Page 6

Chapter 6

Cirdox

O bsidian Haven looms before us, a jagged sprawl of metal and stone wedged into the heart of an asteroid. Dim maintenance lights flicker like dying stars across its battered surface, barely enough to cut through the surrounding void. The whole place hums with the low, steady thrum of quantum shielding—a vibration that worms its way through the ship’s hull and settles in my bones, setting my teeth on edge. It’s an old station, older than some of the wars that shaped this quadrant, and the deep groan of ancient machinery echoes through the narrow docking corridor like the place itself is exhaling.

I guide the Void Reaver through the station’s throat, wings tucked tight against my back, forcing them still despite the sharp twinge of strain in my shoulders. The passage is too narrow for comfort, the rough metal walls radiating a bone-deep chill even through our environmental shielding. One wrong shift, one twitch of my wings, and I’d scrape the delicate membranes against unforgiving steel. The docking clamps engage with a heavy clang, the impact reverberating through the deck plates beneath my boots, rattling the tension already coiled tight in my muscles.

Obsidian Haven isn’t a place you find on any star chart. The Brotherhood keeps it buried deep in classified records, one of many hidden harbors scattered across lawless space. It’s a place for ships with no safe port, for captains who can’t afford questions. After what happened at Vulpexia, we need every advantage we can get.

I can feel her. Even before I turn, I feel her.

Neon stands at the tactical station, her posture deceptively relaxed, but her eyes—those enhanced, electric-blue eyes—are sharp, scanning the station’s infrastructure with that ruthless precision she wields like a blade. My own gaze keeps dragging back to her, no matter how much discipline I throw between us. The bond digs into me like a vice, a slow, deliberate countdown I can’t escape. Two weeks. Maybe less.

The bond sickness worsens with every hour—the heat in my blood, the ache in my wings, the hunger to keep her close. It’s getting harder to hide. Harder to fight. The way my body reacts to her is instinct, coded into my DNA, something I can’t hack or overwrite. Every time she moves, my wings flex of their own accord, trying to bridge the space between us.

Her neural implants pulse beneath her skin like trapped starlight, casting shifting blue patterns across the console. It’s hypnotic. Dangerous. Because no matter how hard she fights it, no matter how much she denies it—I know she feels this too.

And here, in the cold dark of Obsidian Haven, there’s nowhere left to run.

“Interesting setup,” she murmurs, more to herself than to me. Her fingers dance across the console, neural implants glowing as she analyzes the outpost’s defenses. “Quantum shielding, fractal camouflage...whoever built this wasn’t messing around.”

“The Brotherhood protects its own—but loyalty is conditional. If they suspect a weakness, they’ll test it. And if they find me compromised, they won’t hesitate to replace me.” I keep my voice neutral, though her casual display of technical expertise sends another wave of possessive hunger through me. My mate is brilliant, dangerous, and completely oblivious to what she does to me. “We’ll be safe here while we repair and resupply.”

She snorts, a distinctly human sound of disbelief. “Safe is relative, Captain. Especially when someone’s hunting us across multiple star systems.”

Us . Not her . The distinction doesn’t escape me, though I doubt she meant it that way. My wings shift with satisfaction as she includes herself in “us,” the subtle movement betraying my response before I can control it.

The docking clamps engage with a metallic groan, the vibration rippling through the Void Reaver’s battered frame like a sigh of relief. The ship settles into the outpost’s docking bay, its hull scarred from near-misses and desperate maneuvers, the scent of scorched metal still thick in the recycled air. Outside, asteroid walls loom, worn smooth by centuries of solar winds, their jagged shadows shifting under the dim emergency lighting. The place stinks of rust and old mining operations, of forgotten ambitions left to rot in the cold.

I push up from the helm, rolling my shoulders before stretching my wings to their full span, working out the tension that’s coiled in them since the first shot was fired at us. The Void Reaver’s wounds are painfully evident—charred streaks where plasma fire kissed too close, exposed circuitry sparking in protest, loose panels hanging at sharp angles like broken ribs. The faintly sweet tang of burnt luminore lingers, a bitter reminder of the cargo we had to jettison just to stay alive. A power conduit above lets out a sharp crack, raining golden sparks onto the deck before fizzling into darkness.

We made it. Barely.

I exhale, the tightness in my chest refusing to ease. The damage is bad, but fixable. What’s not so easily repaired is the fact that we’ve been herded here, maneuvered into this outpost like prey funneled into a kill zone. And if experience has taught me anything, it’s that when the Black Eclipse goes to this much effort, it’s not just about a bounty.

It’s about a message.

