“You are not afraid of what I am.”
“Should I be?” She meets my gaze directly, unflinching. “You’ve been protecting people for three years. You’re risking your life to save strangers on distant worlds. You could have snapped my neck the moment I opened my garage door, but instead you said ‘please’ and bled on my floor.” Her shoulders lift in that human gesture of dismissal. “Pretty sure if you were a monster, I’d know by now.”
The air between us goes charged, electric with possibilities. My pupils dilate involuntarily as Xarian biology responds to her acceptance, her fearlessness. The claiming instincts that have been simmering for three years roar to the surface.
“You see me,” I manage, my voice rougher than intended.
“I see you.”
Outside, Wicks’ voice cuts through the winter air: “Spread out! Cover all exits. Nobody moves until I give the word.”
Then, louder, directed at the garage: “Fiona! I know you can hear me in there! Your daddy was a good man—he helped folks when they needed it. But he wouldn’t want you protecting a killer! Hannah Barrett had two little kids, Fiona. Two babies who’ll never see their mama again because of that monster you’re harboring!”
Fiona’s scent spikes with fury, sharp and acidic. “Lying son of a bitch,” she snarls under her breath.
“He knew your father?” I ask quietly.
“Barely.” Her hands tighten on the quantum interface, knuckles white. “Dad died when I was seventeen. Dale’s just using his memory to manipulate me.” Her voice carries a bitter edge I have not heard before. “Hannah Barrett died in a car accident on black ice. Had nothing to do with you and everything to do with her driving drunk again.”
Wicks’ voice continues, oozing false sympathy: “I don’t want to hurt you, sweetheart. But that thing in there? It’s not human. It doesn’t understand mercy or love or family. Send it out, and we can all go home for Christmas dinner.”
A pause, then his tone shifts—harder, more threatening: “Ten minutes, Fiona! Don’t make me do something your father would be ashamed of!”
Her growl of rage would do credit to a Xarian. “That manipulative bastard. Dad would have helped you fix your ship and told Dale to go fuck himself with a rusty wrench.”
Ten minutes. Barely enough time to test the navigation system, let alone escape.
“Will the navigation system be ready?” she asks.
“If we can complete the integration.” I force myself to focus on the quantum core rather than the way afternoon light filtering through the Christmas tree creates patterns across her skin. “The processor is stable, but the interface between your power system and my navigation matrix...”
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing is wrong. Everything is... delicate.” I gesture to the crystalline pathways that pulse with carefully regulated energy. “One miscalibration, one power surge, and the entire system could cascade into failure.”
My fingers move across the quantum interface with practiced efficiency, but my mind is already calculating the professional consequences. “I’ll need to file amended route reports with OOPS dispatch when this is over.”
I pause, a slight smile crossing my features despite our dire circumstances. “He always said I’d know my mate when I found her. ‘You’llstart smelling like contentment instead of restless longing,’ he told me. I thought it was poetic nonsense.”
Fiona looks up from the power coupling she was adjusting, genuine curiosity replacing some of the tension in her features. “And now?”
“Now I understand why he laughs every time he returns from holiday cargo runs. Something about spreading warmth during the darkest season.” My pale eyes find hers in the dim Christmas light. “He’s going to be insufferably pleased that he was right.”
She moves closer to examine my work, close enough that her scent fills my enhanced senses completely. Motor oil and coffee and something uniquely her that makes my hands want to shake. Close enough that I can hear her heartbeat, feel the warmth radiating from her human skin.
“Show me,” she says.
I should not touch her. Should maintain professional distance while we work under siege. Should remember that claiming an unconsenting mate violates every principle of Xarian honor.
Instead, I cover her hands with mine, guiding her fingers to the interface points where our technologies meet. “Here. The power flow must be precisely regulated, or the quantum matrix will destabilize.”
The contact sends fire through my nervous system. Every instinct I possess screams mine as her pulse jumps beneath my touch.
“What happens if it destabilizes?” she asks, and I can smell her arousal now, sharp and sweet beneath the scent of machinery.
“Best case? The navigation system fails and I am stranded on Earth permanently.” My breath stirs the auburn hair at her temple. “Worst case? The quantum cascade takes out half your mountain.”
“Right. No pressure at all.” But she is smiling, and the expression transforms her face from merely attractive to breathtaking. “You find this amusing?”
