Page 6

A metallic clank sounded from the corner where Spot had been sitting.

Before she could say anything, the drakeen core scampered out of the laundry room.

She blinked in surprise, but then shrugged and returned to her folding.

Whatever had gotten into the little robot she didn t know, but Jex had assured her it was harmless.

Less than two minutes later, Spot was back, dragging her data tablet across the floor. The screen lit up as it bumped against her foot, displaying the NeuroSyn Arena Trials stats page she'd been checking earlier in engineering.

"You..." She knelt down, surprise washing through her. "You understood what I needed?

Spot chirped, optical sensors brightening and she smiled, reaching out to pat his back. Well, thank you.

She stood up, balancing the tablet on a washing unit so she could see it while she folded.

Steam hissed from the unit next to it, bringing the metallic tang of recycled water and industrial detergent.

The familiar scent crawled into her nostrils, oddly comforting.

A warship full of mercenaries-some human, some definitely not-yet they still needed clean underwear like anyone else.

Her eyes drifted to a neatly folded stack in the basket beside hers-Rann's, judging by the distinctive high-collared shirt with its subtle blue piping. A sliver of something alien peeked out from beneath-unmistakably Latharian underwear. Her gaze jerked away, heat prickling her neck.

Then her eyes landed on another basket. Dark greys, blacks, nothing unnecessary. Davis Tell's, definitely. Her hands stilled mid-fold, the half-creased shirt forgotten between her fingers.

Boxers or briefs?

The question invaded her mind without permission. She leaned slightly closer, eyes dropping to the basket's contents, pulse kicking against her throat.

The laundry room door slid open with a pressurized hiss and she jerked back so fast she nearly toppled a detergent canister.

Blood surged to her face as Davis filled the doorway, a sleek, dark grey crate balanced against one hip.

His eyes, impossible to read, locked onto hers for a heartbeat too long.

Shit, he d almost caught her looking at his underwear. Her skin crawled with mortification.

Spinning around, she yanked the shirt in her hands taut. "Hey," she managed, the word scraping past her suddenly dry throat.

Hey Mira." His deep voice resonated through her body, settling low in her belly. "Got a minute?"

She cleared her throat, hands smoothing invisible wrinkles from her already-stretched shirt. Yeah, sure."

Her voice sounded too high. She swallowed. "Just catching up on laundry."

She bit back her groan. Catching up on laundry ? Seriously? Like what else would she be doing in the damn laundry room?

He strode past her, his tall frame forcing her to step aside. The air shifted with his movement, carrying hints of machine oil and something distinctly male beneath it. He set the crate down on a cleared folding table, the muscles in his forearms flexing beneath tanned skin.

I had some spare components," he said, fingers working the latches with practiced efficiency. So I thought you might appreciate this.

The crate's lid hissed open on hydraulic hinges.

Her fingers went slack, shirt slipping forgotten from her grasp.

Inside the crate sat a high-end simulation rig-glossy black console with crimson accent lights, neural interface headset, haptic controller with articulated finger-grips, and a compact holoprojector.

Not just any gaming equipment, but military-grade tech, the kind of setup pro gamers would kill for.

Words died in her mouth. Every component screamed precision engineering, from the neural sensors to the projection matrix. She'd seen similar setups selling for more credits than she'd earned in a year at the clinic.

"Why?" The words scraped out, sharper than intended. She crossed her arms. "What's this really for?"

He leaned against a washing unit.

"Like I said. I had spare parts." His broad shoulders lifted in a minute shrug. "Figured you were bored." A flicker passed behind his eyes, there and gone. "Besides, you need to keep your tactical skills sharp."

The explanation hung between them, deliberately incomplete.

He was a walking contradiction-the most gorgeous man she'd ever seen, all hard edges and controlled power, yet impossible to read.

The scar along his jaw only emphasized the perfect symmetry of his features, a single flaw making the whole more devastating.

She couldn t help reaching out toward the rig, fingers hovering over the neural interface without touching.

