“Careful,” he murmurs, and the word is warm against my ear, sending shivers down my spine that have nothing to do with cold.
“I’m fine,” I say again, but my voice comes out breathier than intended.
He doesn’t let go immediately. For a heartbeat, we’re pressed together, my back against his chest, his arm a band of heat around my waist. I can feel the controlled strength in him, the careful way he holds himself like he’s afraid of crushing something fragile.
“Fiona,” he says quietly, and there’s something raw in his voice. “I know you have every right to be angry with me. But I need you to know—I never intended to make you feel violated. I was trying to protect something precious without disturbing it.”
The words hit somewhere deep in my chest, in places I’ve kept carefully protected. Because despite everything—the stalking, the lies, the cosmic pressure of being declared someone’s destined mate—there’s something devastatingly sincere about the way he says it.
“We should keep moving,” I manage, stepping out of his embrace before I do something stupid like turn around and see what three years of longing looks like up close.
He releases me immediately, but I can feel his reluctance in the careful way his hand slides away from my waist.
We continue in silence, the only sounds our breathing and the crunch of snow underfoot. But I’m hyperaware of him now—the way he moves, the controlled power in his stride, the protective positioning that keeps him consistently between me and potential threats.
When we crest a small hill, he stops and points toward a stand of pine trees that looks no different from any other to my human eyes.
“There.”
I follow his gaze and see nothing. Trees, snow, more trees. “Where?”
“The cloaking system is still partially functional.” He moves closer, close enough that I can feel heat radiating from his body. “Look for the place where the snow pattern seems... wrong.”
I squint through the trees, trying to see what he sees. And then, slowly, like one of those optical illusions that suddenly clicks into focus, I spot it. A section where the snow lies differently, where the shadows don’t quite match the terrain beneath them.
“Holy shit,” I breathe. “It’s invisible.”
“Mostly. The crash damaged several systems.” His voice carries a note of professional concern that reminds me this isn’t just about us—there are lives depending on his cargo reaching its destination. “I am hoping the central computer core survived intact.”
As we approach the hidden ship, the cloaking flickers slightly, revealing glimpses of something that looks like it stepped out of a science fiction movie. Sleek lines, metallic surface that seems to shift color in the light, technology so advanced it makes my brain hurt trying to process it.
“This is incredible,” I whisper, then remember that he’s been living with technology like this while I struggle with a temperamental coffee maker. “You must think we’re primitives.”
“I think your species has remarkable ingenuity.” His voice is warm, appreciative. “You create solutions with limited resources, find beauty in simplicity, build connections across differences.” His eyes meet mine. “You are far from primitive, Fiona Davis.”
The compliment, delivered with such quiet conviction, makes my chest tight. Three years of watching, and this is what he sees when he looks at humanity. When he looks at me.
As we get closer to the ship, I can see the damage. Twisted metal, scoring from impact, sections where the hull has been breached. It’sbad, but not catastrophic. Maybe fixable, if I can figure out how alien technology works.
“The entry hatch is this way,” Ja’war says, moving toward what looks like solid wall until his hand touches something and a section slides away with a soft pneumatic hiss.
He gestures for me to enter first, and I step into an environment that’s completely otherworldly. The interior is warm, lit by soft panels that seem to emit light without any visible source. Everything is curves and flowing lines, organic-looking despite being clearly technological.
“My God,” I breathe, turning in a slow circle to take it all in. “This is your ship?”
“My home, when I am not planetside.” There’s pride in his voice, but also something else. Vulnerability. Like he’s showing me something deeply personal. “Welcome aboard the Frost Walker.”
I run my hand along what must be a control panel, feeling the smooth surface that seems to respond to my touch with subtle light patterns. “This is beautiful. It’s like... like technology and art had a baby.”
Behind me, I hear a sharp intake of breath. When I turn, Ja’war is looking at me with an expression so intense it makes my knees weak.
“What?” I ask.
“The way you touch it. Like you understand.” His voice is rough, deeper than usual. “Most humans see alien technology as threatening, incomprehensible. You see it as something to learn from.”
There’s something in his tone that makes me think he’s not just talking about technology. Heat crawls up my neck as I realize how my exploration of his ship might look to someone who’s declared me his fated mate.
“I’m just curious,” I say, but the words come out softer than intended.
