Darun follows two steps behind, shoulders hunched.
We’re halfway to the wreck when one of the patrol turns.
“Identify,” the soldier snaps, rifle half-raised.
“Just passing through,” I say, layering exhaustion over my words like old skin. “Looking for scraps. Fuel cells, maybe. Metal.”
The Ataxian’s visor doesn’t move. “You’re far off trade routes.”
“We’re hungry.”
“Then starve closer to the slums.”
I shoot a look over my shoulder at Darun. He lowers his head like a kicked animal. It’s unnerving, seeing him pretend to be broken. It works too well.
“We saw the wreck from the ridge,” I say. “Didn’t know it was claimed. We’ll move on.”
The patrol leader steps forward. His armor hums with active sensors. I feel them crawl over my skin like ants.
“You—” he nods toward Darun, “—lift your head.”
Darun doesn’t move.
The soldier steps closer. “I said lift?—”
“I said he doesn’t speak,” I cut in. “Had his tongue torn out for stealing a comm dish last winter. Don’t worry—he’s too dumb to lie.”
A beat of silence.
“You’re not from around here.”
“No one is anymore.”
The soldier grunts. Waves us off. “You’ve got five minutes. Then we fire a warning shot.”
I nod like I’m grateful. We move past, hearts in our throats.
We don’t stop at the hauler.
We don’t say a word.
Not until we’re out of sight, back behind a jagged ridge, lungs burning.
Then Darun grabs my arm, spins me, and kisses me.
No slow buildup. Just heat and tension and teeth and thank fuck we’re alive. It crashes through me like shrapnel—hot, electric, needy.
I clutch his jacket, pull him closer, until we hit the side of a half-sunken structure, metal groaning under us. His hands are everywhere—rough, warm, anchoring. Mine find the edge of his jaw, the curve of his neck, the plates along his collarbone that vibrate when he breathes like this.
He groans low in his throat, a sound I feel more than hear.
“I thought I lost you,” he growls against my mouth. His golden eyes burn like twin suns. “You’re mine, Amy. You’ve always been mine.”
“I didn’t want to die without feeling you again,” I whisper, and then we’re moving, tearing at each other’s gear like it’s in the way of salvation.
My jacket hits the dirt. His armor clatters beside it. His red scales gleam in the rust-colored sunlight, the patterns down his chest glinting like metal. My fingers trace them, and he shudders.
“I want to taste you,” he says, voice rough, almost reverent. “Every inch.”
