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Chapter 3

Neon Valkyrie

M y lungs burn like I've been running for miles through toxic air, each desperate breath scraping against my ribs like sandpaper. I crouch behind a stack of cargo containers, the cold metal biting through my synth-leather pants like ice against bare skin. The distinctive throb of the engines tells me we're already in space, their vibrations humming through the deck plates in a frequency that makes my implants buzz. Perfect. Just perfect. File that under "escape plans that definitely need a patch."

The cargo bay is dimly lit, recycled air heavy with the musty scent of metal and machine oil—that universal spacecraft perfume no amount of filtration ever quite eliminates. Emergency lights pulse in slow, crimson waves that remind me of failing system diagnostics, casting shadows between towering stacks of crates that my enhanced vision struggles to penetrate. At least the artificial gravity is working—small mercies in a universe that seems bent on crashing my entire existence.

I pull my knees to my chest, muscles trembling from an adrenaline spike that's making my upgrades glitch like cheap bootleg tech. What a day. Wake up, run standard analytics, discover someone's trying to frame me for corporate espionage, get chased by security, and end up a stowaway on some random ship. Just another Tuesday in the life of Neon Valkyrie. Though right now, I feel a lot more like Lyra Arden—tired, scared, and running dangerously low on both options and processing power.

My training bag reveals a sorry collection of emergency resources that wouldn't pass even the most basic survival protocols: datapad with its cracked screen (thanks, security drone), commlink that's probably being traced, spare clothes that smell like yesterday's synthcoffee, and one sad-looking protein bar that's seen better development cycles. Not exactly the emergency kit I'd want for running from... whoever it is. The encrypted data still burns in my neural cache like a virus I can't quarantine, along with that final warning that flashed across my vision: RUN .

Well, mission accomplished on that front. Though I might have been more selective about my escape vehicle if I hadn't been busy dodging security drones and their trigger-happy operators, their plasma bolts still leaving ghost-images in my enhanced retinal display like corrupted pixels I can't clear.

Heavy footsteps echo through the hold, each step sending vibrations through the metal floor that registers on my internal sensors like seismic activity. They're accompanied by the soft whisper of... wings? The sound like silk over steel in my audio processors, alien and dangerous in ways my database can't categorize. Great. My mysterious ride comes with an equally mysterious captain. I press deeper into the shadows, though something in my code tells me it's already too late for stealth protocols.

The footsteps stop.

I can feel eyes on me, predatory and intense, making my threat assessment subroutines spike into the red. Slowly, I raise my head, my heart attempting an unauthorized override of my ribcage's structural integrity.

Oh.

OH .

He towers over me, easily over six feet of lean muscle and dangerous grace that makes my usually reliable threat assessment protocols stutter and freeze. His skin has a bronze tone I've never seen on any species in my extensive database, marked with strange glowing patterns that pulse with a crimson light like living circuit traces. But it's his wings that short-circuit my thought processes—huge, bat-like appendages that spread behind him like living shadows, filling the space between cargo containers with deadly elegance.

I run a system diagnostic, scrambling for anything in my memory banks that can identify him, but I come up blank. My neural interface has cataloged thousands of alien species, yet none match the towering, winged predator in front of me. My enhanced vision drinks in every detail with ruthless precision—the way his glowing, crimson markings pulse in sync with my own hammering heartbeat, the liquid grace of his movements, as if every step is calculated for maximum lethality.

Mental note: hack into the xenobiology archives the first chance I get. Because right now, my ignorance isn't just embarrassing—it's dangerous.

The worn leather and battle-scarred console behind him scream pirate ship louder than a siren blaring "security breach detected." Because of course. Apparently, today hadn't fried my nerves enough—I had to go and stow away on some cutthroat's death trap.

I rerun my search, hoping for a delayed match, but my data banks remain frustratingly void of answers. As an analyst, I've documented countless alien races drifting through Orion Outpost, but this one? He's a glitch in my system, an outlier my algorithms can't classify. And that sets off more internal alarms than an unpatched vulnerability in a high-security network.

Dangerous. Unquantifiable. And staring at me like he already owns me.

"Found you." His voice is a low growl that sends cascading errors through my neural network, triggering responses I definitely didn't program. Not entirely unpleasant ones either, which sets off a whole new set of warnings in my threat assessment protocols.

I force myself to stand, squaring my shoulders despite every instinct screaming to run. "This isn't what you think. I can explain everything if you'll just—"

"No." The word carries the weight of absolute authority, like gravity itself has bent to his will. He steps closer, nostrils flaring, and suddenly my enhanced senses betray me completely—drinking in his scent like stolen information: metal and starlight, something darker and wilder that reminds me of deep space, and an underlying note that bypasses all my careful defenses and strikes straight at something primitive inside me. "You're not going anywhere."

"Excuse me?" I back up until I hit metal, my spine registering the cold contact like a system shock. "You can't just—"

"You're my mate." He says it like it's hardcoded into the universe's base programming. Like it explains everything.