"It won't fit in my room," she said, eyes still fixed on the equipment. Her quarters were barely larger than a closet.

I figured. It s a small ship. He nodded, like he'd anticipated every objection. "There's a clear spot in Engineering. Stable power, out of the main traffic flow. If you d like?

Engineering. His domain on the ship. Where he could watch her.

Her fingers brushed the edge of the console, its surface cool and smooth against her skin. "Okay."

Her laundry sat abandoned as they headed to engineering. He carried the main console, the muscles in his back shifting beneath his fitted black shirt. She followed with the peripherals clutched against her chest.

The engineering bay sprawled before them, in functional chaos all exposed circuit panels, diagnostic terminals, and machinery in various states of disassembly.

The air tasted metallic, sharp with the bite of ozone and the sweet undertone of coolant.

Davis was true to his word. A cleared corner awaited them, already outfitted with power couplings and data ports.

As she unpacked cables, Spot scampered around her feet chirping happily. It bumped gently against her ankle, its optical sensors flickering as it tilted up to look at her.

"Careful with the power conduits," Davis muttered, not to her but to the drakeen. The machine chirped once, its leg segments reconfiguring as it adjusted course to avoid them.

She reached out, her hand collided with his over the central power node.

The brush of his knuckles against hers sent a jolt up her arm that had nothing to do with actual electricity.

Her fingers stilled. His didn't. His skin was furnace-hot against hers, calloused in places that spoke of years handling tools and weapons.

She looked up. And caught her breath.

The usual ice in his blue eyes had melted into something darker, more dangerous. His pupils widened slightly, swallowing the blue. A muscle in his jaw twitched. Neither breathed as the air between them hummed with an intensity that made the hair on her arms stand on end.

His throat moved as he swallowed. She tracked the motion, suddenly aware of her dry lips, her quickened pulse.

Then he blinked and the moment shattered. Pulling back, he reached for a different component, shoulders rigid as armor plating. Neither of them spoke. She daren t.

When the main parts were finally in place, she inhaled slowly, the recycled air filling her lungs.

Thank you, she said, gesturing at the rig.

For this, I mean. And... for helping me with him yesterday.

" She nodded toward Spot, who was currently attempting to 'help' by batting at a dangling cable with one articulated leg.

Davis paused, his hands stilling on the console. "Sure. No problem."

Spot abandoned the cable, its front leg skittering on the deck plating as it turned.

The five new limbs-cobbled together from scrap metal-caught light differently from its three original ones.

It took a tentative step forward, then froze when the rightmost replacement leg skidded on the smooth deck plating.

It chirped, the sound edged with static. A slight adjustment to its stance, then another careful step. The leg held.

Another step. Faster this time.

The blinking diagnostic panel across the bay drew its attention. It moved toward it, new confidence in each clank of metal on metal. A wobble here, an over-correction there, but the motion smoothed with every meter crossed.

"I've decided to call him Spot," she said, watching the machine's curious exploration.

Davis froze, turning fully toward her. His eyebrows drew together. "'Spot'? You're calling it 'Spot'? Seriously?"

She straightened her spine, chin lifting slightly. "Yeah. I... I used to have a cat. Named Spot."

He watched her, waiting. The silence stretched between them, taut as a wire. She dropped her gaze to the floor, where a patch of oil made a dark stain on the metal.

"Rettnor... he didn't like pets." The words stuck in her throat like shards of glass. "He said he found Spot a new home, but I..." Her voice dropped to a near-whisper. She couldn't force out the words. She knew Dennis had killed her cat, just one more small cruelty among countless others.

She looked back up at Davis. His expression had shifted, hardened into something unreadable again. "He's not a replacement," she added, the words coming out rougher than intended. She shrugged. "But it's something."

He nodded once, a sharp downward jerk of his chin, then turned back to the console, the moment evaporating as though it had never happened.

Reaching for the final connection, she plugged the power coupling into the wall socket, waiting for the click that said it was seated correctly.

"Jex? Are you... busy?" she asked, tapping her comm unit.

