10. Isolde
ISOLDE
H e says my name like it’s sacred.
“Isolde…”
Not loud. Not with hunger. It’s softer. Reverent. Like he’s never said a word before and chose this one to be his first.
We’re in one of the old officer’s quarters—surprisingly intact.
The bedframe groans when he sits on it, awkward in his bulk.
The light above is half-dead, flickering in amber pulses, casting his scales in waves of bronze and shadow.
He watches me from the edge, like I’m the sun and he’s not sure if he’s allowed to touch.
And for once, I don’t feel like a persona, or a brand, or a walking headline. I don’t feel like content.
I feel like a woman. A warm-blooded, nerve-lit, utterly terrified, completely electric woman.
I stand there in the silence, between us and everything else. The ship groans in the distance, deep in its ribs. Somewhere, Meyer is plotting. Somewhere, the danger isn’t over. But right now, in this breath, it’s just us.
I toe off my boots. Step out of the ruined remnants of my influencer gear—torn, stained, and sweat-drenched from days of running. I strip off everything that isn’t me.
His eyes never leave mine. Not once. Not even when the fabric falls away and I’m bare, skin prickling under the cold ship air.
He stands slowly. Quietly. Like I’m a dream he doesn’t want to startle.
“You’re shaking,” he says.
“I know.” I swallow. “It’s not fear.”
His hand reaches out, then hesitates. I take it and press it to my waist.
His palm is rough. Callused. Battle-worn. But he touches like he’s never held anything fragile in his life.
“Still think I’m a toy?” I whisper.
His growl is low, deep in his chest. “You are… not for play.”
I step in, closing the distance. I lay my hands against his chest—scaled, warm, trembling slightly. His heart pounds like thunder under my palms.
“Tell me,” I murmur. “Tell me why it feels like I’ve known you since before I was born.”
He brushes a knuckle against my cheek. “Because the stars carved you for me.”
And that’s it. That’s the crack that opens the dam. That’s the moment where everything breaks loose.
I rise up on my toes and kiss him.
It’s not gentle. It’s not careful. It’s real. His mouth crushes mine, full of need and reverence and restraint stretched to its last thread. I gasp into him, tangled in sensation—his hands anchoring my back, mine gripping his shoulders.
His claws never scratch. He holds them just shy of touch, always braced, always pulled back from danger. But I see it in his eyes—how badly he wants to give in.
“Garokk,” I breathe, pulling away just enough to see his face.
His pupils are blown wide. His chest heaves.
“You don’t have to—” he starts.
“I want to,” I say.
And I mean it. God, I mean it with every fiber of me.
Because he looks at me like I’m his , but not in a way that cages. In a way that claims and honors . He could break me. But he won’t.
He’ll worship me.
I can’t breathe. Not in that panicked, drowning way—but like my lungs forgot how air works, how it’s supposed to feel going in and out. My body’s weightless even though I know we’re on artificial gravity, because he’s looking at me like I’m the only star left in the universe.
Garokk’s hands hover just above my skin like I’m sacred. His claws don’t even touch yet, but I feel him everywhere.
"Is this okay?" he rumbles, voice low and tight, like it’s dragging across gravel. Not because he’s unsure of himself—but because he's terrified of breaking me.
I nod. I can’t speak. Not yet.
The room is warm, for once. No flickering panels, no clanking vents, just the hum of life support and the slow rise and fall of our breaths.
He found us this tiny, barely-lit crew suite buried deep in the Hulk’s underbelly—patched air filters, faded murals on the walls, a bed that still responds to touch with a wheezing sigh.
It smells like old metal and ozone, but also like him—like salt, like embers, like something wild the galaxy never tamed.
I reach for the hem of my top. My fingers tremble. Not because I’m afraid, but because I’m not . That’s the part that undoes me.
“I want this,” I whisper.
He still doesn’t move. His gold eyes flicker, uncertain. “You’re sure.”
“Yes.” I sit up just enough to brush my lips against his jaw. “I want you .”
He breathes in like that means something more than it should. Maybe it does.
Garokk moves slow, like each inch is a promise.
He touches me like he’s cataloging everything—mapping my ribs, the inside of my wrists, the soft dip of my waist. I gasp when his claws graze the back of my thigh, not in pain but because it’s him .
Because I trust those claws not to cut me. Because I trust him not to hurt me.