I laugh, the sound as brittle as corrupted code. I can't help it. The absurdity of this situation hits like a failed system reboot—here I am, carrying enough stolen data to get me dissected in some corporate black site, and this walking security breach thinks we're destined mates. "I'm really not."

His wings flex, stirring the air and carrying more of that intoxicating scent that keeps crashing my usually reliable sensory filters. The bat-like membranes absorb what little light remains, casting living shadows that my enhanced vision can't quite process. "I can smell it. Feel it. The burn in my blood—"

"Is your problem, not mine." I cut him off, forcing my attention away from how my tech keeps glitching around him, spitting out data about his biochemical markers when it should be calculating escape vectors. "We've known each other for exactly zero-point-zero-three cycles. I don't do relationships, and I definitely don't do fated mates. Especially not with pirates who probably want to sell me to the highest bidder."

A muscle ticks in his jaw, and my vision helpfully zooms in on the movement without my permission. "This isn't a choice, little hacker. For either of us."

Ice floods my processors. "What did you call me?"

His smile shows teeth. Long, sharp ones that my visual enhancement automatically measures and calculates damage potential for. "You think I can't smell the neural upgrades? The illegal tech humming under your skin?" He leans closer, and my body executes a completely unauthorized shiver as his heat signature overwhelms my proximity sensors. "You're running from something. Someone. And now you're on my ship."

"Captain!" A gruff voice calls from above. "Security forces are demanding we return to dock."

His eyes stay locked on mine, the patterns in them shifting like quantum calculations I can't quite solve. "Tell them to go to hell. We're on course for Driftspire." His wings shift, shadows stretching around us with deadly grace—like a firewall I can't hack.

"Sir," another voice joins in—female, concerned. "What about the stowaway? Spacing is standard protocol—"

Spacing? Seriously? My pulse jumps, sending another wave of alerts through my system. But I keep my expression locked down tight, running the same emotional suppression protocols that have kept me alive this long. Let them think I'm useful. Or dangerous. Preferably both.

A growl rips from his throat, deep and possessive, making the metal deck plates vibrate beneath my feet. The sound bypasses all my security protocols, awakening something primitive in my code that should have been deleted cycles ago. "Anyone who touches her answers to me. She stays."

"I really don't have time for this. Just take me to—" I execute what should be a perfect escape maneuver, ducking under his arm with the kind of precision that’s won me countless virtual sparring matches. I make it exactly two steps before his hand closes around my wrist, and every sensor in my body lights up like a system overload.

“Let. Go.” I grit out, trying to ignore how my skin burns where he touches me, my neural interface helpfully informing me that my temperature has risen by exactly 2.3 degrees at the point of contact.

“Never.” He tugs me closer, until my proximity alerts are screaming and my enhanced senses are drowning in his presence. “You’re mine now. The sooner you accept that, the easier this will be.”

“I don’t even know your name!” My voice bounces off the containers, coming back to me distorted like corrupted audio files.

“Cirdox.” His free hand comes up to brush my cheek, calloused fingers leaving trails of fire that my sensory processors can’t seem to filter out. “Captain of the Void Reaver. And you are?”

“Leaving.” I twist my wrist sharply while pivoting on my back foot—a combat subroutine I’ve run successfully through a thousand simulations. The motion should send him stumbling, should give me the split second I need to execute my escape protocol. My muscles know this dance, have performed it flawlessly even against enhanced security systems.

But his grip holds firm, and before I can counter, my world tilts. He moves with lethal grace, using my own momentum against me. A sharp pivot, a controlled shift, and suddenly I’m pressed against the solid heat of his chest, my breath escaping in a startled gasp.

His wings snap forward, swallowing the dim emergency lights, cocooning us in a living shadow. The darkness isn’t empty—it hums with his presence, thick with heat and the steady, unyielding rhythm of his heartbeat against my spine. It shouldn’t be in sync with mine. It shouldn’t feel like my own pulse is matching his, a silent code running in perfect harmony.

Critical error. No one’s ever countered that move before. No one’s ever turned my own escape tactics against me with such effortless control. The realization sends a sharp jolt through my nervous system, my senses scrambling to recalibrate—even as every alert in my neural interface glitches under the sheer proximity of him. My body wants to fight, but something in my core hesitates, a flicker of hesitation I can’t afford.

I’m trapped. Not just by the strength of his grip or the dark press of his wings—but by something deeper. Something more dangerous. Because for the first time in years, my instincts aren’t screaming at me to run.

“Try again, mate.” His breath stirs my hair, carrying that scent that keeps crashing my systems—metal and ozone and something darker that reminds me of burned circuitry after a too-close hack.

“Not your mate.” But my voice lacks its usual encryption, all my defenses showing critical errors. Something about him bypasses every firewall I’ve ever built, makes me want to trust him despite all my careful programming. Which is exactly why I can’t. “And it’s Neon.”

