Page 5

The human female followed me out of the medical bay, her footsteps quick and light compared to my measured stride.

I could hear her heartbeat, still slightly elevated, smell the lingering traces of desert sand and medical antiseptic on her skin.

The scent beneath it all—citrus and spice—called to something primal in me that I refused to acknowledge.

Not now. Not when she was looking at me with those wide, dark eyes, waiting for explanations I wasn’t authorized to give and answers I wasn’t prepared to offer.

“This is the main corridor,” I said, gesturing to the narrow hallway with its reinforced walls. The words felt inadequate even as they left my mouth. What I wanted to say was: This is where I’ve spent countless solitary rotations, never knowing I was waiting for you.

Instead, I pointed toward the various sealed doorways. “Communications. Storage. Sustenance preparation. Sleeping quarters.”

“Wow, so spacious,” she quipped, the sarcasm evident in her tone. “Do you also have a ballroom and an Olympic-sized swimming pool tucked away somewhere?”

I blinked at her, momentarily confused. Humor. She was using humor to mask her fear. A surprisingly effective coping mechanism, though it made interaction more challenging. I’d been trained to interrogate, intimidate, and when necessary, eliminate. Not to...banter.

“The outpost is designed for efficiency, not comfort,” I replied, leading her toward the monitoring station. “One Legion operative. Maximum fourteen-day deployment.”

She followed close behind me, close enough that her scent enveloped me with each step. Close enough that if I turned suddenly, she would collide with my chest. The thought sent an inappropriate surge of heat through my veins.

Focus, Reaper.

The monitoring station hummed with activity—screens displaying atmospheric conditions, radiation levels, and the storm’s progress. I gestured toward the main display where swirling patterns of orange and red showed the storm’s intensity.

“As I said, sixteen hours minimum before communications can be restored.” I kept my voice neutral, professional. “Legion protocol will then dictate extraction procedures.”

She leaned forward to study the screen, her long braid sliding over her shoulder. “And what exactly does ‘extraction’ mean for me? Are we talking comfy spaceship ride back to Earth, or something more...invasive?”

The word ‘invasive’ conjured images from our shared dream that I immediately suppressed. I cleared my throat.

“Standard quarantine and decontamination. Debriefing.” I hesitated, then added reluctantly, “Memory protocols may be implemented.”

Her head snapped up, eyes narrowing. “Memory protocols? As in, making me forget? Oh hell no. That’s not happening.”

I should have explained that it was non-negotiable, that Legion security was paramount. Instead, I found myself saying, “That decision is beyond my authority.”

It wasn’t a promise, but it wasn’t a denial either. The lie of omission sat uncomfortably between us.

She studied my face for a long moment, as if trying to read truth in my alien features. “We’ll see about that,” she finally said, the determination in her voice making something in my chest tighten with admiration.

I moved us along to the food preparation area—little more than a narrow counter with built-in heating elements and a small conservation unit for rations.

Standard Legion fare: protein compounds, nutrient supplements, hydration capsules.

Nothing that would appeal to human tastes, but it would keep her alive.

“You require sustenance,” I said, reaching past her to access the storage compartment. Our arms brushed, the brief contact sending electricity through my skin. I froze for a fraction of a second, fighting the instinct to pull her closer, to wrap myself around her and never let go.

She didn’t seem to notice my momentary lapse, busy examining the strange packages I was arranging on the counter.

“Please tell me that’s not all freeze-dried space cardboard,” she said, poking at one of the ration packs.

“It contains all necessary nutrients for?—”

“For survival, yeah, I get it.” She sighed dramatically. “No pizza delivery out here in the space boonies, I guess.”

I unwrapped one of the nutrient bars and offered it to her. “This one contains proteins similar to your Earth nuts. Almonds, I believe.”

She took it with a raised eyebrow. “You know about almonds?”

Of course I did. I’d studied Earth extensively during my training. Known Terran weaknesses, strengths, cultural touchpoints. But I couldn’t tell her that. “Legion data files are...thorough.”

She bit into the bar and made a face, but continued eating. I watched her throat work as she swallowed, entranced by the simple movement. In our dream, I had tasted the salt of her skin there, felt her pulse against my tongue.