“You’re small,” he murmurs, pressing his forehead against mine. “Soft.”
“Yeah, well,” I say, trying to grin, “you’re huge and terrifying and way too warm.”
His chuckle is a low, reluctant rumble that vibrates in my chest. “You complain a lot.”
“You like it.”
He doesn’t argue. Just slides his hand under my back and pulls me closer, like he’s trying to memorize the shape of me through sheer contact.
The heat between us burns slow, like coals in a fire that’s been waiting for oxygen. I hook my fingers in the waistband of his pants—whatever rough cloth this ship has kept intact—and he growls low in his throat.
“You are mine ,” he says, voice shaking. “Even if you walk away. Even if this ship falls into the sun. You will always be my jalshagar.”
I don’t know what to say to that. I don’t even know if I want to say anything. So I kiss him instead.
It’s not soft.
It’s hungry .
His mouth devours mine, and I taste stardust and steel and that quiet desperation he never lets anyone else see. My nails rake down his back. His claws scrape against the wall when he braces one arm beside my head, the other hand gripping my hip with trembling restraint.
“I won’t break,” I say against his mouth.
“I know,” he mutters. “But I might.”
And then his cock invades my hungry, dripping wet pussy. This is it. After so much longing and yearning, he’s finally inside me .
I cry out—sharp, unfiltered, not because of pain, but because it’s too much. All of it. The tension, the longing, the weeks of running and bleeding and almost dying. The fear I’ve shoved into a corner for too long.
His huge, claw like hand grasps my throat--not enough to choke me, but enough that I can feel his strength. He pins me beneath him as my hips buck and roll like the sea at storm. His cock is just perfect inside of me.
We find a rhythm—not gentle, not rough, but right . Like music. Like poetry. Like war and peace colliding in the space between heartbeats.
I arch under him, gasping, hands tangling in the rough ridges of his scales. He holds me like I’m precious. Kisses me like I’m air.
At some point, I forget how words work. I only know sound. His growls. My moans. The low rasp of skin on skin and the creak of a bed that hasn’t seen this kind of use in decades.
Time breaks.
Space folds.
We fall into each other, again and again, until the edge shatters and I scream his name like it’s the only word that ever mattered.
He follows—roaring into the crook of my neck, trembling with the force of it—and I feel him lock around me like he never wants to let go.
We stay tangled, gasping.
He lowers us to the bed like he’s setting down treasure. His heartbeat hammers against mine. His breath fans over my face in hot, shaking waves.
I press my forehead to his. “That was... wow.”
His eyes are closed. “You are dangerous.”
“Yeah,” I whisper. “I’m aware.”
His hand brushes my cheek. There’s something in his gaze I haven’t seen before. Not worship. Not hunger.
Hope.
He pulls me into the curve of his body, one arm draped over my waist like a barrier against the galaxy. I nestle there, fingers splayed over his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breath beneath my palm.
There are no words now.
No stream. No chat counters. No filters or lighting cues. Just me.
Just him.
And for the first time in a long, long time—I don’t want to be anywhere else.
The war, the ship, my whole glittering, carefully constructed life—it all fades. Distant echoes in a dream that doesn’t belong to me anymore.
Maybe… maybe this is the story I was supposed to tell.
Maybe I’ve found it.
Then Reflector buzzes.
Not softly. Not like a sleepy afterglow interruption.
This is frantic. Panicked. Siren-sharp.
“Isolde!” Reflector chirps. “Emergency alert—Hulk mainframe has initiated a fail-safe sequence. Multiple systems are powering down. Preliminary data suggests?—”
“What?” I sit up, cold air slamming into my sweat-slick skin. “Say that again.”
Garokk bolts upright beside me, already scanning the walls like they might grow teeth.
Reflector’s arms extend. “I’m detecting spike signatures in the reactor core. This is not a drill. I believe the Hulk’s self-destruct sequence has been activated.”
“No,” I breathe. “No no no—what the hell triggered it?”
“I cannot determine that,” Reflector replies, voice tight. “But I estimate thirty minutes until critical failure. If we don’t find a way to override the sequence…”
He doesn’t finish.
Garokk is already on his feet, pulling on his weapons belt, claws flexing. “We need to move. Now.”
I stare at the fading lights in the walls, the way the ambient hum of the ship stutters like a dying heart.
The Hulk is going to die.
And if we don’t act fast—so will we.