I nod, unable to meet her eyes. The Golden Viper, legendary gladiator of the Nexus circuits, defeated by his own mate’s professional competence. My ancestors must be laughing.
There’s a long pause, and then she makes a sound that might be laughter or might be strangled hysteria.
“Well,” she says finally, “that’s problematic.”
Before I can respond, KiKi interrupts with news that makes the pheromone situation seem trivial by comparison.
“Oh! I should also mention that long-range sensors are detecting a pursuit vessel approximately six hours behind our current position. The ship’s configuration matches Exoscarab design specifications and appears to be following our exact trajectory.”
The words hit like ice water. Thek-Ka. Six hours behind and gaining.
“Pursuit vessel?” Zola’s voice goes sharp, professional. “Show me.”
The tactical display activates, showing a large ship following our exact course with the kind of steady determination that makes my combat instincts activate.
“That’s Thek-Ka’s warship,” I confirm, already calculating threats and escape routes. I can hear the flutter of her pulse accelerating, smell the sharp tang of adrenaline cutting through the vanilla-honey baseline of her scent. “He’s found us.”
“Six hours behind us, and our engines are running at sixty-three percent efficiency because of atmospheric contamination,” Zola says, and I can see her processing the tactical situation with the kind of rapid analysis that makes my biology respond despite the crisis. “Can you stop producing pheromones?”
“I can try, but...” I gesture helplessly. “You’re about to demonstrate tactical competence under pressure. My biology finds that extremely appealing.”
“So the more I try to save us, the more your pheromones will sabotage our escape.”
“Probably, yes.”
She looks at me for a long moment, and I can practically see her brilliant mind working through solutions.
“Emergency atmospheric purge,” she decides, moving to the environmental controls with the kind of decisive efficiency that makes the bond between us snap tight like a magnetic lock engaging. “It’ll clear the contamination and restore engine function.”
“And after that?”
“After that, we change tactics entirely.” Her hands move over the controls with practiced competence, and I have to grip the edge of the console to keep from making sounds that would beentirely inappropriate for a crisis situation. “We’re not running anymore.”
The atmospheric purge begins with a sharp hiss, and immediately I can breathe without tasting my own arousal in the air. The relief is temporary—watching Zola work the ship’s systems with professional expertise is making my biology gear up for another round of enthusiastic pheromone production.
“Engines responding,” KiKi reports with satisfaction. “Full power restored. Shall I plot an evasive course?”
“Negative. We’re going to make him work for it.” Zola activates the tactical display, her fingers dancing over the controls in ways that make me think entirely inappropriate thoughts about what else those hands could do.
Focus, Crash. She’s saving both your lives.
“There,” she says, pointing to a dense asteroid field marked with navigation warnings. “The Kepler Mining Remnants. Highly unstable, full of debris, and absolutely terrible for large ships with limited maneuverability.”
I study the display, understanding her strategy immediately. “You want to lead him into a hazard field where his ship’s size becomes a disadvantage.”
“Exactly. The Precision is small, fast, and equipped for navigating dangerous areas. We can thread through gaps that would cripple an Exoscarab warship.”
The tactical brilliance of it creates a sensation like a fusion reactor coming online in my chest—heat and pressure building to critical levels. She’s not just running—she’s turning his advantages against him.
“You are brilliant,” I breathe, and the words come out rougher than intended.
She glances at me, and I can see her processing my reaction to her strategic thinking. The way her pupils dilate slightly suggests she’s not entirely immune to how I’m looking at her.
“Just practical problem-solving,” she says, but her voice carries a rough edge that wasn’t there before.
“No,” I insist. I can feel the spike in her body temperature, see the flush spreading across her throat, hear the subtle catch in her breathing. “You are taking control of an impossible situation and turning it to our advantage. It’s brilliant, and beautiful, and I’m completely useless right now because watching you work is making my biology malfunction in ways that are actively sabotaging our survival.”
“Then we need to find a way to make your biology an asset instead of a liability,” she says, her hands never stopping their movement across the controls as she plots our course through the hazard field.