“Zara, coordinate repairs with the Haven’s engineering team.” I watch my first officer’s ears flatten against her skull, her russet fur bristling visibly at the order.

“The Exoscarabs? Captain, you know how they are. Last time we docked here, their lead engineer threatened to weld Grig into his quarters for suggesting their repair protocols were ‘inefficient.’”

“I heard that,” Grig mutters from the helm, his pale blue skin flushing darker with remembered indignation. “They may be brilliant with machinery, but their interpersonal skills are worse than a malfunctioning service drone.”

“Nevertheless,” I say firmly, “we need their expertise. Those hull breaches won’t repair themselves.”

Zara’s tail lashes with agitation. “Fine. But when Chief Engineer K’zzk starts clicking his mandibles about ‘proper maintenance procedures,’ I’m sending him straight to you.”

“Just make sure they understand our situation is...delicate.” I emphasize the last word, knowing Zara will catch my meaning. The less the station’s crew knows about our cargo—or my mate—the better.

“Speaking of delicate matters,” Grig interjects, his long fingers flying across the damage control console with characteristic precision, “preliminary scans show we vented at least thirty percent of our luminore reserves during the attack.” His thin frame tenses as he pulls up the detailed inventory. “Hull breaches in sections three and five were catastrophic. We’re lucky we didn’t lose more.”

The news hits like a physical blow. That luminore was meant for medical facilities in the outer colonies—facilities that depend on our smuggling runs to keep their patients alive. Every crystal lost means someone might not get the treatment they need.

“I’ll have a complete damage report within the hour,” Grig continues, his methodical Muspel nature evident in the way he categorizes each loss with mathematical precision. “But Captain...we’ll need to find a way to replace those supplies. The colonies are counting on us.”

The weight of his words settles heavily on my shoulders. Every crate of luminore we lost means another medical facility going without, another colony forced to bend to the Black Eclipse’s demands. I force down a growl of frustration, my wings mantling with barely contained tension. The bond-sickness isn’t helping—each passing hour makes it harder to focus, harder to be the leader my people need.

The hidden outpost looms before us through the viewport, a testament to the Brotherhood’s determination to survive. Little more than a series of interconnected caves carved into the heart of a mineral-rich asteroid, but it’s one of our best-kept secrets. A sanctuary for those times when staying visible means staying dead. Right now, we need that sanctuary more than ever.

My attention shifts to Neon as she works the tactical station, her enhanced eyes scanning our surroundings with predatory intensity. The bond hums beneath my skin like a live wire, demanding closer proximity. But there’s something else in her posture—a tension that goes beyond her usual wariness. Whatever data she stole, whatever storm she’s drawn us into, we need to address it before it gets us all killed.

My crew moves with practiced efficiency, but I catch their sideways glances when another wave of fever makes my wings tremble. Zara’s concerned look lingers a moment too long as I grip the command chair to steady myself. They’ve served with me long enough to recognize when something’s wrong, even if they don’t understand exactly what’s happening. I force my wings still through sheer willpower, though the effort makes my muscles burn.

The bond is relentless, a constant thrum beneath my skin, sharpening every time she moves. I catch Grig watching me with worried eyes when I have to pause mid-sentence, the fever making it difficult to focus. Soon, not even my centuries of military discipline will be enough to hide what’s happening to me. The thought sends ice through my veins, a stark contrast to the relentless burn of the bond.

“We need to talk,” I tell her, gesturing toward the corridor that leads to the outpost’s main hub. “Privately.”

She hesitates, those enhanced eyes narrowing as she studies me. Looking for threats, weaknesses, escape routes—always analyzing, always ready to run. It makes my chest ache, knowing my mate has lived a life that taught her such constant vigilance.

“Fine,” she says finally. “But keep your wings to yourself. Last thing I need is another round of ‘you’re my mate’ drama.”

The words sting, but I force down the growl building in my throat. She doesn’t understand—can’t understand—what she means to me. Not yet.

We walk in tense silence through the outpost’s winding corridors. My enhanced vision automatically catalogs defensive positions and tactical choke points—a habit from centuries of military training. The rough-hewn walls would provide excellent cover in a firefight, while the exposed machinery and cables offer multiple routes for retreat if needed. It’s the kind of environment I understand—raw, uncompromising, demanding respect but offering protection to those who know its secrets. Like Neon , I realize, watching how she moves with predatory grace through the shadows. Both beautiful and lethal, with layers of defense built around a core I’m only beginning to glimpse.

I lead her to a small observation deck, one of the few luxuries this place affords. Through the reinforced viewport, the galaxy stretches endlessly before us, a tapestry of stars and shadows that would take lifetimes to explore. The sight usually brings me peace, but today it only reminds me of how little time I have left.