“Neon.” He says my handle like he’s testing it for vulnerabilities, rolling it around in his mouth like he’s searching for exploits. His lips curl into a knowing smile that says he’s well aware it’s not my root access name, but he lets it slide. “Welcome aboard... for now. We both know you’re hiding more than just your designation, but we’ll get to that.”

A message flashes across my neural interface, burning through all my defensive protocols like a virus:

FOUND YOU, NEON VALKYRIE. NO SHIP CAN HIDE YOU FROM ME.

My blood runs cold, core temperature dropping by 1.7 degrees. The hacker. They’ve traced me here already. I try to respond, to trace the signal, but something’s blocking my connection, leaving static where my usual network access should be.

Cirdox’s arms tighten around me, wings closing in until my world narrows to just us and the darkness. A perfect trap I can’t quite bring myself to fight. “What is it?”

I look up at this dangerous alien who claims I’m his mate, and every alarm in my neural interface screams at me to move, to find an angle, an escape—something. But my tech, my flawless, cutting-edge enhancements, aren’t running threat assessments or exit strategies. No, they’re glitching, locking onto him like he’s the most important variable in the system.

The emergency lights cast jagged shadows across his face, highlighting the sharp lines of his jaw, the wicked curve of his fangs. His wings flex, shifting the darkness around him like a living thing, their edges catching just enough light to make them gleam. My augmented vision, the same tech that’s saved my life more times than I can count, is failing me spectacularly—cataloging every inch of him with ruthless precision instead of mapping my best route off this ship.

The way his tribal markings pulse, glowing like living circuitry beneath bronze skin. The way his muscles shift with every slow, predatory movement. The raw power radiating off him, coiling through the air like a gravitational force I can’t break free from.

I force a system diagnostic, fingers twitching as the results scroll across my vision. Data corrupt. Unknown anomaly detected. The errors might as well be written in ancient Earth script for all the sense they make. This is top-tier black-market tech, paid for with three corporate heists and favors that nearly got me killed. It shouldn’t be failing. It definitely shouldn’t be hyper-fixating on the way his body heat presses against my skin, the way his wings move like they’re instinctively attuned to me.

My tech is betraying me. Black market tech. Never again. Though this feels different than that disaster upgrade from the Lower Rings. This isn’t just system failure—it’s like my entire neural architecture is being rewritten by something more ancient than code. My carefully constructed defenses are crumbling, and I can’t stop it.

I need to focus. Find a terminal. Get off this ship before—

My systems crash again, hard enough to make my vision blur. This isn’t random malfunction. Either my hardware is compromised, or something about him is wreaking havoc with my tech. Neither option improves my chances of survival.

I built these firewalls around my heart for a reason. The last person who got past them ended up dead, their consciousness scattered across the dataverse like digital ash. Kai’s final transmission still haunts my nightmares—the sound of his mind fragmenting as they tore him apart. That’s what happens when you trust the wrong access codes. When you let someone past your defenses.

I won’t make that mistake again. No matter how my tech glitches around Cirdox. No matter how his presence corrupts every survival protocol I’ve ever written.

“Take me to the bridge,” I say, fighting to keep my voice steady. “We need to talk.”

His smile is all predator, sharp teeth gleaming in the darkness of his wing-cocoon. “After you, mate.”

“Still not your mate.”

I scan the narrow corridors with enhanced vision, mapping every vent and access panel. Standard Brotherhood layout—escape pod two decks down. Thirty seconds at a terminal is all I need to crack their security. Simple. Clean. Except...

My neural upgrades stutter like cheap code. The tactical overlay freezes, fragments, rebuilds itself wrong. I force a diagnostic, but it comes back clean—which is impossible given how my systems are fritzing out. This is cutting-edge tech, even if I stole it from a military black site. It shouldn’t be failing.

His hand shifts against my spine, and my escape calculations shatter completely. Brilliant. I’m trying to plot coordinates for the nearest safe harbor, and my supposedly elite implants are obsessing over the heat of his touch and the way his wings catch the light like living shadow.

Amateur mistake, letting your guard down. Here I am, attempting a tactical retreat, and my enhanced senses are mapping his pheromone signature instead of scanning for weapons. Maybe spacing myself isn’t such a bad option. Has to be better than this maddening awareness of him, this war between logic and whatever primal instinct keeps shorting out my common sense.

Focus. Survival first. Delete everything else—especially how his presence sets off alerts I can’t silence. I’ve spent years coding walls around my heart, perfecting emotional firewalls. I won’t let some alien’s mate-bond override my core programming, no matter what my glitching implants suggest.

I’ve survived this long by trusting data, not instincts. The facts are simple: relationships are system vulnerabilities, fated mates are corrupted code, and attraction is just biology hacking reason. Now if only my tech would stop cataloging every detail about him and return to plotting my escape.

I’m screwed. Not because of any mystical bond, but because for the first time since my upgrades, technology isn’t giving me the distance I need. And that’s more dangerous than any pirate captain could ever be.