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Chapter One

C allie

Aries walks into the Galaxy Warrior’s dining hall and every conversation dies. Forks pause mid-air. Even the perpetual clatter of dishes goes silent. My fingers strangle my glass of iced drassah almost hard enough to leave marks.

I count the steps until he reaches the far corner table—his usual spot when our two ships dock together. Eight steps today. Sometimes it’s seven, depending on how quickly he’s trying to escape being in the same room with me.

The bitter-sweet aroma of the beverage fills my nose, grounding me in the present moment even as memories threaten to surface. Five years of carefully orchestrated avoidance have made me hyperaware of his presence, like a splinter I can’t quite dig out.

We started avoiding each other the moment we overthrew our captors and won our freedom. That was five years ago.

At first, we were on the same ship—the original Warbird One —but even then, we managed to arrange our schedules so our paths rarely crossed.

When Captain Zar-Rynn split the crews between two ships a few years back, it seemed like a blessing.

I transferred to Captain Beast’s Devil’s Playground while Aries remained on what became the Galaxy Warrior .

Different ships meant different missions, different schedules, different lives .

“Callie.” Shadow nudges my arm, his green, mechanical eye managing to look compassionate, mirroring the concern in his flesh-and-blood one as it focuses on my white-knuckled grip. “You’re going to crack that glass.”

Forcing my fingers to relax, a weak smile forms. “Just thinking about the upcoming games.” The lie slides out easily after years of practice. Years of perfecting this dance where Aries and I occupy the same spaces without acknowledging each other’s existence.

It’s been three months since both ships last docked together—unusual for us to spend this much time in proximity, but recent joint missions have required closer coordination.

The combined crews of the Galaxy Warrior and Devil’s Playground pack the Galaxy Warrior’s dining hall, their excited chatter about tomorrow’s gladiatorial games creating an electric atmosphere.

Familiar faces crowd around shared dishes—Shadow and Petra comparing fighting techniques with Beast and Aerie.

At the same time, Dr. Drayke expounds to anyone within earshot about a new cryogenic technique that can heal amputations at twice the normal speed.

“Did you see the odds on the Cestus matches?” Captain Beast asks, the golden rings that pierce the emerald skin on his straight nose catching the light as he leans forward. “They’re favoring the Anthen fighting team this year.”

“That’s because they haven’t seen our training sessions,” Petra counters, tossing her pink and blue striped hair. It had been brown for a while, but she must have grown tired of that. “Shadow’s been working on a new defensive stance that’s practically unbreakable.”

My attention keeps sliding to that corner table, though.

Aries sits alone, bronze skin gleaming under the harsh lights, those distinctive ram’s horns curling beside his face.

He’s bulked up since I last allowed myself to really look at him.

Apparently, the gladiator circuit has been good to him.

His movements are precise as he eats, measured, like everything about him—carefully controlled.

“Hey, communications officer!” Petra’s voice cuts through my wandering thoughts. “We need your expert opinion. Which betting pool has better odds—the paired fights or the free-for-alls?”

Grateful for the distraction, my focus shifts to the datapad she’s holding.

The familiar glow of numbers and statistics offers a safe haven from dangerous thoughts.

“The paired fights are showing three-to-one odds for top-ranked teams. Free-for-alls are more unpredictable, but the payouts are higher if you back the right fighters.”

“Of course, I’ll back the right fighters—ours.” Petra’s attention flicks meaningfully between me and the corner table, her expression softening with concern. “Speaking of pairs…”

“Don’t.” The word comes out like the crack of a whip, earning curious glances from nearby crew members. “Please.”

She raises her hands in surrender, but the damage is done. The careful bubble of pretense ruptures as my memories flood back to the cell where it all began.

The forced mating program orchestrated by our slave masters.

The way Aries emotionally withdrew completely after our first do-or-die coupling, building walls so high they’ve never come down.

The days of captivity that followed, each of us retreating further into our own private hells.

Luckily, it didn’t last long. We staged an insurrection, overthrew the slavers, and have been traveling the galaxy ever since—using forged papers and stolen ships.

The scrape of Aries’ chair against the metal floor draws my attention. He always leaves exactly seventeen minutes after arriving, giving himself enough time to eat without risking actual interaction. Your timing’s getting sloppy , I think as he heads for the exit. Sixteen minutes today .

“You know,” Shadow says quietly once Aries is gone, his human eye reflecting genuine concern, “you two can’t keep this up forever. Especially not with both ships traveling and docking together often over the next few months.”

A hollow laugh escapes me. “Watch us. It works best when we travel on different ships, but we’ve gotten good at avoiding each other even when we’re in close quarters.”

The sad thing is, we have. It’s become an art form, this elaborate avoidance.

The carefully timed meals, the coordinated training sessions that never overlap, the way we can be in the same room without ever meeting each other’s eyes.

Sometimes I wonder if the crews enable it, adjusting their schedules to help maintain our careful distance.

“Tomorrow, we’ll have to beam down early to planet Sanctorii.

The fighters’ registration starts at 0700,” Petra mentions, tapping her datapad.

The soft blue glow illuminates the worried crease between her brows.

“That’s why everyone’s turning in early tonight.

Have to get the whole team processed before the games can begin. ”

My shoulders relax slightly. At least that’s one awkward encounter that won’t happen—my communication officer duties keep me busy and safely away from the weigh-in and biometrics area.

The knot in my stomach suggests the relief is temporary.

These games will go on for days—more if our gladiators advance through all their matches.

“It’ll be fine,” I say, more to convince myself than her. The ice in my drassah has melted, leaving what’s left in my glass as watered down as my excuses for avoiding him.

Captain Zar-Rynn catches my eye from across the room, his lion-like features unreadable. The noble, supportive male has never pushed us about our situation, but sometimes I catch him watching us with something like sadness in those golden eyes. Like he knows something we don’t.

But as I stare at my half-eaten dinner, something feels different. The air seems charged with an anticipation that has nothing to do with tomorrow’s games. Like we’re all just counting down to an explosion we can’t prevent.

The question is: who’s going to get caught in the blast zone when it finally happens?