Page 85 of Enslak

He swung his blaster like a club, trying to use its weight as a weapon. She ducked under it with inches to spare and stepped inside his guard where his size became a liability. In one fluid motion, she hooked her leg behind his knee while pulling his upper body forward. The technique was simple but brutally effective—gravity and leverage instead of strength, sending him tumbling backward.

As he fell, she followed him down, using his momentum to add force to her strike. Her elbow connected with his solar plexus with a sound like a hammer hitting meat, driving the air from his lungs in an explosive gasp. Before he could recover, before he could draw breath, she struck his throat with the edge of her hand—a precise blow that crushed his windpipe.

He stopped moving.

One left.

The final Ulkommenian had seen enough. He tried to run, tried to create space, tried to bring his weapon to bear while backing away. His eyes were wide with the kind of fear that made people slow and clumsy.

Niki caught him, snaking her arm around his neck as she used her body weight to pull him off balance. He was easily twice her size, but she didn't try to overpower him—just leverage, technique, the precise application of force at exactly the right angle.

She hooked her leg around his, twisted her hips with perfect timing, and sent him crashing face-first into the ground. The impact stunned him, his body going momentarily limp. She kept her grip, adjusting her position, applying pressure to his neck with mechanical efficiency.

He struggled. Thrashed. Tried to throw her off with his superior strength.

She held on, her technique flawless, her control absolute. Within seconds, his movements slowed. Then stopped.

She released him and stood, breathing hard but controlled.

Seven down. In less than a minute.

I stared at her, my mouth open, cataloging what I'd just witnessed with something close to awe. She hadn't relied on strength—she'd used technique. Intelligence. Training. She'd turned her opponents' size and power into weaknesses, redirecting their momentum and mass against them.

Every movement had been purposeful. Efficient. Lethal.

The blaster had been a tool. Useful for distance, efficient for quick kills. But watching her fight with nothing but her hands and her training, I understood something profound: the weapon had never been the source of her power.

She was the weapon.

Niki stood in the center of the carnage, blood on her knuckles—not all of it hers. Her chest heaved with exertion, sweat running down her face, but her eyes were clear. Focused. She looked up at me, and I saw the warrior I'd somehow failed to recognize until this moment.

Not someone who needed my protection.

Someone who could stand beside me as an equal.

"Twenty-eight seconds," she said, wiping sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand. A smirk played at the corner of her mouth. "I counted."

The audacity of it—the sheer nerve to be teasing me right now, standing among seven unconscious and/or dead Ulkommenian soldiers—broke something loose in my chest.

I crossed the distance between us in three strides, caught her face in my hands, and kissed her.

Hard. Fierce. Pouring everything I couldn't say into it—the awe, the pride, the bone-deep want that seeing her like this ignited in me.

She made a surprised sound against my mouth, then melted into me.

When I finally pulled back, I kept my forehead pressed to hers, both of us breathing hard.

"Magnificent," I said, my voice rough. "You're absolutely magnificent."

Her eyes sparkled with something wild and bright. "Took you long enough to notice."

"Oh, I noticed." I grinned. "I just didn't realize the full extent until you took down seven Ulkommenian in under half a minute."

"Twenty-eight seconds," she corrected, that teasing smile widening.

I kissed her again, softer this time, reverent. Because she deserved that too—not just the fierce claiming, but the tender acknowledgment of exactly who she was.

My mate.