"When I escaped, I took data. Research files, financial records, evidence of their entire program. Every facility, every specimen, every being they've modified and disposed of." My left forearm turns, exposing the thin raised line on the inside of my wrist. "It's here. An implant I modified during imprisonment. Biologically encrypted, tied to my genetic signature. If I die, it dies with me."
Her eyes track the scar. Back to my face.
"So they need you alive to recover it. Or dead to make sure it never surfaces."
"Yes. You're about to put your hands inside the technology they used to control me. You deserve to know the full cost of being near me."
She's quiet for a beat. Then she sets the circuit tester down, crosses to me, and drops to her knees in front of the moss padding where I'm sitting.
"Okay. Data implant, corporate conspiracy, galaxy-wide manhunt. Added to the list." Steady. Practical. As if I've told her the beacon needs a new fuse. "Do you want to do this?"
"Yes."
"Then show me the catches."
The outer straps come away with effort. Each one I peel back reveals skin that hasn't seen air in months, pressure marks worn into emerald flesh, pale scars where the material has abraded over years. She watches me undress the harness with an expression I can't fully read: anger at what was done to me layered over something warmer that she's working hard to control.
The chest plate remains. Central housing, neural connectors, the components she needs.
"Here." I settle onto the moss padding before my legs can betray the unsteadiness. "Best angle from this position."
She kneels between my knees.
I stop breathing.
Her repair kit rests beside her, and she's reaching for tools with professional focus, all competence and determination. She has no idea what she looks like from this angle. Red hair catching firelight. Green eyes intent on my bare chest. Small capable hands steady despite the flush climbing her neck.
She leans closer to examine the plate's seams, and her forearm brushes the inside of my thigh.
Every muscle in my body goes rigid.
She's close enough that her scent cuts through the smoke and stone of the cave. Sweat and engine grease and something underneath, something warm and specificallyher, mixing with the heat radiating off my skin. Varkaani senses run broader than human; I can smell the shift in her when proximity registers, the chemistry of her body adjusting to mine.
Below the leather panels of the harness that still shield my hips, my body has made its interest extremely clear. Varkaani physiology runs hot. Right now, with her kneeling between my thighs and her breath ghosting across my exposed chest, I am grateful for every piece of armour still in place. Grateful for the shadows. Grateful she's focused on the hardware and not on how the fabric of my pants has gone impossibly tight.
"Tell me if I hurt you," she says. Voice lower than usual.
Hurt me. As if that's what I'm afraid of.
"You won't."
Her fingers find the chest plate's seams. The first touch is clinical, her engineer's brain mapping connections and junction points. Even through the metal, the phantom heat of her fingers radiates into my skin. My hands fist against my thighs.
"There's a secondary lock," I manage. "Left side, under the main plate. You'll need to slide your hand beneath—"
She does.
Her palm flattens against my ribs. Skin to skin, slick with the heat, and she has to lean in close, her other hand bracing against my thigh for balance. Higher on my thigh. Her knuckles brush against the evidence of exactly how affected I am, and we both go still.
Her eyes flick down. Then up to mine. Wide.
Colour floods her face, spreading down her neck and disappearing beneath the open collar of her jumpsuit.
"Sorry," she whispers. But she doesn't move her hand. "I need the leverage to reach—"
"I know." Scraped out. "It's fine."
It is the opposite of fine. She knows. The flush on her cheeks says she knows, and she's choosing not to retreat, and that knowledge alone is nearly enough to break the last bracket of my control.