“Water?” I asked, my voice rougher than I intended.

She nodded, and I retrieved a hydration pack for her. Our fingers brushed during the exchange, and I withdrew mine perhaps too quickly. Her scent had changed subtly—still citrus and spice, but with a new note I recognized all too well. Arousal. Faint but undeniable.

Did she remember our dream? Feel the pull between us? Or was it simply a biological response to stress and proximity?

“So,” she said after draining half the pack, “where do I sleep? Or do you expect me to stand at attention all night like a good little prisoner?”

I led her to the final doorway. Inside was a compact sleeping chamber—one narrow bunk built into the wall, storage beneath it, environmental controls nearby.

“You will rest here,” I said, adjusting the temperature settings to better suit human comfort levels. “I will remain in the monitoring station.”

She looked at the bunk, then back at me, her expression skeptical. “That’s barely big enough for me. Where do you usually sleep?”

“Here.” The word escaped before I could consider its implications.

She smirked. “Well, this just got awkward.”

I stiffened, desperately searching for the right response. “I require less rest than humans,” I finally said. “And there are emergency provisions I can utilize.”

In truth, I had no intention of sleeping while she was here. Not if it meant risking another Unity dream. Not when the reality of her was mere steps away, testing my control with every breath, every movement, every flash of those dark eyes.

“If you say so, big guy.” She yawned suddenly, her body finally succumbing to the exhaustion she’d been fighting. “God, I’m tired. Being portaled to an alien death planet really takes it out of a girl.”

I watched as she sat on the edge of the bunk, her shoulders slumping with fatigue. The medical pod had healed the worst of her injuries, but her body still needed natural recovery time. She needed rest. Food. Protection.

The urge to provide these things was overwhelming—not just as a duty, but as a need buried deep in my bones.

“Rest,” I said, the word emerging gentler than I intended. “I will bring additional sustenance when you wake.”

She looked up at me, fatigue softening her features. For a moment, her guard dropped, and I glimpsed the vulnerability beneath her bravado. It hit me like a physical blow, that trust, however temporary.

“Thank you,” she said quietly. “For saving me out there. I would have died if you hadn’t found me.”

I inclined my head, unable to trust my voice. What could I say? That finding her was the most significant event of my existence? That the thought of her death hollowed me out in ways I couldn’t articulate?

She stretched out on the bunk, not bothering to remove the gray jumpsuit we’d dressed her in after the medical treatment. Her eyes were already closing, her breathing slowing. The combined effects of the healing, the food, and her ordeal were pulling her rapidly toward sleep.

I should have left immediately. Instead, I found myself lingering, watching the rise and fall of her chest, the way her hair spilled across the pillow. My fate mate. Here. Real.

When I was certain she was deeply asleep, I reached out, allowing myself the smallest indulgence—one finger lightly tracing the curve of her jaw, feeling the warmth of her skin against mine without the barrier of the medical pod between us.

“Kassari,” I whispered, the Rodinian word for fate-chosen falling from my lips like a prayer.

Then I withdrew, locking down every instinct that screamed at me to stay, to curl around her, to guard her sleep with fang and claw. Instead, I stepped back, securing the door in its open position so I could hear if she called out in distress.

I would not sleep. Not tonight. I would maintain my vigil from the monitoring station, keep the necessary distance, retain control of the primal urges that threatened to overwhelm me.

For now, she was safe. Fed. Resting.

It would have to be enough.

She was soft, warm, and utterly unaware that I was five seconds away from flinging myself headfirst into madness.

Not that I would show it. On the outside?

Controlled. Stoic. Reaper-trained. On the inside?

Ferality. Pure, uncut. I stood near the water recycler, arms crossed, pretending to inspect the condensation levels when really, I was trying not to watch the sway of her hips as she bent over to check her boots—now half-melted by the heat but somehow still clinging to her tiny human feet like stubborn parasites.

My tail, traitorous bastard that it was, had attempted three separate times last night to wrap itself around her waist whenever she was near, and when she’d fallen asleep, I’d had to physically restrain it with my hand.

I’d snarled at my own appendage like a deranged predator. Which, to be fair, I was. Sort of.