She stared at him, her lips parted. For a second, he thought she might step forward. Might reach out and touch him, might bridge that final gap and let him pull her down onto those furs. His hands ached to reach for her. His muscles coiled, ready to snatch her up, ready to strip that shapeless station jumpsuit off her and show her exactly why he needed a bed this size.
Then her eyes flicked past him.
"We... we should probably get back," she stammered, stepping around him. "Delilah... the medical bay... visiting hours."
He ground his teeth, frustration warring with patience. She was scared. He knew that. Pushing her now would only make those walls higher.
"Right," he said, forcing his body to relax. "Visiting hours."
He escorted her out, his mood darkening with every step. He needed to hit something. Or fuck something. Preferably the female walking three feet ahead of him, but since that wasn't happening, he'd settle for an intense session in the training ring later.
The walk back was silent as they headed back through the cargo bay. She kept glancing at the machinery, the racks as weapons lockers were restocked, and the warriors who snapped to attention as they passed.
They reached the gangway… the reinforced tunnel connecting the Ra'Tervas to Devan Station's docking ring. It was busy with foot traffic as supplies were loaded and unloaded. As they stepped onto the metal grating, the ship’s quartermaster intercepted him, dataflex in hand.
“My lord. The munitions manifest needs your authorization. Discrepancy in the core count."
Kirr took the pad, scanning the figures. Harper drifted ahead, drawn by activity near the cargo bay doors. He tracked her in the corner of his eye as he scrolled through the inventory.
She stopped, watching as a team of handlers guided drakeen in their loading cradles into the hold. The combat robots were offline, their armor gleaming under the industrial lights, but even inert they radiated danger. She leaned closer, fascinated.
Signing off on the manifest, he handed it back. "Sorted. Next time, don't let it get to discrepancy stage."
The quartermaster saluted and disappeared.
He looked up and went still.
A warrior leaned against the bulkhead near the station-side airlock with the arrogant posture of a male who hadn't seen real combat yet. He was young and Kirr didn’t recognize him, which meant he was on his first real combat rotation.
As Harper walked past, the kid straightened.
His gaze didn't just land on her. It crawled over her. Started at her boots, slid up her legs, lingered on the curve of her hips, slow-walked up to her chest.
Disrespectful. Hungry. Predatory.
Kirr went cold.
The kid didn't notice. He was too busy leaning forward, a sleek, practiced smile sliding onto his face as he intercepted Harper's path.
"Well, hello," he said. "Don't see many humans down this end of the ring. You lost, kelarris? Need someone to show you the?—"
He didn’t get a chance to finish the sentence.
Kirr slammed him into the bulkhead with enough force to pulverize bone.
The kid’s feet dangled six inches off the deck as Kirr’s massive fist clenched around his throat, crushing just enough to cut off air.
"You don’t touch her," he snarled, right into the kid’s face.
The kid's eyes bulged. His hands scrambled at Kirr's forearm, useless against the strength of a War-Commander.
The hold had gone silent behind them, but he didn't look around. He didn't care who was watching. He leaned in, his face inches from the gasping male, teeth bared in a snarl.
"You don’t look at her," he said as he squeezed tighter. The kid turned a dark, suffocated shade of violet. Part of him hoped the kid fought back. Gave him an excuse. "You don’t even think about her. You do?”
He slammed him against the wall again, hard enough to dent the metal plating.
“And you die."
