Lounging on a supply crate like it’s a throne and he’s the scaly king of jackasses. Shirtless, obviously, his red scales gleaming under the flickering lights. There’s soot smeared across one shoulder. His legs are spread wide, boots planted like he owns the damn floor.
“Storm’s just foreplay,” he says, voice low and smug.
I shoot him a glare as I straighten up, brushing grime off my arms. “You’re not funny.”
“I’m a little funny,” he says with a wink.
I make a noise in my throat that’s somewhere between a groan and a death threat. Then the overheads flicker. Once. Twice.
And the sound ofklaxonscuts through the hangar like a blade.
“Warning. Wind spike detected. Bulkhead lockdown initiated.”
The massive steel doors at both ends of the hangar begin to groan shut.
My stomach drops. “Wait, what? No no no?—”
I bolt for the access panel, slamming my hand against the override. It flashes red. The terminal buzzes at me like a smug little gremlin.
“System lockdown in progress,” it chirps.
The last bulkhead slams shut with a seismicclang.
I whirl around to find Naull still perched on his crate, looking thoroughly amused.
“Well,” he says, grinning. “Looks like it’s just you, me, and eight hours of foreplay.”
I swear to every engineering god that ever existed, I am going to strangle him with a power cable.
The mech bay is cavernous, but now it feelstight.The kind of tight that makes your chest ache just from breathing. There’s a fine vibration in the floor, the kind that says the storm outside islicking the ceiling like a hungry thing. Dust drifts in lazy spirals from the rafters.
I stalk past Naull without a word, heading for the maintenance console by Whiplash. He follows. Of course he does. Like a shadow with biceps.
“Did you know the last Typhon-class cracked Base Theta’s roof?” I mutter.
“Did you know I once rode out a Typhon on theoutsideof a mech?” he replies.
“Did you know I don’t care?”
He chuckles. “You’re so mean when you’re turned on.”
I stop dead in my tracks. Spin to face him.
“Excuse me?”
He shrugs one shoulder, all golden-eyed arrogance. “You’ve been twitchy since the Meld. Can’t stop thinking about me.”
“That’s not how neural entanglement works,” I snap.
“No, butthisis,” he says, stepping closer.
Too close.
Suddenly his heat is washing over me again—scales radiating warmth like sun-soaked stone. I can smell metal and sweat and something uniquelyNaull.It hits me like a damn memory.
I hold my ground.
“You think you’re the only one feeling things?” I say, voice low.
