“Again,” he growls.
And gods help me?—
I want it.
I wanthim.
Forever.
CHAPTER 7
FREYA
The sheets still smell like him.
Even after three washes—on high-heat no less—I can still catch the musk of his skin, wild and primal, clinging to the fibers like a ghost that won’t let go. I bury my nose in my pillow before cursing myself and shoving it across the bunk. I don’t need this. I need tofocus.
For the third day in a row, I pretend not to be looking over my shoulder every five seconds.
Vokar hasn’t come back. Not to my room, not to the mess hall, not even to the negotiation chamber as far as I can tell. And that should be a relief, right? He’s giving me space. I should be grateful. Iaskedfor boundaries.
And yet...
I dream of him every damn night. It’s always the same. His voice in my ear—low, rough, like gravel wrapped in heat. His massive hands pinning me in place, his breath warm on my throat. I wake up aching, soaked with sweat and need, the sheets twisted around my legs like restraints.
“Dammit,” I mutter, fumbling to tug on my standard-issue maintenance uniform. The collar scratches against a still-sensitive mark he left on my shoulder. I hiss, but the pain sends a wave of something else straight through me. Memory. Hunger.
It’s pathetic.
Jorko meets me outside the janitor's hold with his usual lopsided grin. His hoverbelt whines as it lifts him a few inches off the floor, sparing his bad leg from the strain.
“Morning, sunshine,” he drawls, handing me a data tab. “You’ve got conference room two, and Rection’s quarters if he doesn’t chase you out first.”
“Lucky me,” I mutter, trying to keep my eyes from drifting toward the docking bay’s far corridor.
Jorko notices. He always notices.
“You okay, kid?” he asks, voice softer now. “You’ve been... twitchy.”
“I’m fine.”
He squints at me. “You’re not seeing anyone, are you? I mean—on this ship?”
I snort, but it sounds too brittle. “Do I look like I’ve got time for romance?”
He narrows his eyes like he’s trying to read between my words. “It’s just—you know those Reapers. Big, spiky, and full of bad decisions. If one of them so much as?—”
“I’m not seeing anyone,” I cut in, harsher than I meant to. “And no one’s seeing me. Trust me.”
Jorko hums, unconvinced. “Good. ‘Cause the last thing I want to do is explain to your orphanage how you got turned into decorative splatter by a warlord with boundary issues.”
I force a laugh, but my hands are already trembling. Not from fear. From memory. Fromwant.
The rest of the morning, I scrub. Hard. My hands are raw by the time I finish buffing the tables in the conference room. Every time I catch my reflection in the polished chrome, I wince. I don’t look like myself. My cheeks are always flushed now. Mylips, too red. Like I’ve been kissed into a new version of myself, one that doesn’t fit.
“Stop thinking about him,” I hiss under my breath, attacking a coffee stain like it insulted my ancestry.
But of course, it doesn’t work.
