The smell made her stomach twist. Burning. Hot metal. It smelled exactly like the underground bypass. It smelled like the wreckage where she'd woken up screaming, trapped in a seatbelt while Delilah bled out beside her.
Her breath caught as the memory tried to drag her under. No. She couldn’t afford this. She dug her fingernails into her palm until the skin broke. Not now.
She forced herself down the grated stairs, her boots clanging on the grating. She needed a transport to Earth. Or a colony transfer. She didn’t care which. Just anywhere that wasn't here.
A large, blocky vessel near Bay 4 was cycling its engines. The boarding gangway was down, and a line of crew members was moving crates onto the ship. Resupply Transport 7-Alpha, the holographic sign pulsed above the dock. Destination: Lunar Transfer Station.
Close enough. From the moon, she could get a shuttle to Earth. She could disappear into the sprawling mega-cities where no one knew her name and no handsome orange-haired War-Commanders would come looking.
She adjusted the silver bracelet on her wrist. She should take it off. Leave it here. It was too beautiful for where she was going, too precious. But she couldn't bring herself to undo the clasp. It was the only piece of him she could keep. Just this. Just the silver vines wrapped around her wrist in the memory of a promise she couldn’t have anymore.
She approached the boarding ramp. A harried-looking transport officer with a dataflex stood at the base, checking cargo manifests. He was a human, thankfully. Easier to bluff than a Latharian.
"Manifest is closed," the officer said without looking up, scrolling through his screen. "We launch in ten."
"Command override." She pitched her voice low and bored, covering the photo with her thumb. "Medical inventory exception—priority flag."
The officer sighed, the sound of a man who hated his job. He glanced at the card and waved a hand. "Make it quick. If you're not off in five, you're going to the moon."
"Understood."
She stepped onto the ramp, the metal vibrating under her feet.
Holy shit. She was doing it. She was actually leaving.
A tear slipped free, hot and humiliating, to track down her cheek. She swiped it away. She didn’t have time to cry. She just had to get inside, find a dark corner in the cargo hold, and wait for the engines to fire. Once they launched, it was over. Kirr would be safe.
She took another step up the incline. Then another.
But then the ambient noise of the bay—steam hissing, metal clanging—changed. It didn't stop, but the rhythm broke. The air pressure seemed to drop, sucking the breath out of the massive room.
Behind her, the transport officer made a choked, strangled sound.
"Sir—stop. You can't board—this area is restricted?—"
BOOM.
The sound wasn't an explosion. It was the impact of a door being struck hard enough to warp the frame.
She froze. The hairs on the back of her neck rose as her heart slammed against her ribs.
Don't turn around. Just run. Get on the ship. Hide.
She scrambled forward, her boots slipping on the grating.
"Get out of my way," a voice roared. It wasn't a shout; it was a force of nature, deep and vibrating with a rage that shook the deck plates.
The transport officer scrambled back, dropping his dataflex.
She lunged for the airlock hatch. She was five feet away. Three feet.
A shadow fell over her, swallowing the bay lights, swallowing the world. Swallowing her.
She skidded to a halt, gasping, and looked up.
Kirr stood at the base of the ramp. He wasn't the calm, steady anchor who had held her through panic attacks. He wasn't the gentle lover who had held her in his arms as she came apart. He was a War-Commander in full combat aggression. His chest heaved, his golden eyes sparking with fury. He took up the entire world, blocking the exit.
He took a step closer, the metal groaning under his weight. His gaze locked onto hers, pinning her in place like a butterfly on a board.
