He was handsome. He was polite. He wouldn't pick her up and put her on a counter. He wouldn't stare at her like he wanted to devour her whole. He would be a good, sensible match who would probably ask before he kissed her and respect her boundaries.
But she didn’t want safe. She didn't want polite conversation about space-pastries. She wanted the storm standing rigid beside her.
T’aarn reached out, his fingers brushing her elbow. "Let me show you where?—"
The air pressure in the room seemed to drop.
Kirr moved. A single step forward, but it hit like a blast door slamming shut. He didn't shove T'aarn. He didn't even touch him. He simply occupied the space between the other male and Harper, his massive body blocking out the light, the room… hell, the rest of the universe.
He stared down at the younger warrior. He didn't speak. He didn't have to. His posture screamed violence.
“Mine,” he growled.
T'aarn froze. His smile faltered, then vanished. He took a step back, hands raising slightly, palms out. The instinct to survive overrode the instinct to be charming.
"My apologies," T'aarn said, his voice tight. "I didn't realize... I'll leave you to your evening."
He retreated. He didn't just walk away; he vanished into the crowd like he’d never been there.
Kirr stepped back and pulled her against his side—too hard, his fingers digging into her hip like he was afraid she'd dissolve if he let go. She looked up at him. His jaw was locked tight enough to grind steel.
"You growled," she said. “You actually growled.”
He looked down. The flatness in his eyes fractured, replaced by a simmering heat that was infinitely more dangerous. "He was going to touch you."
"He was just being friendly, Kirr. He was talking about pastries."
"He was showing interest." His voice was rough, like gravel sliding down a chute. But his eyes weren't angry anymore. They were hungry. "He was looking at what is mine."
Harper opened her mouth to argue. She should argue. She was a modern woman, she didn't belong to anyone. Being treated like property was archaic, sexist, and just plain wrong. She should tell him to back off, stomp her foot, and demand that he apologize.
She didn’t.
Because beneath the modern sensibilities, beneath the layers of cynicism and exhaustion, something low in her belly uncurled.
Heat flooded her veins, thick and heavy like syrup. Her heart didn't stutter with fear; it kicked hard. He had looked at a room full of his peers, at the social hierarchy of this station, and decided none of it mattered as much as keeping other men away from her.
He wasn't safe. He was possessive, overwhelming, and terrifying.
And she loved it.
She wanted him to look at her like that again. She wanted him to put his hands on her and leave marks that told the rest of the galaxy exactly who she belonged to.
Her breath caught, and she wet her lips with her tongue.
His gaze dropped to her mouth, and his pupils blew wide, the gold all swallowed by black. He smelled her reaction. She knew he did. She saw the moment he registered the arousal radiating off her, the moment he realized she wasn't angry, and his nostrils flared.
His hand tightened on her waist, dragging her even closer, until her thigh bumped the hard ridge of him beneath his dress uniform.
"We're leaving," he said. “Now.”
It wasn't a question. It wasn't a suggestion. It was an order. Full stop.
"Kirr, we haven't even?—"
"Now." He cut her off, his voice dropping low that scraped against her nerve endings. "Before I take you right here against the wall and give them something to talk about for the next few cycles. Of course, then, I’d have to kill every male who saw you in such a state of undress. That’s for my eyes, and my eyes only."
She swallowed, all the strength going from her knees. If he hadn’t been holding her, a strong arm wrapped around her back, she would have melted into a little puddle at his feet. The function hall, the music… all faded into the background. The only thing that existed was the heat coming off him and the promise in his eyes.