“Why did you help us?” I ask, turning to face her. The question has burned in my mind since she saved us from those fighters, along with a hundred others I’m afraid to voice. “Back on the ship. You could have let those fighters take us down, found another way to escape. But you didn’t.”

She leans against the viewport, arms crossed defensively. The starlight catches the electric blue streaks in her hair, making them glow like captured lightning. Something in my chest tightens at the sight. Even her defiance is beautiful, a carefully constructed wall I long to breach.

“Maybe I didn’t feel like dying in a vacuum today.” Her voice wavers almost imperceptibly on the word dying . “Been there, done that—watching someone you care about get spaced while you’re helpless to stop it. Not exactly an experience I’m eager to repeat.”

The pain in her words hits me like a physical blow. My wings shift restlessly, instinct urging me to shelter her from memories I can see haunting her enhanced eyes. But comfort, I suspect, would only make her retreat further.

“Try again.” I step closer, drawn by the scent of her—metal and lightning and something uniquely human that makes my blood sing. Every movement feels weighted with possibility, with the electric tension crackling between us. “You’re too smart for simple self-preservation. You knew those fighters were after you, knew they’d track us to Driftspire. Yet you warned us, helped us escape. Why?”

Her jaw tightens, and I watch the internal battle play across her face—trust warring with hard-learned caution. “Does it matter?” The words come out barely above a whisper, heavy with past hurts. “In my experience, knowing why someone helps you just gives them leverage to hurt you later.”

The admission hangs in the air between us, raw and honest in a way that makes my heart ache. Before I can stop myself, I’m moving closer, drawn by some force stronger than gravity. Her breath catches as I reach for her, and time seems to slow.

My hand tangles in her hair, soft strands slipping through my fingers like silk woven with steel. My other arm winds around her waist, pulling her flush against me. The first contact is electric, a shockwave that rolls through me, setting my blood on fire. She gasps, her body rigid for a split second, a final thread of resistance snapping under my touch.

Then she melts.

Her lips part beneath mine, the kiss igniting between us like a spark catching dry tinder. What starts as a slow, reverent claiming surges into something wilder, untamed. She tastes of starlight and danger, something sharp and addictive that leaves me craving more. The restraint I’ve clung to fractures, my body moving on instinct, drawn to her like gravity—inevitable and unstoppable.

My wings unfurl to cocoon us, shielding her from everything but me. The world beyond this moment ceases to exist. All that remains is the heat of her, the rapid pulse at her throat, the way her fingers clutch at my shirt as if she can’t decide whether to pull me closer or push me away. Her hesitation is a knife’s edge, the battle between logic and want playing out in the tense grip of her hands.

I growl, low and primal, the sound vibrating through both of us as I tilt her head, deepening the kiss. She responds with a sharp inhale, her body arching instinctively, pressing closer. The bond flares, a wildfire burning through my veins, demanding more—always more. Every nerve is attuned to her, to the way her breath hitches when my fingers skim the curve of her spine, to the tremor in her muscles as my wings fold around us, blocking out the cold, the void, the past and the future.

For an instant, she hesitates—caught between surrender and escape. A single, shallow breath. A tightening of her grip. Her body telling the truth her mind refuses to accept.

Then she gives in.

And, stars help me, I am lost.

The kiss turns fierce, desperate. My fangs skim her lower lip—a silent plea, a warning, a promise. She shudders, gripping the front of my shirt as if anchoring herself, as if afraid of the very thing unraveling between us. But I feel the shift in her, the way her body molds to mine, the way the tension in her frame transforms into something equally dangerous—desire.

The bond pulses between us, raw and undeniable. My wings trap our heat, turning the space between us into something molten. Every press of her body, every sharp inhale, every moment she lets me hold her splinters the barriers she’s spent years constructing.

And just as suddenly, she rips away.

“No,” she gasps, her voice shaking as she stumbles back, arms wrapping around herself as if she can physically restrain whatever this is between us. “I can’t...I can’t do this.”

The loss of her contact is a physical wound. My wings flex, aching to pull her back, to shield her from whatever war she’s fighting in her own mind. My lungs burn with the effort to hold still, to not chase, to not demand.

“Neon—” My voice is rough, unsteady with everything I don’t say.

“Don’t.” Her arms tighten around herself, her breathing uneven. She shakes her head, backing toward the door. “Just...don’t.”

Then she’s gone, vanishing into the shadows before I can stop her.

I let my forehead rest against the viewport, my wings drooping as the cold seeps back into my bones. My bond burns, a relentless ache that no amount of distance will ease.

Time is running out.

For both of us.