequence and converge on our position."
"So we split up." Niki worked through the operation step by step.
"You circle around to the south—you're quieter, better at stealth.
Sneak onto our ship and get the engines warming up.
I'll provide watch from the north, keep eyes on the guards.
If they spot you, I create a distraction, draw their fire.
If they don't, you get the engines ready, signal me, and we converge and take them out together. "
It was a good plan. A solid plan. The kind of coordinated operation that required trust and skill from both of us. The kind that acknowledged both our strengths instead of trying to shield one of us from danger. Still, the part of me that wanted to keep her safe couldn't help but worry.
"And if something goes wrong?" I asked.
"Then we improvise." She squeezed my hand, and I felt the strength of her grip—the strength of someone who'd spent years training, fighting, surviving. "We've done this before, Enslak. We know how to work together."
I looked at her—small, human, exhausted and bleeding and still ready to fight. Not because she was reckless. Not because she didn't understand the danger. But because she was competent. Trained. Capable. A warrior in her own right.
My mate.
Not someone I needed to protect from the world, but someone who would stand beside me against it.
"Together," I said finally.
"Together," she agreed, and smiled—fierce and determined and absolutely fearless.
The fear didn't disappear entirely. I didn't think it ever would. The thought of losing her would always terrify me in ways I couldn't fully articulate. But I understood now that trying to keep her safe by keeping her away from danger wasn't protecting her.
It was insulting her.
She wasn't fragile. She was a warrior. And she'd chosen to fight beside me.
The least I could do was trust her to do it.