A pause, then Jex's voice filtered through, the electronic tones oddly melodic. "Processing diagnostic recharge cycle, Mira. Minimal cognitive load. Do you require assistance?"

"Sorry to bother you. She glanced at Davis, who had moved to a nearby terminal. "Could you patch this rig into the human media network?"

I can, Jex responded without hesitation. "Creating bypass through tertiary communications array. Reconfiguring firewall parameters." A series of soft beeps emitted from the console. "Access complete. Connection stable."

She blinked. "That was... fast. Thanks."

"You are welcome," Jex replied.

"What are you doing, anyway?" she asked, curiosity getting the better of her.

"Reviewing archives. Human history."

She paused, certain she'd misheard. "What? All of it?"

"Yes.

Oh, I ll let you get back to it then.

Please let me know if you need further assistance.

She glanced at Davis, who merely raised an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth twitching in what might have been amusement.

With the setup complete, she lowered herself into the ergonomic chair he d set out for her.

The seat contoured to her body instantly, supporting her spine in exactly the right places.

The neural interface headset slid cool and weightless over her temples, biometric sensors finding contact points along the curve of her skull under her hair.

Her fingers hovered over the console, muscle memory surfacing as she powered up the system.

The boot sequence flashed across her vision faster than normal, which meant that it was optimized well beyond commercial specs.

She navigated to her old favorite game, a full-immersion game; NeuroSyn Arena Trials.

The familiar login screen materialized before her. Her callsign Salvation appeared in the credentials field. Her password followed automatically, muscle memory guiding her fingers across the virtual keyboard.

The distinctive startup chime, the resistance of the haptic controls against her fingers, the environmental audio fading in-synth-bass and electric percussion that vibrated through her bones.

For the first time in months, she felt like herself. Not Dennis Rettnor's girlfriend. Not the Reapers' charity case. Just Mira Ingram. The person she'd been before everything went to hell.

A smile tugged at the corners of her lips as she dropped into the first game. She remembered this. Her body remembered this... the exact tension in her forearms, the precise angle of her wrists, the controlled rhythm of her breathing.

Time dissolved as the neural interface anticipated her intentions with minimal lag.

The haptic feedback provided exactly the right resistance, neither too much nor too little.

Davis must have calibrated it specifically for her, which meant he'd been watching her, studying her reactions and response patterns.

A strange warmth uncurled in her stomach.

An hour deep into gameplay, that distinct feeling of being watched prickled along her spine. Without breaking her concentration on the match, she glanced up through her peripheral vision.

Across Engineering, Davis was hunched over an access panel, tools spread beside him on the floor.

His attention appeared fixed on the open circuitry, but his body was angled precisely toward her station.

Every few seconds, his eyes flicked to her projection field, studying her movements with laser focus.

The moment their gazes connected, he jerked his attention back to the panel, as if suddenly fascinated by its innards.

He hadn't laid a hand on her since that first confrontation in Rettnor s office, but this intense observation felt like a different kind of contact equally invasive, equally unsettling.

Equally thrilling. Like the feel of his hand around her throat had been.

Minutes later, the distinct sound of tools being gathered reached her ears. Through the corner of her eye, she tracked him as he packed up his equipment, his movements quick and efficient.

He paused at the doorway for a moment, gaze lingering on her before he disappeared into the corridor, leaving her alone with the rig and Spot who had settled beside her chair like a mechanical guardian, occasionally waving his front legs at the screen.

Between matches, while she was navigating the selection menus, she noticed something new.

There was a small credit counter displayed in the corner of the interface.

She frowned and kept an eye on it. When the numbers ticked upward slowly as she progressed, she realized it was tracking credits.

A few more queries in the system and she tracked it to a payment account under her name.

Her throat tightened as she watched the numbers climb.

It wasn't much, pocket change compared to what the mercenaries earned on jobs, but tears welled in the corners of her eyes.

She wasn't just playing. She was earning .

She could pay the Reapers back for their kindness and for letting her live here with them.