Mekkra goes very still. Not weak. Focused.
“I promise you, he shall die by my hand,” he says, and this time when he reaches his palm out to mine, it isn’t a threat.
“You don’t?—”
“You are worth it, and I will kill him,” he whispers.
It’s a vow.
Because taking his hand means choosing the fire. And not taking it means choosing a life where I pretend I don’t feel this at all.
My fingers lock quietly into his own.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Like a cat, Mekkra tries his best to hide his injuries. I’d assumed the sleek medical pod would knit him back together in seconds, but apparently his advanced alien tech is just a glorified robotic surgeon. No miracles. No instant regeneration. Just tender bruises and hastily stitched stab wounds that haven’t fully sealed.
Mekkra reaches across the table, barely suppressing a wince, and grabs a metal mug that smells like jet fuel and regret. He slumps in his chair as he takes a big swig.
“Thank you for joining me,” he says, tone carefully neutral. Detached.
He’s a terrible actor.
“You’re welcome,” I reply evenly, hovering at his side as I let the train of yet another sheer dress in my ridiculous wardrobe swish behind me. “And thank you for saving me.”
“You are my mate. It is my duty.” He waves it away with a grunt, leaning back like it costs him nothing.
Something in me bristles at that.
"Isn't there some big ceremony we've gotta do before you're allowed to call me that?"
He rolls his eyes but nods. "If you'd like to argue the specifics, yes."
I lean forward and take the mug straight from his hand before he can react. I hold his gaze while I take a long swallow. It burns all the way down—sharp, bitter, unapologetic.
His mouth actually drops open.
I guess Mekkra’s never partied with a good ole Florida girl before.
I set the empty mug down with a firm click.
“If this is going to work,” I say calmly, “step one is you dropping the macho warlord performance when you’re with me. Do you understand?”
“It is not a performance?—”
I lift one finger, and he stops.
“You don’t get to hide behind duty.” I don’t raise my voice. I don’t need to. “Don’t pretend you saved me because it was convenient or required. Your life was on the line because of it.”
His gaze falters. Shame flickers there.
“I had no other choice.”
“Yes. You did.” I step closer. “You could have let me die. You didn’t.”
The admission hangs between us.
I exhale slowly. “That makes me want to repay you. It does.” The words cost me, but I don’t look away. “But I can’t do that with obedience. And I won’t do it with lies.”
