Not your fault, Rynn pushes through the bond, feeling my guilt spike. They chose to help. And we’re going to protect them.
But the guilt doesn’t ease. It sits in my chest like a stone.
Standing in the center of the chaos, directing the flow like a conductor in the middle of a hurricane, is a tall, imposing Zaterran woman. Her skin is the deep grey of storm clouds, etched with intricate crystalline patterns that pulse violet with her pulse. Her eyes glow the same violet—bright as bioluminescence, sharp as lasers.
“Vex’ra,” I breathe. Henrok’s Diplomatic Liaison. I remember her from my last run—terrifyingly efficient and fiercely protective.
She spots us and points a long, elegant finger toward the blast doors. “Civilians to the deep tunnels! Sector 4 is locked down! Move!” Then she turns to a squad of warriors, her voice dropping to something low and deadly. “Hold the perimeter until the last transport is clear. If anything gets through, you answer to the First Blade.”
The warriors don’t flinch. They just nod and move, weapons hot.
“Polly!”
I turn at the sound of my name, and something in my chest cracks open.
Suki Vega is sprinting toward us across the deck. She’s wearing a flight suit that looks like it’s seen better days, her dark braid flying behind her, a massive rifle slung over her shoulder that looks like it could punch through a cruiser hull.
She slides to a halt at the base of the ship, breathing hard, and for a second she just looks at me. Really looks. Scans me head to toe like she’s cataloging every injury, every scar, every new line on my face.
“You crashed my landing pad,” she says. Her voice is rough.
“I parked with style,” I correct, sliding down the battered hull to hit the ground. My knees buckle slightly—okay, maybe I’m more banged up than I thought—but Suki is there, grabbing my arm to steady me. Her grip is fierce. Too tight. Like she’s afraid I’ll disappear if she lets go.
“You look terrible,” she says, her grin tight with worry. “Like, actually terrible. I love the ‘survived an explosion’ aesthetic, but maybe next time try a spa day.”
“Good to see you too, Suki.”
And then I’m pulling her into a hug, burying my face in her shoulder, and she smells like gun oil and recycled air and sister. For a second—just one second—the fear recedes. I’m not alone. I have Rynn, and I have Suki. We can do this.
She squeezes me hard enough to make my ribs protest, and I don’t care. I squeeze back.
Then she pulls away, her gaze snapping instantly to my neck. To the mark that pulses there, gold and raw, right where Rynn’s teeth claimed me. Her eyebrows shoot up so high they nearly disappear into her hairline.
“Okay,” she says. “We are definitely going to have a long talk about the fact that you bit the client—or he bit you—and now you’ve a slight glow like a lamp. But first, we have a dreadnought to deal with.”
Through the bond, I feel Rynn’s amusement—warm, soft, utterly unexpected. I like her.
Yeah, I think back. Me too.
Rynn drops down beside us, landing silently despite his size. He straightens, adjusting his torn jacket—the same jacket that still smells like us, like sex and sweat and the sharp ozone of the bond—and immediately steps slightly in front of me. The move is instinctual. Protective. He probably doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.
Suki notices, though. Her eyes narrow, flicking between us with the calculating intensity of someone who’s survived the Fringe by reading people.
“So this is the Diplomat,” she says.
“Rynn Valorian,” he replies, inclining his head. His voice is formal, but through the bond I can feel him trying to make a good impression. Wanting to be worthy of the woman I love like a sister. It’s adorable. “My apologies for the state of your hangar. And for the fleet parked in your orbit.”
“Don’t worry about the floor.” Suki points over his shoulder. “Worry about the husband.”
The crowd parts.
And Henrok D’Vorr strides through like a god of war made flesh.
He’s massive—seven feet of slate-grey muscle and glowing red veins that pulse beneath his skin like magma through stone. The crystalline patterns that fan across his shoulders and arms are brighter than I remember, glowing with inner light that speaks of power barely contained. He isn’t wearing armor, just a simple black tunic that somehow makes him look more dangerous, not less. Like he doesn’t need armor. Like he is the armor.
He moves with the heavy, inevitable grace of a landslide. The kind of force that doesn’t go around obstacles—it goes through them.
He stops three feet away. The air seems to vibrate around him. Through the bond, I feel Rynn’s instincts flare—alpha male recognition, the primal awareness of another apex predator in the territory.
