“I should perhaps stop consulting romance novels for tactical guidance.”
“Probably wise,” she agrees. “Though I’m keeping the image of you trying to demonstrate predatory grace at oh-four hundred and hitting furniture. That’s going to make me smile for weeks.”
Jitters has shaped himself into a lopsided, vibrating heart.
“He is not subtle about his matchmaking objectives,” I observe.
“No,” she agrees, smiling at the anxious blob. “But he has good instincts.”
“He does,” I say quietly, holding her gaze. “He knew you were special before I understood what you would mean to me.”
She laughs again—that genuine sound that makes my heart twist with emotions I don’t have names for. “We’re quite a unit, aren’t we? The disgraced gladiator, the compromised inspector, and the anxiety blob who makes coffee with his body.”
“The gladiator who walked away from false honor, the inspector who maintained her core values despite impossible circumstances, and the protective companion who ensures we stay caffeinated and emotionally supported,” I correct.
“Much better description.” She meets my eyes with determination. “I have three days on this ship with you to figure out what comes next. We might as well make it work.”
“We might as well make it work,” I echo. “Though I reserve the right to continue researching courtship protocols if my methods require improvement.”
“Just maybe skip the predatory stalking practice. My furniture can’t take much more abuse.”
“Commander Blade Starfire’s tactical approach is not compatible with your ship’s architecture or my coordination at oh-four hundred.”
We stand there in the galley—bonded partners thrown together by biochemical accident and impossible circumstances—and for the first time since the bond formed, it feels like maybe we’re going to be okay.
Not perfect. Not uncomplicated. But okay.
And watching Zola smile at me over blob-filtered coffee while morning light catches in her auburn hair, I think maybe “okay” is a pretty good place to start.
7
System Diagnostics
Zola
Hetookinaterrified alien blob and raised it as a pet.
I watch Crash sip his coffee, listening to the soft, warbling sounds Jitters is making as he basks in his owner’s approval. The big, lethal gladiator who accidentally bonded to me isn’t just a pile of muscles and scales and pheromones. He’s... soft.
Well, emotionally soft. Physically, he’s currently leaning against the galley counter without a shirt, and there is absolutely nothing soft about the ridges of muscle defined by golden scales, or the geometric markings that seem to pulse slightly with his heartbeat.
I should look away. Professional safety inspectors do not ogle the anatomy of their subjects.
But professional safety inspectors also don’t go to sleep wrapped around said subjects, feeling safe and cherished and ridiculously well-rested for the first time in years.
I glance at the workstation screen, where The Pirate’s Treasure is still displayed. He was researching romance novels. To make me comfortable. The image of this dangerous Exoscarab-hunter sitting in the dark, painstakingly reading bad human fiction because he wanted to be a “good suitor,” does something terrible to my defenses.
It makes me want to laugh, but it also makes my heart clench in ways that have nothing to do with the bond and everything to do with the fact that no one has ever cared enough to research how to court me properly. Even if his research materials were questionable and his execution involved furniture-related injuries.
“Speaking of trust,” I say, deciding I need to focus on something technical before I do something unprofessional like hug him, “we should probably check your secretion glands.”
Crash chokes on his coffee. “The what?”
“Your secretion glands.” I gesture toward his throat and wrists, trying to keep my voice clinical even though my heart rate is already accelerating at the thought of touching him. “Whenyour combat and mate secretions mixed during the attack, it created an unprecedented biochemical reaction. I need to make sure there wasn’t any internal trauma. Blockages, inflammation, that sort of thing.”
His throat works on a swallow I can see from across the galley. “I usually... that is, medical examinations of gland function are typically performed by Velogian healers,” he manages, his voice slightly strangled.
“Well, unless you have a Velogian healer stashed in the cargo hold, I’m your best option.” I set my coffee cup down with deliberate precision, letting the scientist in me take over before the woman who very much wants to touch him can overthink this. “I have medical training, steady hands, and a vested interest in making sure your biology doesn’t explode again.”
