He doesn’t strike Jax. He doesn’t even draw his weapon.
Rynn’s hand shoots out and catches Jax’s wrist in mid-air. He holds it there, immobile, suspended inches from my face. It looks effortless, but I see the way Jax’s knuckles go white, the sudden wince of pain on the smuggler’s face as Rynn applies pressure.
Enough to hurt. Not enough to break.
Yet.
“She is not for you,” Rynn whispers.
It isn’t a shout. It’s barely audible over the station noise. But the tone triggers a primal shiver down my spine that has nothing to do with fear and everything to do with the memory of how he sounded in the bunk when he told me I’d be his.
It is absolute, terrifying authority. Primal ownership.
Mine.
The thrumming sound is back, louder now, vibrating through the floorplates and up through my boots. Rynn’s pupils have blown wide, swallowing the gold, leaving only black pits ringed in molten amber.
This is what he looks like when his control finally breaks.
And it’s the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.
Jax tries to yank his hand back. He can’t. He stares at Rynn, eyes wide, the cocky grin vanishing. “Okay,” Jax wheezes, his voice strained. “Okay. Message received, Suit. Let go before you crush the bone.”
Rynn holds him for one second longer—a heartbeat of pure dominance—before releasing him with a dismissive shove that sends Jax stumbling back.
“Fix the ship,” Rynn says to me, not looking back at Jax. His eyes are locked on mine, burning with possession and fury and hunger. “Now.”
He turns and stalks up the ramp, the air around him crackling with a lethal energy that makes the hair on my arms stand up and heat pool low in my belly.
Jax rubs his wrist, staring after him. He looks at me, shaking his head. “Cargo, huh?” Jax mutters, massaging the red marks forming on his skin. “Polly, that isn’t cargo. That’s a loaded weapon with the safety off.”
“Yeah,” I breathe, watching Rynn disappear into the shadows of my ship. My heart is pounding a frantic rhythm against myribs—fear, adrenaline, and raw, undeniable arousal flooding my system. “I know.”
I turn and run up the ramp, hitting the seal button. The airlock hisses shut, locking us in.
Just me, the ship, and the monster I just woke up.
A monster who just publicly claimed me in front of a hangar full of witnesses.
A monster who’s waiting somewhere in my ship, vibrating with rage and possessive need.
I should be terrified.
Instead, I’m wet and shaking and wondering how fast I can find him before this tension between us finally ignites and burns us both alive.
7
The Green Eyed Noble
Rynn
Iamvibratingmyselfapart.
It is not a metaphor. The dermal resonance that began as a low hum in the hangar—the moment that grease-stained human put his hands on her—has evolved from a subsonic irritation into a tectonic grinding that feels like my ribs are trying to separate from my sternum.
I am alone in the Pink Slip’s small common area, but the space feels suffocatingly tight. The air recycler hums a pathetic, rattling rhythm that is entirely out of sync with the vibration in my chest, creating a dissonance that makes my teeth ache. My core temperature has spiked to levels that would send a human into organ failure. The air around me is warping, shimmering with heat waves that distort the edges of the battered metal table I’m currently gripping.
I look down at my hands. They are unrecognizable.
