I don’t beg. I don’t promise. I just hum a broken prayer:Let me be worthy.
She watches me. Her eyes are soft. Her voice is small. “You are.”
I feel the warmth, the thread of bond pulsing in my chest.
I don’t deserve to stay, but for one fragile moment, I belong to this alley, this blanket, this mother and child.
And maybe that’s enough for now.
CHAPTER 27
ELLA
I’m elbow-deep in the engine bay of Cab 12 when he steps in without a word. His presence steals the whole workshop’s breath. The afternoon light slants through the workshop shutters, dust motes dancing like sparks, making him look like a silhouette set on fire.
He hovers over the exposed grav motor’s wiring. Manual, but precise. I’m not surprised. His claws don’t slip once as he traces connections, matching circuits to schematics on the holo-pad. I wasn’t expecting help—but damn if I’m not glad.
A small spark arcs. His palm flexes, slicing skin. He stares at it in shock. Crimson blooms. Silence falls heavy.
I scramble for gauze, step forward. “Here—let me see.”
He lets me press the gauze to the wound. He holds it there with one hand. The gauze grows pink. I hold my breath.
He meets my eyes then, and something soft cracks in the space between us. “Thanks,” he whispers.
I can’t help it. I laugh, the sound shaky. “You think that’s funny?”
He flares his nostrils, eyes narrowing. “You haven’t seen me when I’m really bleeding.”
I swallow. The bravado in his tone tastes like metal and fear. But it breaks something—whatever wall we’ve built.
He leans back and fingers the cable harness. I watch the tension in his shoulders ease a fraction.
We talk.
He tells me what prison was like. The silence that presses you, the hum of machines, the weight of isolation. He describes small moments: the smell of recycled air, the taste of bland food, the way his dreams invaded him. He says, “I held your name in my mind like armor.”
I close my eyes and tell him what childbirth was like. The pain. The fire in my bones. The moment I held Vex and he cried—tiny, fierce. The surge of love so strong it felt like I might combust.
He listens, jaw tight, silence gathering in the space between circuits and metal. His fingers hover over a wire loom. He touches the insulation gently.
He says, “Do I still have the right to want you?”
My heart hammers. I don’t hesitate. I slide across the workshop floor until I’m close enough to feel his breath on my skin. He doesn’t push me away. He lets me pull him inside the cramped shadows behind the cabs.
It’s hotter this time. Not desperate. Not raw. Necessary. I bump my back against the maintenance table; the cold metal bites my spine. He stands between me and shadow, hands lifting me like I weigh nothing. Oil streaks across his shoulders. His shirt slit. Warm and slick. My fingers brush it. My tongue flicks at it, tasting machine grease, skin.
When we move, it’s like gravity rearranged. He’s everywhere and nowhere, pressing me, holding me, claiming me softly. His lips find mine. Not abrupt or violent. But fierce, claiming. I press against him. My hands tangling in his hair, at his collar, tracing the ridges of his shoulders, the hardness beneath the shirt.
He breathes my name. I breathe him.
I feel every line, every scale pressed into my palms. The warmth of him in the heat of the oil-stained workshop. I can hear the hum of the circuits, feel the pulse of the machinery. The room shrinks until it’s just us, skin and breath.
When it's over, I stand swaying. He holds me upright. My legs tremble, knees weak from descent. My fingers still rest against his chest, as if I might fall through without anchor.
He cups my face. His thumb brushes a tear I didn’t realize had fallen.
“You’re here,” he says, voice low and thick. “You held me even when I was caged.”
