6. Isolde #2
He’s still holding me, arms wrapped around my waist and upper back like I’m some fragile ornament about to shatter on impact.
His scales are warm. Not scalding, like I expected, but heated through, like river stones soaking up the sun.
I don’t move right away. Not because I’m stunned—though, okay, maybe I am a little—but because he’s not moving either.
He’s watching me again. Not like I’m prey. Not like I’m bait or a liability or some annoying human screaming for attention.
He watches me like I’m the only real thing left in the universe.
I’ve seen this look before—but only at meet-and-greets. The wide-eyed, glassy, hyper-focused look of a fan seeing their favorite idol up close. Usually it comes with frantic tears, shaky hands, or at least a very sweaty selfie request. That’s not what this is.
This isn’t obsession.
It’s reverence.
And I don’t know what the hell to do with that.
So I break it. I crack it open like I always do, with something flippant and a little reckless.
“You got me, lizard boy,” I say, arching a brow and smirking like my heart isn’t doing somersaults inside my chest. “You always catch girls falling out of consoles, or am I special?”
His head tilts, just slightly. No growl. No snapped comeback. Just that look—like I’ve said something profound instead of stupid.
“You are different,” he says simply.
“Yeah, well, I am a limited edition,” I mutter, trying to wiggle out of his arms. “Collector’s item and everything.”
He doesn’t loosen his grip immediately. Just long enough that I feel it. That pause. That hesitation. Like he’s letting go of something he’s not sure he’ll ever get back.
When he finally steps back, I suck in a breath like I’ve been underwater.
For the record, I’ve dealt with a lot of types. Screaming fans, angry exes, creeps in DMs, guys who think “influencer” means “available.” I know how to read a look. I know when someone’s sizing me up for ownership.
But this isn’t that.
This is something stranger. Deeper.
And way more dangerous.
I brush myself off for show and clear my throat. “So. Now that you’ve saved me from certain death again, maybe we should talk strategy?”
He grunts in that noncommittal way that I’m starting to read as fine, keep talking, but don’t expect me to say much.
I move back toward the console, this time not trying to fix it. Just pointing at the few blinking nodes still showing life.
“I think this panel’s connected to the maintenance ring outside the core—could be a path around Meyer’s group if they’re clogging up the mid-levels.” I tap Reflector, who’s hovering just over my shoulder. “You got anything on movement?”
Reflector chirps twice, his voice hushed like he’s afraid to disturb something ancient. “Thermal signatures show six bodies grouped near the main junction corridor. The rest of the ship is largely unoccupied.”
Garokk leans closer to the screen, scanning it with eyes like molten metal. “They are waiting. Planning.”
I swallow. “Probably regrouping after One Horn didn’t come back.”
He grunts again. “They’ll move soon. Search parties.”
“So we stay ahead of them,” I say, stepping away from the console and turning to face him directly. “You know this place better than anyone. You got another path?”
His gaze lingers a second too long before he nods. “There are tunnels. Old maintenance shafts. Not meant for transport but passable. Quiet. Unmapped.”
“Perfect,” I say. “That’s how I like my death traps—off the grid.”
His mouth almost twitches. Not quite a smile, but less like a permanent scowl. I’ll take it.
He gestures toward a sealed hatch in the corner of the room. It’s half-covered in dust and grime, with a Vakutan glyph etched into the frame. “That way.”
I take a step toward it. “You’re sure it’s safe?”
“No,” he says flatly.
“Great,” I mutter. “Love that for me.”
I expect him to insist I stay behind. Or to grumble something about how I’ll only slow him down. But he doesn’t. He just walks over, grabs the wheel crank with those monstrous claws, and starts turning like the metal weighs nothing.
That’s when I realize—he’s not going to argue.
He’s letting me come.
The last guy who called himself my “protector” locked me in a cargo bay and told me I’d be safer out of the way. The one before that tried to convince me my job was to “look cute and stay quiet.”
Garokk just opens the hatch and looks back at me like well?
I follow.
The shaft beyond the door is barely tall enough for me to stand upright, which means Garokk’s got to hunch over awkwardly as we move. I glance behind me a few times, watching him maneuver with the kind of grace no man that size should have.
“How do you even fit in here?” I ask after the third sharp turn. “You’re like, what, seven and a half feet tall?”
“Seven nine.”
“Seriously? And you didn’t just smash through the floor to make your own shortcut?”
His snort echoes down the corridor. “That would wake the ship.”
“It’s already awake,” I mutter. “I swear, every time I breathe too loud something hisses.”
We crawl through a few more bends, past rusted pipes and flickering hazard lights.
The whole ship smells like ozone and oil and old secrets.
It’s hot, too—stifling. My skin’s slick with sweat, hair sticking to my neck, and I’m starting to wish I’d worn literally anything other than a velvet-trimmed crop jacket and thigh boots.
Finally, we reach a vent panel leading into a wider corridor. Garokk signals for me to stop, holds a finger to his lips—well, not lips. His mouth. Whatever.
He presses a claw to the grate, listening.
I do too.
Footsteps.
They’re far, but closing.
He glances back at me, eyes narrow. “We wait. Then move.”
“Okay,” I whisper. “But where are we headed, exactly?”
“Life-support nexus,” he says. “Central hub. Most secure system left on this ship. If I can access it, I can control atmospherics, lockdowns. Maybe?—”
“Maybe send out a distress beacon?” I ask, hopeful.
“Maybe,” he says. But he doesn’t sound like he believes it.
I nod anyway. “Worth a shot.”
We stay quiet for a while. Long enough that I start to feel the weight of all the air between us, thick with tension and not enough answers.
“So,” I say finally, voice soft. “This place. You really lived here? All this time?”
He doesn’t answer right away. But then: “Fifty-three years. Nine months. Seventeen days.”
I blink. “You’ve been counting?”
“I do not sleep well.”
My chest tightens. I try to imagine what that kind of solitude does to a person. To a warrior. A man.
“You didn’t go crazy?” I ask, only half-joking.
He glances at me sidelong. “Define crazy.”
That makes me laugh, quiet and warm. “You know, for someone who acts like a walking death threat, you’re weirdly good company.”
“I am not company.”
“Right. Loner. Brooder. Beast of the Hulk.” I nudge his arm gently. “You’re terrible at branding, by the way. Needs work.”
He exhales—short, amused. Then his head tilts again, and he watches me. That look returns. Not hungry. Not threatening. Just... intense.
“You are strange,” he says.
“Tell me something I don’t know.”
“You... don’t smell afraid.”
I pause. That’s not something I expected to hear. “Should I?”
He doesn’t answer. But his gaze softens. Almost imperceptibly. Like a storm pulling back before it hits.
“No,” he murmurs. “Not anymore.”
We listen as the footsteps fade. Then Garokk gestures for me to follow again.
And I do—because whatever this is between us, whatever it means—I know one thing for sure:
If Meyer’s crew thinks I’m easy prey, they’re not just messing with some influencer anymore.
They’re messing with his influencer.