It’s just Zig.
And you’re a bad bitch.
There weren’t many places to go in the Lodger, and as tempting as it was to make a beeline for the bedroom, descending to the lower level would drag out the foreplay a little longer.
First, I need to slow him down.
The majority of Zig’s displaced weapons were still scattered around the kitchen, and while I didn’t know how all of them worked, I recognized a few, like the Iota Bombs. These acorn-sized explosives were more of a distraction than anything, but the flashes of light they gave off were enough to temporarily blind whoever triggered them.
Maroxian-Ziggy’s monstrous shadow appeared in the doorway, so I tossed a handful in his direction and made my escape, sliding down the fireman’s pole I’dbeggedhim to install alongside the utilitarian ladder.
Because… c’mon!
The bombs exploded the same moment I hit the lower deck, and I heard Ziggy curse in Maroxian before growling in annoyance over his temporary loss of sight.
Determined not to give him any edge this time, I reactivated my shields, masking my scent before slipping into the stifling-hot boiler room.
Aka, the not-nursery.
I remained motionless until the sound of his sharp talons scraping the metal floor faded into the distance. Then, I traded out my crampons and slipped from the room, silently sneaking back the way I came.
I’d barely made it a few feet when the hair on the back of my neck raised—leaving me with the distinct impression I was being watched—but when I peered over my shoulder, the gangway was empty.
And deathly silent.
This does not bode well.
The ladder was in sight, but I only took one more step before a strange sound had me freezing mid-step. It was a husky, rhythmic hiss that sounded like laughter.
It was also coming from directly above me.
Like that one dumbass in every horror movie, I slowly looked up. Ambush predator that he was, Ziggy was plastered to the ceiling, his armored Maroxian form molded around the pipes and lighting, awaiting the moment I realized it was all over.
Not yet, it’s not!
I threw myself toward the ladder, screaming when—like my earlier, way less sexy chase—claws closed around my ankle and dragged me to the floor.
Thanks to instinctual panic, my safe word was on the tip of my tongue, but my dick was also hard enough to punch through my shields, straight into the metal beneath me, so it was clear which head was in charge.
“Lower. Your. Shields,” Ziggy growled in my ear, caging me beneath his unfamiliar body, reminding me how much bigger he was in this form.
My hands closed around the fireman’s pole in a defiant grip. “No.”
Yeah, I was still a little salty over being left behind, and alotsalty over how easily he’d caught me.
What better way to brat out than to keep my fine ass to myself?
“I can’t smell—” Ziggy cut himself off, panting in growly breaths that only made me harder. “All I smell is the Maroxian who attacked you. I must fix that.”
Fix it?
I knew Zig was limited to the vocabulary of whatever skinsuit he occupied in that moment—hello, celestial catastrophe—but he was also a man who chose his words carefully.
“Nothing about this mission went to plan.”
He thinks he fucked up his directives…
But it’s actuallymyfault.
