Page 86 of Claimed By the Wraiths

Deyric was on the ship. Deyric was always on the ship. I’d stopped worrying about it the day I realized the Raptor was his partner the way Serak was mine, and the relationship was working fine for both of them.

I was in the galley, running a supply inventory that didn’t need running, because some habits were structural and mine involved knowing exactly how many protein blocks and spice packets were in every cabinet.

Serak came up behind me.

I knew it was him before he touched me. The bond had been a constant hum for six months, background warmth so integrated into my nervous system that I’d stopped noticing it the way you stop noticing your heartbeat. But that wasn’t how I knew.

I knew it was him because of the weight of his step on the deck plating and the particular quality of silence he brought into a room. I could identify his breathing in the dark.

His hand settled on my hip. Warm. His thumb found the strip of skin between my shirt and my waistband and traced a line there.

“You’re counting protein blocks,” he said.

“Forty-seven.”

“We had forty-seven yesterday.”

“Then the count is consistent.”

“Jessa.”

“Forty-seven protein blocks, twelve packs of dried kellis root, three containers of the Tamzari spice that Maris won’t tell me where she sources.” I set the datapad on the counter. “And one captain who is standing very close to me while I’m trying to work.”

“The crew is gone.”

“Deyric is on the ship.”

“Deyric is in the engine bay with his headphones on. He told me, and I quote, ‘I am going to be in the engine bay with my headphones on for the next three hours and I do not care what you do with that information.’”

I turned around. He was close. Close enough that turning put my back against the counter and my front against him.

The galley light caught the silver in his hands. Six months and I still noticed them every time.

His face was different now than the one I’d watched across the mess hall table. Not the mask he’d worn, holding everything behind rank and responsibility.

Something looser. Warmer.

The face of a man who’d spent half a year learning that he was allowed to want things and the wanting wouldn’t destroy him.

“Three hours,” I said.

“Three hours.”

“That’s generous.”

“Deyric is a generous man.”

“Deyric is a man who doesn’t want to hear us through the bulkhead again.”

The corner of his mouth pulled. The almost-smile that used to be the most I’d ever get from him. Now it was the warning shot before the real thing.

“That was one time,” he said.

“That was three times. Zevik keeps a tally.”

“Zevik can keep whatever he wants. I’m not adjusting my life based on Zevik’s tally.”

I put my hands on his chest. The silver warmed under my palms.