The cut on my forehead was only a scratch and and already stopped bleeding. My ribs were a different story.
I pulled my shirt over my head, wincing as the fabric dragged across bruised skin. The movement made my ribsprotest violently, and I couldn't quite suppress the hiss of pain that escaped.
Serna's eyes darkened with concern. "How bad?"
"I've had worse." It wasn't entirely a lie. I'd broken ribs before, taken hits that had put me in the hospital for weeks. This was painful, but manageable.
She didn't look convinced. Her fingers—long, strong, surprisingly gentle—pressed carefully along my ribcage, testing for breaks. I felt the warmth of her touch through the pain, and the way she moved with absolute precision, reading my body's responses.
"Bruised," she said finally. "Maybe cracked. You're lucky."
"Doesn't feel lucky." I grumbled.
A ghost of a smile touched her lips. "No. I imagine it doesn't."
She pulled out a dermal regenerator from the kit—Alliance tech, far more advanced than anything Earth had. The device hummed to life in her hand, and she began running it slowly over my ribs. I felt the warmth of it, the strange tingling sensation as it accelerated healing at the cellular level.
But what I noticed most was Serna.
The way she leaned close, her breath warm against my skin. The concentration in her eyes as she worked, those striking blue-gold eyes focused entirely on me. The way her hair—dark and thick—fell forward over her shoulder. The braids she usually wore victims of the heat and humidity leaving the strands waving around her face. The strength in her hands as they steadied me, one palm pressed flat against my chest while the other held the regenerator.
She was beautiful. I'd known that from the first moment I'd seen her on that video call months ago, but this was different.This was intimate. This was her touching me with care, with tenderness, and I felt every point of contact like a brand.
"There," she said softly, pulling back. "That should help. The bruising will fade faster now, and the pain should ease."
"Thank you."
She moved to the cut on my forehead next, cleaning it with antiseptic that stung like hell. I watched her face as she worked—the slight furrow between her brows, the way she bit her lower lip in concentration. She was close enough that I could see the faint pattern of her pelt, the way it caught the light differently than human skin did.
I found myself staring at her full lips and thinking about our kiss. About the way her mouth had felt against mine—soft and demanding all at once. The taste of her. The sound she'd made when I'd deepened it, that small gasp that had nearly undone me completely.
I wanted to kiss her again. Wanted it with an intensity that bordered on desperate. Wanted to pull her into my lap right now, injuries be damned, and feel her body pressed against mine. Wanted to trace my lips along that elegant jaw, down the column of her throat, wanted to discover every place that made her breath catch.
The memory of her hands fisted in my shirt, the way she'd held on like I was the only solid thing in a tilting world—it played on repeat in my mind. I'd kissed women before, but nothing had ever felt like that. Like coming home and falling off a cliff at the same time. Like finding something I hadn't known I was searching for.
"You know," I said, my voice rougher than I intended, "I thought you were the most stunning woman I'd ever seen the first time we met."
Her hands stilled. She looked at me, surprise flickering across her features. "That was over video comm."
"I know." I held her gaze. "You were helping President Bradford deal with Hewes. And when you came on screen, I..." I trailed off, remembering that moment. "I couldn't look away."
Something shifted in her expression—vulnerability, maybe, or uncertainty. "I thought all Earth men were weak," she admitted quietly. "Soft. Unsuited for anything beyond their own world."
"And now?"
"The only thing I saw when I looked at you was strength." She resumed cleaning the cut, but her touch was even gentler now. "You weren't like the others. You stood there beside Bradford, and I could see it in you—the warrior. The soldier. The kind of strength that doesn't come from size or species, but from something deeper."
My heart was pounding, and it had nothing to do with my injuries. "Serna—"
"I know this is wrong," she said, cutting me off. She set down the antiseptic and met my eyes. "I know I'm the Prime and you're... you're supposed to be here temporarily. But I can't stop thinking about you."
The confession hung between us, raw and honest.
"I shouldn't want this," I said, my voice barely above a whisper. "I shouldn't want you. You're the Prime. You're the leader of the Alliance. I'm just—"
"Don't." Her hand came up to cup my face, and the touch sent electricity racing through me. "Don't diminish yourself. You're not 'just' anything. You're everything."
"Serna, if we do this—"
